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

It Was One Of Those Days

It was one of those days when time did not happen; clocks went fast, bed unmade, papers not bought and read and breakfast remained uncooked.

Where love making gets mixed up with the animal instinct of fucking and where all good books are over 100 years old...

Where good wine is not purchased by the lonely; it was one of those days where everything is clouded, even your once faultless judgement.

Where all that we wish for is achieved but at the end if that day you will be filled with a 1000 more wishes and wake the next day with the reality that you may never achieve the new ones.

It was one of those days where all hate died and all of the mixed up bullshit that had been floating around my head became real; you were there next to me and now a struggle will ensue. The struggle for security; the catch was easy but the keep?

When will I learn to do grown up things? I am an orchestra without conductor, a park bench without its slats; I am hard but crumble like biscuits

It was one of those days when I wanted to change.

I wanted to take your hand and show you the perfect anarchy of my London; to take you to a gallery and pretend I like the bullshit in front of me; tolerating it for your sake.

It was one of those days when I woke with your naked back facing me; the part of your neck I so love exposed and your hair scattered over my pillow; the hair I pulled last night under your erotic instruction.

You who had met my lust half way and created something with me; my room that smells of sex....... so many secrets the walls would spill if they could.

It was one of those days when I wanted to just lay here spooned with you... if I could achieve anything on this day it will be to make you happy.

Flutter an eye lid and buy me cream cakes

To go under the sheets and not even come up for breath.......the taste so unique so right, never wrong.

It was one of those days when the words came like a sweet song from the past, I wrote them until my fingers bled, until my mind blew, until my groin ached.

If I had a million pounds it would be scant reward in the shadow of you; you who crept into me without me seeing it.

Stealing my heart on an A4 size piece of paper you made me fit to embrace a muse again.

You I drip for; drip, drip like a leaking tap......you do it for me every time we exchange some wasted words.

My thoughts are erotic enough to keep you interested but never quite crossing the line that you know I can.

It was one of those days that I just didn’t want to be the same old boring me anymore....

It was one of those days when I sat on the tube and didn’t give a fuck about the cunt that pushes his paper in my face and the bitch that trod on my shoe.

I woke up and toaster broke.

I was out of coffee and out of fags but I cared for none of it.

It was one of those days when I could wake up and want to do something for you....so I did....I wrote you this.....

Danski 2009 (written and owned by T A Roberts 2009)