twitter

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)