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
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
let me write stories and poems about your
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
you are not fit for plastic table cafe and the secrets told by
I know because you wear lady gloves and glide.
us tragic romantics are exactly that
and we see everything but deal only
lost souls with coffee stained teeth.
I am consumed by the dreams of a 16 year old but I am now
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
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