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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
     

I Tried So Hard

I tried so hard to write the letter I had always wanted to write but when I sit there, with pen in hand, I dry up. Fuck me; do you think I think this stuff out? Of course not, I write like I fuck. I go round the houses and eventually hit all the right buttons and then you are mine. How deluded am I?

I tried so hard to keep my concentration but the fag ash kept falling on my lap. I sat outside my favorite cafe in Soho, just off Old Compton Street enough not to be a gay place. Why such a deluded old fucker like me sees the romance in a coffee stain on an old table lord only knows. But I run my finger round it and lick it and somehow I taste her and the words come.  

I tried so hard to get away from the being me and slowly I am getting there. Have you noticed I am not such a self harm bore anymore? Rehab was 10 years ago but the marks on my arms are like they were put there yesterday and they remind me of dark corners and unspoken sins. They remind me of a 1000 wanks over her, and sticky magazines; of a bad night when I wet the bed; of the night I took too many pills and lost 4 days; of the day they took me in; of the day I looked in the mirror and saw a freak.

 Damn it, there would be no need to be lonely if I could bite the pillow and think of England. But hey I love the silky taste of a female and I am thirsty for it like a man lost in a desert without water, armed only with an iPod stuck on the same old tune. That’s me, playing the same old tune; waiting at desolate bus stops but the bus ain't coming.

I tried so hard to stop Loving my Town but how can I when presented with such smells and sights and the endless possibility that I really will bump into you on the Jubilee Line interchange? The park bench above in Green Park; all the words I have written for this shit hole; my playground and ultimate lover; the only thing that keeps me sane is this old Town.I slip into the art house cinema’s and lose myself in sub titles, alone with gas less coke and dreams of a boy that I no longer am. I cling to the characters of World Cinema, for they give me hope; it’s only on exiting the cinema that I realize that I am surrounded by people I no longer know; my London taken by aliens, strangers and those who only care for the size of their fucking pay cheque.

I tried so hard to stop being a fucking deluded talentless writer just to impress you; I tried so hard to be a fucking whore in the bedroom just to save you from the thuggish drinkers of the poor club scene and fuck me shoe ladies. I tried too hard and why should I give a fuck about anything? I walked into the perfume store and asked the badly painted lady to spray your scent onto a piece of card; I inhaled it and for a second I was back with you oh and it crushed me; oh it fucked me up; how cruel the memory is..

I tried so hard to stop crying, but my eyes welled at the serenity of you. If skin was heaven then you wear god. If I could worship you it would never be enough. You have always been my alter and the church I dreamt of building; one day the Moon will give up, it will see the fruitlessness in sharing a world with you; the sun will go out and cry ash; he will say, ‘I never knew she was here and my heat so wasted’.

I tried so hard to see you. I could see the back of your head in a crowded high street where I was stuck behind a 1000 people with their boring shopping bags, and they would not let me pass. You turned a corner and were gone. Was it you or had I just smelt the scent of your sweet perfume and my sad lonely mind just made her into you? Sadly the latter will be the truth for you died ten years ago and I sit here with a coffee stain being admired by gay men and writing my words; one of the guys said, ” You look like a thug but carry a pen that bleeds the ink of heartbreak...”

I tried so hard to put you to sleep once and for all, to end the memories of our ferocious fucking and colour by number loving; oh babe I can get the words out and they define me and cover me in shit, but they make me smell of flowers. I died in your eyes more than once and even saw a reflection of a better me; I saw my eyes and they were not so bad; I loved then and was someone; was part of something; the staples in my book...

I tried so hard to get the real me to show up but this clown kept appearing and he had a black tear falling from one eye and he was me as a boy; how I cry for him, for the me that once molded faces from potatoes and dreamed of fairies; who thought that Dorothy was real and that tornado's would take us all to a better place; who thought that I would one day touch the hand of a woman who loves me; but I lost her in the haze of cigarette smoke and excuses; in the grotesque mind that was taken by demons; too many spliffs, too many late nights...

I tried so hard to be the magician who could put a smile on your face by producing flowers from a hat but you are more beautiful than any flower and what moves me to tears may just bore you.I tried so hard to be a man just for one day but still ended up being this ugly cunt that people laugh at and no one wants; fuck them, I can use the words moon and cunt in one piece so its them who are lacking...

I tried so hard to write a symphony in words for you but this was the best I could do; you are worth a symphony so.......how dare I give you this?

Written and © Owned by © T A Roberts 2007