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Friday, 16 September 2016

18


she is 18

so I am not allowed to look?

if I didn't look I wouldn't write

the female form is so much more to me than a sex object

sex and objection make for poor bed fellows

anal wankers judging  my morality

age restricting musing is for cunts

18

and she has bloomed like a flower

an impossible flower

art is her legs

art is her ass

art is her eyes

art is her chest

art ankles and art toes

18

and she is nobody's

she will break the boys

she will equal the men

she lies just over there where the grass stains her flesh

just over there

close enough to smell her sweet perfume

her promise

her potential

a life of surprises and heartbreak awaits those who touch her

just over there

a precious stone in a common park

a part time angel in a pretty dress

18

and I already love her

just a few lines in

my stains will never lift

she passed through my mind just

inside the sleep

the bit before dreams take over

and fuck you up

place food on her flesh and hope your heart can take it

look but don't touch

she is in the shop window of the impossible

and she is...

18

I only want her so I can muse her

sex for me was going down on her

on them

all of them

my climax never an issue

it was all about them

never about me

the taste of cunt

I am a passive man with an aggressive pen

a broken soul with only art to look at

glances thrown but not understood

18

and made by an artist

but penned by a lady junkie...

me

man can only find his truth when he finds the need not to spill

metaphorical orgasms come without the anticlimax

or the guilt

18

and I love her

but only for existing

in this dull world I so hate.



© Written by Tim Roberts September 2011 ©

Saturday, 10 September 2016

Jennifer of Empty Rooms


Jennifer of empty rooms...

where did you go?

were you not just a lucid dream?  

no...I felt your liquid on my lips.

I have always been spooned for dirty loving

I swear I almost lost myself again

I captured your bliss on a sepia photograph...

china doll visage

innocence suspended

all truth hidden

touch of flesh so subtle so soft

like a feather flirting with a G spot

Jennifer you lit the bridge between my darkest self and you

walked over the river of tears and on to a cum stained bed sheet

I found you neglected like a relic in a North London Vintage shop

Jennifer of empty rooms...you played piano

you sang songs

mascara rain drops forever falling on tainted keys

within old tunes we hear an echo from our youth

it leaves you bereft ...the torment.

I am the loveless romantic with no one to write for but ghosts

Jennifer of empty rooms...

solitude finds me in a melancholy mood where black clouds smile for brutal seconds...

the seconds of a fucked up clock

I was crushed by your tiny hands just as the lipstick stained tissue was which you teased me with

a metaphor for painful love...

why is love painful? And why does shit make the roses grow better?

use me

abuse me

I deserve no better

close the curtains for I need to withdraw.

Jennifer, I found some solace in your 2 second smile.

you said I reminded you of a beautiful flower and a dirty swamp...

my Barbie Doll broken...

your words kill me...but in a good way.

I lost you in my darkness...

even though you didn't really exist.


Tim R - 2016



Tuesday, 16 April 2013

Flowers For Future Funerals


she wore black and she was beautiful

like a day full of sunshine

but where a cloud was raining

in my ever so stupid head.

I was happy to have past her.

these are my roof top reflections of a nearly man.

my reality? a sandwich in plastic wrapping

and staring at my image in shop windows.

mirrors haunt me, they are everywhere.

I walk the west end for hours searching for that one line

but return home with only dirty finger nails from tube trains.

the flower seller cries for the flowers never sold.

rosebud and redundant thorn discarded to the gutter with fag ends

and a stud that dropped from a rude boys ear.

revolution stirs and I'm calling time on clit tipping and salad hating.

there are far more important things to worry about,

like the masturbation of the masses over orange looking plastic women.

a fuck and a fag?....it's been years.

drip, drip, drip, like a tap.

fit to burst.

coiled like a spring.

I can't tell the difference between sunrise or sunset anymore.

but I know I hate daytime tv for it's the graveyard of the damned.

look for a clue in my soiled metaphors.

love binds people who have no road to live on.

sex wets people with no one to love on.

we need a meeting place for the heartbroken where

first kisses are recalled and mourned like a death in the family.

I hung my dreams out with the washing.

supermarket flowers were never you.

I found traces of lipstick on a shirt collar.

a souvenir of a past utopia.

euphoria was replaced by apathy.

memories of the halcyon days that didn't really exist.

time has just made the memory prettier.

melancholia and desolation stretch like an endless desert.

but now I fear only the death of pages....my inability to write.

blank pages waiting to be filled but ultimately banished.

poems I haven't written become landfill

and eventually fucked by ants.

but then I see her.

she wore black.

a south bank lovely who carries flowers for future funerals.

mourn the loves that broke you.

get out before slap hits face.

fragile she is, like a butterfly in a tormenting wind.

divine angel you are my sweet shop.

the origins of ice cream.

the lollipop of my immorality.

she walks bare foot and fears not glass nor scars.

it is only life that cuts.

I will capture her bliss on a sepia photograph.

I live in the shadows, painting her in words.

filthy words enslave my dictionary.

everyone likes a beautiful woman.

but very few will ever love one.

trophies get neglected on dusty pedestals.



© T.A.Roberts 2012/2013

Sunday, 6 January 2013

The Un-kissed Hours


I read books for company.

I read books to fill me.

finishing a book is a like a funeral

or the aftermath of great sex.

the un-kissed hours.

a void of the unspoken.

bliss at half price

where desolation reigns

but

where words are found.

there is nothing more intimate

than silence.

are we flirting

or just talking ?

flirting will be the death of love.

but I am bereft.

a worn out cynic.

solitude is a soul breaker.

solitude is a man maker.

just like vulnerable buttons on a blouse.

we all come undone too easily.

bravado just covers the blushes of

a socially inept fool.

a recluse.

never expecting much

but hoping

all the same.

at times I mourn all these years

not having someone to love

and to love me back.

life seems unfair.

some of us are just born not to be desired

or noticed.

condemned to writing about it.

but I can unearth a muse.

I bet you can't.

I expect you just drown in smiles.

sip the melancholia.

it may become you.

during the

un-kissed hours.


© 2013 © T. A. Roberts 




Tuesday, 11 December 2012

Primrose Hill


I am a peace envoy at war with himself.

I went to the school of love but was taught hate.

I like the Theatre but have a foul mouth.

I enter a library to achieve freedom but leave with my hands chained.

I get my kicks from pissing in canals and calling it art.

conversations on stairwells and a lost life.

love only happens to those who don’t fight it when the lights go out.

sepia moments tainted by black and white memories in colour.

avant garde plimsoll wearer and full time lolly licker.

coco chanel.....

memories will do for all of us..

cakes and cunt can taste the same but no summer was ever complete

without a picnic and finger nails sinking into a wet August Primrose Hill.

precious lips and dysfunctional eye lid... details I notice.

simmering glances from a hedonistic temptress.

I sit on the tube and regret my entire life.

ascending escalators and descending dreams.

twisted dreams and blusher stained pillows.

a love that died in clouds of cigarette smoke and my periodic madness.

some people touch your life but very few will consume it.

places I will never see.

flesh I will never touch.

songs I wrote that will never be sung.

roads never trodden and post cards never sent.

those post cards from impossible holidays.

those love letters of the lonely only ever read by the author.

comfort found in solitude.


© 2010 © T. A. Roberts

Wednesday, 21 November 2012

Experiments In Sex And Grocery Shopping


she says she painted all night because art helps her remove the lust I placed in her fragile god fearing mind.

my lust left on a bus many years ago and hasn't been seen anywhere near me since.

I need a muse...find me a muse.

hand up thigh in public.. torture for lovers without privacy and no where else to go except public spaces.

I saw a Muslim girl relieve her man in a royal park and the irony of the moment
cracked a smile on my wasted face.

I visit London parks and spend hours sitting looking at tree's, occasional couples, and pieces of litter.

I talk to lamp posts and duck the flies that reject dog shit.

London is my canvas and I walk her to be tormented by her.. the flash of flesh on a decent pair of legs not only inspires but torments.

the measure is equal.

I see a whole life in lost afternoons in this melting pot.

carry my baggage for it is far too heavy for me.

I am not tall enough to see and not broad enough to be a man.

I enter a cafe/wine bar and ask for a table for two knowing that I will be the only one dining.

It is a strange kind of company knowing that you can order for two but remain alone.

I call it ‘the experiment of the never ending line of broken souls who suffer heartbreaking self pity’. 

was going to be a book but the title is a bit of a cunt. 

my next idea for a book is called...

experiments in sex and grocery shopping.

sex won't save me but food will.

I am finding the past tense in future scribbles.

I know it is going to be hard so I may as well start writing it now.

recently I have been starving myself and surviving on only water.

feeling this bad requires one to look bad.

I start a class war every time I leave my flat, every time another ‘broadsheet newspaper’ is pushed in my face.

I would shove it up his arse but where he comes from it would be considered as sex.

criminal bankers and half bald wankers...suburbia is the toilet you do your worst shit in.  

I got stuck in a thought process and not even the traffic in bayswater road could deflect me.

I want to be in this slumber forever.

depression becomes me.

I love the sound of lawns being cut...

something about it brings comfort to me.

I like 99 ice cream cones and the smell of nivea on sun burnt flesh.

cheap holidays and rock that rotted the teeth.

sucking on it just to get at the skewed badly written letters.

the smell of a penny arcade...

all cruel tricks played out during the innocence of childhood. 

she says she painted all night because art helps her remove the lust I placed in her fragile god fearing mind.

all I have left are bad thoughts and the perverted kicks of a tired word junkie.


2010 © T.A.Roberts  ©

Saturday, 3 November 2012

Spangles


I purchased a book in a shop for cunts and unemployed cats.

It was written by the biographer of cafe life

and the author of love letters for coffee drinkers.

I read it whilst sitting in a greasy spoon just off chapel street market.

burns on arms and good wine on lips.

the lady who served me brings comfort.

she has a London accent and lives for nicotine.

she is perfectly imperfect like the rest of us.

lust has long been replaced by the crumbs of an unloved biscuit.

melancholia has messed with her libido.

she spends most nights dry.

give me a word and I will write you a poem...

give me a stone and I will break you a window...

I saw the end of love in her eyes.

she is my mother and sister.

she is the ballerina of my soap opera.

I threw my cigarette into a bin that cared.

forbidden fruit is overrated and it gets messy.

I still seek reason in the gutters.

but

the first girl I kissed tasted of spangles...

and this is all I know.


© T.A.Roberts 2012

Wednesday, 18 April 2012

Eyeliner


I wrote a love letter in 1983

to my tragic wallflower and sister of the dark side.

I woke up next to you afraid.

a beauty in slow motion.

I was born just behind your eyes.

one day your picture will hang in a gallery for the lesser people to view.

I suffered the streets to reach you.

do you remember the bus stop? I think it was a Sunday.

chalk hearts were melted by rain.

they were just testaments of young love and

delusion.

I was, and I still am , a melancholy mother-fucker.

I miss the park life of hand holding.

unclaimed jelly tots on a dusty mantelpiece.

I can say I kissed your lips in 1983.

old letters left stupidly in the bedside drawer.

a photograph left behind for the purposes of torture.

her eyes painted dark like the sky.

I met her at a Gary Numan gig.

my hand brushed against her chest outside a chip shop in

the fulham palace road.

and to say it changed my life would be an understatement.

hammersmith odeon was my kind of church.

watching her apply make up was my personal art gallery.

a dark angel with nice boobs.

happiness is easy, darkness was meant.

under the hammersmith flyover...

in another life.

I serenaded you with marshmallows and occasional plastic flowers.

tube platform salvation on rainy days.

catch a 37 bus out of peckham.

love is a stranger.

warped on a walkman.

the pavement cracks somehow reflected our lives.

the sun never quite shone.

our landscape was concrete.

I stole an eyeliner pencil and became me.

eyeliner made my eyes acceptable and warped vinyl records validated

my entire existence.

I got kicked around by skinheads...

who are now sucking off the state.

I was never ordinary.

who wants to be fucking ordinary ?

trodden on bubble gum.

dancing with damned.

rubik cube confusion and Our Price Records

am I in love?.....

love at first sight?....

phone me a cliche.

I want to go home

to coffee stains.

I started writing this on a fag packet, in a pub, and called it

a love letter.

a love letter to 1983.

she stuck it on her fridge

with an abbey road magnet.

it's more than I could have

hoped for.

one day I will write a line

that will crush you.

you with a

face like flowers.

texture like candles.

taste like spangles.


© Written and owned by © T.A.Roberts 2012

Monday, 5 March 2012

Dead Flower Pointlessness



I write with limited expressions and long forgotten honesty,

all shaken in a cocktail of innuendo

and dead flower pointlessness.

it lingered and tortured my thought process.

the scent of a passing stranger on a tube station platform.

she smells somewhere between heaven and a better place.

traces of a past that I am not quite sure really happened.

a face crafted by an artist who cared.

she drenches angels with self doubt.

why don't I know you?..

maybe your hand slipped from mine whilst I wasn't looking.

I started writing to find you.

I wrote some lyrics.

It will be our song that will never be sung...

....tragic but poetic.

a vase full of dead roses that never loved me.

are you the last of the unblemished roses?

and is it nice being adored?

well, at least falling apart has soul.

each night I drip in insomnia.

In my cracked sleep I dream of you. It's a charitable psychosis.

there are kisses that will never find the lips for which they were intended.

the brutal emptiness of a one night stand, not desired.

I fell in love with you and hated the world for it.

but I don't know you...

and never will.

she dances through my life...but she doesn't know it.

she sang for me once and it broke me.

her pale flesh a canvas for a fucked up artist.

painted finger nails waiting to scratch the life from this life.

perfection is over rated

like tea with sugar and nicotine.

I would drink from you if you allowed me.

I would worship at the church of your dirty laundry.

whisper

never shout.

love is loud enough as it is.

the scent of a passing stranger.

misguided lust from an innocent pen.

I write with limited expressions and long forgotten honesty,

all shaken in a cocktail of innuendo

and dead flower pointlessness.

© Owned by Boris Danski Written by Tim Roberts March 2012 ©



Sunday, 14 August 2011

Melancholia

they found her singing songs on pavements stained by

discarded bubble gum.

caustic lyrics that hit their target.

dirty words will clean us.

in life and death the sick hunt the hunted.

narrow eyes see nothing....

limited people with nothing in their lives

but fucking objects.

you were the staples that bound our book.....

loud music from open windows on a barmy

London summer evening.

desperately sought after kisses.

rain on windows...never ending.

melancholy pen across depressed paper.

summer washed in

the gutter.

some friends in a car

that ended up hitting a wall

in suburbia.

they all died.

the wheels were

still spinning,

upside down,

and ‘God Only Knows’

was playing

on repeat.

the irony

did wet my appetite to

write dark soul

poetry again.

cunt me

cunt you

cunt everybody.

the clocks tick

but the hands

never move.

I am not in love anymore

well I never have been.

marlboro lights and coffee act

as a diet that soothes me.

I call it the limited means

of a supermarket junkie

I am tired and approaching

48.

the romance of

the streets

moves me no more.

the bare foot waif like women

don’t tempt me to spill.

fetish all

gone.

litter blows.

litter cries.

one day

I will find out

what it is

I am trying to say

and will write

a poem

about it.

and you will hate me

even more.

and I will love that.


© Owned by T A Roberts © Boris Danski August 2011


Saturday, 26 February 2011

Chocolate



devastating like eyes, like a painting, like 9/11,

like melted chocolate spread over female flesh

like the page you always wanted to turn in

my book of brilliant things;

let us reserve that seedy hotel room and make it stink.   
 
coke on your clit became a source of addiction

but it was far more educational than day time TV.  
      
words spill from me like pre cum on an unknowing tongue.

drugs and addictions.

I am dirty, that is why you come to me.

purchase my filth and watch it grow on your mantelpiece.
 
I will write a fully deluded, self elected, semi masterpiece via

your cunt.

I want that smell of sex just under my nose.

If you could bottle that scent the men of Paris

would make the creator

a millionaire over night.

melt like chocolate.
 
my mind is working overtime at the moment and

it's fragile like eggshell,

like playgrounds full of boys,

like sandcastles,

like space invaders

and parties full of good looking people.

fragile like the child on the priests knee;

take the hand of an adult,

motherfucking God lover,

and try to abuse me you bastard.
 
I put up with your strange little’ fuck me’ noises and

shit perfume

oral sex passed your father by in exchange for a night at the Opera

a lady wears Chanel and a man has a dick.

how do you explain me to your comfortable parents

who live in their comfortable house

in comfortable avenue

over comfortable dinner and easy smiles in middle class suburbia?

‘he stubs cigarettes out on his flesh so as to relieve the pain;

a pain so much deeper

than burning flesh’.
 
self harm has me, and dysmorphic eyes guide me through stinking alley ways

and Art galleries of silence and chin scratching wankers;

excuse me mate, but that is a picture of a hamburger in black and white;

if that is art then I give up.
 
I am a falling man so soothe me.
 
I found seat in the Kilburn Tricycle and was taken for a couple of hours;

cinema can be quite a life saver;

a French accent can inspire the same feelings as when

the perv teacher stuck his hand on my private place during extra maths

(terrified excitement).

the ladies who gather in the bar after are the kind who smoke with the aid of

an extended holder and the men cross their legs in a knowing fashion

and speak of the sub text.
 
blow through me and torment me with that look;

unattainable you who makes me want to write;

impossible you, with a face made of china dolls;

slide into me and don’t leave;

I need the pain to exist,

to write,

to lust,

to wank,

to cum.

that 30min chat I had with you, in the pub,

made me feel like someone

and I want to feel that feeling

more than occasionally
 
I am dark

but not like nights

but like nights that are light.

I am dark like chocolate,

like Christmas Eve,

like ghost trains at funfairs,

like the bottom of the bottle I just finished

like all the men who look like men.    
      
fucked up kisses and blush worthy bullshit is what I bring to the table

and oh how they judge me once they see my scars.

chip away to my insides and you will not find diamonds

but you will discover colours

you never knew existed;
 
mirrors are like pain,

like torture,

like hell,

like a stab from a knife,

like you

like everyone I pass.

devastating like eyes,

like a painting,

like 9/11,

like the page you always wanted to turn in

my book of brilliant things.

I am a falling man so soothe me.
 
© Boris Danski  (Written and owned by © T A Roberts 2010)

Thursday, 10 February 2011

Photographs Will Find Her...


a bright young thing with the look of an artist

an indie rock queen folded with the elegance

of a homely daughter

the verve of youth touched with the sexiness

of womanhood

colour in the black and white

something in that face ticks my tock

but I am just an old man

who muses the untouchable

the out of reach

my kicks are obtained from knowing

the likes of her exist amongst the

dull and grey

dancing with the rain and gutter trash

to pale them into insignificance

photographs will find her

beauty?...no

beauty is limited

her face has so much more

stories hidden behind mascara eyes

parting lips that whisper but only I can hear

her face

a face made to drench

angels in self doubt

I sat on a cold bench soaking in the rain

suffering the effects of too much drink

when I started to write this in my head

tiny pulses are felt if you 

seek them out

some lucky bastard watches her apply make up

first thing in the morning

brush strokes of an artist

she is the river I ran dry

the beautiful but tainted youth

tainted by the media and mr and mrs righteous cunt who read

the daily mail.

men froth at the thought of her on the tube

every morning

but consider suicide when they realize they never

ever possessed

the cool milk shake look

of the camden eyeliner princess

there is a place to sit and imagine what this beautiful ugly town can do for you

failing that just get lost in love making

photographs will find her

she glides through the market

all dark glasses, glam rock chic, and mosh pit stalker

I can imagine her dancing in the

electric ballroom

in the 1980's

feel the lust in an unspoken moment

find solace in public Libraries and coffee stained cafe's 

bright young thing

with the look of an artist

photographs must find her

and I hope they will


Written and © owned  by T Andrew Roberts 2010 © Boris Danski

Saturday, 29 January 2011

Poets Of The Dirty Bed Sheets


One of these days I am going to write the words....to tell you from my cuff what really goes on up here in this corrupt head of mine.To spill it out on paper what makes me tick...

I have shifted my rage and dysfunctional self and invented a new me who is even more fucked up and fresh, like dogs shit steaming on the sidewalk. 

I trade in honesty; I don’t write to make you wet.

I will express in my limited terms what it is you do to me everyday and night, waking or sleeping. It’s bad in a good way. I will tell you what it is when I find it even with my base words.

I will shock you and you will hate and love it in equal measure.

In private you will make it your anthem but in public you will condemn me, but that is just encouraging me.

I am wallpapering my room...filling in the cracks.

You want me to paint your toe nails and read to you.

One of these days I am going to walk the walk that I talk.

I wander around this alien Town and see no one who can hold a candle to you; the stinking bodies that dodge mine on the Tube are empty souls just looking for the next pound...

Us... we live because we are poets of the dirty bed sheets and the readers of the truth.

I saw the end of love in your eyes...oh those eyes so dark.

We love fucking but can make do with a coffee and cigarette and people watching.

I don’t need drugs and drink to lift me; I need the smell of you, the taste of you. You rain without clouds on me and it’s my fucking heaven.

Us the fallen angels; your face has worn me and your mouth has drank me; scratches on my back and dick friction; the horny tiredness. The smell of soap on a feminine neck, the spooning , slipping and spilling; pulling hair and whispering sweet filth but ending it with a.....

....... ‘I love you’

One of these days I am going to write our manifesto. It will include long weekends of not leaving the bedroom; filling the fridge with junk food and bad wine and just living in our own fluids; not for the faint hearted but hey that’s me.... a rollercoaster ride with a smile and eyes you will never trust.

I didn’t nearly kill myself for nothing; it was to live and come out the other side to know what life really is all about. Yes it’s to pay the bills, go to work, but it’s to corrupt you in the nicest way possible.

I will know every inch of your flesh so well I will map the spots to tease; glorious torture and no questions asked; teach you the advantages of silence whilst loving the screams of a g spot moment.

Am I bugging you? Good because I mean to. We are all the same but the girls hide behind the excuses....show me a girl who doesn’t please herself and I will show you an innocent bank manager or a priest who doesn’t try to fuck children.

One of these days we will do all of the things that life promised but that we failed to achieve. The simple things like etch our names on to tree bark, sex outside, a picnic, get drunk and laugh...eat cakes and not feel guilty. Tell the boss to fuck off and piss in his desk.

But most of all we will create coffee stains on a virgin table and die and say...I don’t need to climb a mountain to feel elation........

...............who needs it when I have got you?

Danski 2008 (written and owned by T A Roberts, London)