She Wore Black

she wore black and it was beautiful, like a day full of sunshine,

but where a cloud was raining in my ever so stupid head.

I was happy to just have passed you.

I found solace in a two second stare and a match box.

brewer street blues and a comb I can not use anymore, and where reality is a sandwich in plastic wrapping and staring at reflections in shop windows.

mirrors haunt me, they are everywhere.
         
I walk the West End sometimes for hours searching for that one line but return home with just dirty finger nails from tube trains.

the flower seller cries a tear for the flower never sold.

rose bud and redundant thorn, discarded to the gutter with fag ends and a stud that dropped from the rude boy’s ear.

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

there are far more important things to worry about like masturbation of the masses over plastic looking orange girls.         
         
It has been 4 years since a fuck and a fag... drip, drip, drip, like a tap... fit to burst and coiled like a spring.

I can not tell the difference between sunrise and sunset anymore but know that I hate daytime TV for it is the graveyard of the damned. I am anarchy, like butter.

I'm the opera singer who made it on stage but only managed a Karaoke version of ‘Let it be’         

say ‘fuck’ to me in that ever so polished voice of yours....minimal erotica.  
          
I only ask that of you so that I can pull your hair, to lay in silence and listen to the sounds of the city not so far; the constant buzz and orange skies.

supermarket flowers were never you.          

dreams made and left imprinted for all to see, like a movie screen for the crushed romantics; like a meeting place for the heartbroken where first kisses are recalled but are and now mourned like a death in the family.         
         
reemploy the butterflies and warn your stomach;

she is another that is not of us.

instant fairy-tale and sweet ending to a good book.

crafted hands and an arse for couture dining.
         
haunt like perfume and shatter like glass... piss on me...I love it.        
         
I hung my dreams out with the washing so as to dry them; no need to watch the clock.

love binds people who have no roads to live on and sex wets people with no one to love on.  
     
look for a clue in soiled metaphors and rely on hope; but it’s the hope that cuts and kills.         
         
my eyes reflecting the truth.
       
I hang out at the Curzon not because I am clever, but because I like a film that speaks to me.

enter my world at your peril.

contradictions are what I specialize in.        
         
everyone likes a beautiful woman but few will ever really love one.

trophies get dusty on neglected pedestals.

I went on strike and joined the picket line of the impossible.

she wore black....she mourned for me.
         
© Danski  2010 © (copyright owned by the author T A Roberts)