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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 ©

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)

Friday, 3 December 2010

A Flower For Future Funerals


Hearts bleed and flood desperate souls and she cries ink on to pieces of paper that she will throw into the garbage. But put all the words together and they would have made such a sweet poem.

A South Bank lovely who carries baggage and the occasional flower for future funerals....mourn the love that will break you...think it before it happens and get out before slap hits face. I am far from the cunt I look and I have seen it all....been round two blocks and back round and survived every kinky habit of the fairer sex.

I am to women what Starbucks is to coffee. Tasteless froth served up for ladies who lunch but I have plenty to say. I am like the warning on a packet of fags.. bad for ones health but you will still need it to suck on when thinking.

I wish I could go back in time and taste cakes that tasted of cake. My Tube carriage stinks in the morning of unwashed bodies and fried food that clings to fabric. All the women look miserable and the men look not out of place with the discarded newspapers. I am gripped by mania and ask for a way out. Saving you is not enough.

Photographs mean nothing anymore...I miss the crackle of a long playing record and it’s occasional warp.....you had to care for them but now records are files with no art. I want to shoot the cunt with the electronic book. Culture rape is rife and invades me. Future men will not be able to fantasize over the librarian because she will be replaced by a memory card...the TV news will be read on You Porn and no one will ever touch anyone ever again.

Testing the strength of my beautiful ugly and washing me out...caving in to the impossible whilst dreaming of the unlikely. Suburbia will look so much nicer when I walk it with you. Leafy London will fill with birds who want to know us. The busker on the tube will find a melody to serenade us and the homeless men will smile through gritted teeth. Painting someone in words is an art that takes time and plenty of imagination over fried eggs and piss poor coffee.

Adult fairy dust, lights up a room, resonates and inspires.. eyes and a face that will make for a doting Mother....someone you know that you need a hug from...... far from pure but I want to paint you in angels.

Beans on toast and piss poor coffee in bad cafe’s...London streets so poetic....souls so lost and empty....tube trains of suicide potential.....the brief encounter with her scent whilst walking down the interchange...eyes meet eyes....eyes you will only see once in a city of 8 million.....how sad...how desolate.....I have a disorder and live in it....I see things that would shatter the ordinary. My 3rd eye plays tricks with me. Cruel erotica and cocktails of madness, but I will read you to sleep....and miss you.....I muse anyone who cries tears from the lips near the hips......a terrible beauty will be ours. How many times do I need to tell you?.

I am looking through the rose tinted glasses of a lonely man who has long been out of the political battle of a bedroom or kitchen.....dirty cups and underwear....morning breath and moody moments...the dreadful post cum come down....awkward silence and crossword puzzles... I have always managed to be on the mad side of sane and the left side of leftfield......it is good in here...I see things that most of you never will.

I have always despised the monarchy because I don’t like licking stamps....I have always liked cute feet and ankles on females....I have a passport to fetish but have not used it yet.... the Vatican is now a rave club where all the abused kids go to listen to trance...Nuns gave into the ideals of anal sex and kinkydom....the Priests do crack and pimp their arses to the old world order. Eton burnt down and the class war won.
 
I will read you to sleep because that is what I do...

© Danski  2010 © (copyright owned by the author T A Roberts)

Monday, 11 October 2010

Serene


I sit down by the canal lock

and write love letters.

not to anyone in particular.

I throw them to the wind you see.  
  
every 3rd Wednesday

I buy 3 roses and give them to

3 strangers

each time.  
  
I was going to write a verse

for a valentine’s card

but decided to blow my

brains out

instead.

empty gestures don't fill my balls. 
 
today I saw the

girl

who has inspired

every drop of ink

that has left my pen.

each and every word

I have written for

year upon year.

I saw her in Camden Market.  
  
vintage dress and ‘make up’ serene

like a screen queen or

a 1950’s prom queen awaiting men to do

men things.  

she will break many a man though.

I can tell just by the way she lights her

cigarette and takes her first drag.

unhurried.

no 'fuck me shoes' ever found their way on to her feet.

I found her

lost in rainbows under a

moody

london sky.
  
hope I still love you the next time it

snows.

I hear it’s romantic. 
  
I had never met her

or set eyes on her

before today.  
  
I just knew she

existed.  
  
© Danski  2010 © (copyright owned by the author T A Roberts)

Friday, 1 October 2010

Untitled 2


she is my sister of the dark room,

the candy floss girl with toffee apple dreams

and an arse I would worship.

pierce me with a scream and I will write you a song with no verse.

it will be an urban bittersweet story with a twist of cunt envy.

coco chanel upon flesh so tortured.

the art house whore, that I am, can picture the tears falling

on a black and white face where the only words spoken are

oui oui oui.    
     
he the perfect failiure and dead flower blooming.

fucked a hundred girls but only made love to one.

broken soul trying to find his way home.

redundant romantic with unused one liners

common as muck and a London accent.

loved the love but hated the mess.

cut the grass but killed  the roses.

took a smile and made it a frown.

built a circus but sacked all the clowns.
     
cheap thrills and Dream Topping, the horror of

high street shopping.

hallucinations brought on by the pills

I had been dropping.

brown sauce on bacon, it

liberates one's senses.     
     
I saw another version of me in my local supermarket

oh and she was so beautiful.

she studied her shopping list and I studied the possibility of

mediocre me

with her.

no one owns me and I follow nothing

and that is why they make up stories about me.

look into my eyes and you know

I will fuck you.

but only because

I am

weak.   
     
let me write stories and poems about your

ankles

and how good they look in those shoes.

let me serenade you with my bravado and

cocktails of filth ridden words.

the contents of your handbag and glint in your eyes gives hope to

the lonely.

you are not fit for plastic table cafe and the secrets told by

coffee stains.

I know because you wear lady gloves and glide.
 
us tragic romantics are exactly that

tragic.

and we see everything but deal only

in crumbs.

lost souls with coffee stained teeth.

I am consumed by the dreams of a 16 year old but I am now

46.

all hope left on the train to cuntville.    
     
Boris Danski will rise again and walk by London Bridge.

close the curtains and block out the light for I need to withdraw.    
     
you made my typing finger bleed

and created a space in my head to accept beauty again.    
    
one of these days you will stick your arse in my face

and I will write 2000 words in tribute to it and they alone will only

create one stanza.    
     
I could have come to see you but maybe it was your

god who stopped me.

you liken me to the scent of a pretty flower picked from a

dirty swamp.

rough cut diamond and rose of the underclass.

splinters from dead trees..... but park benches offer me moments of

bliss and solitude.    
     
dirty rain on summer London streets.

it falls on me but I am beyond dirty.

tainted pavements always near violence and never close to love.

holding hands was my favorite game.     
     
I find dark eroticism in the ladder and hole in her stockings....

her on the tube train at 7.45am

it is morning but she has time to have been torn.

torn like all of us.

I am amazed by nothing much but can see the possibility

of a whole book

ultimately inspired by the damaged material

covering a female leg.     
     
Boris Danski 2010 ©   Written and Owned by © T A Roberts