Sunday, 14 August 2011


they found her singing songs on pavements stained by

discarded bubble gum.

caustic lyrics that hit their target.

dirty words will clean us.

in life and death the sick hunt the hunted.

narrow eyes see nothing....

limited people with nothing in their lives

but fucking objects.

you were the staples that bound our book.....

loud music from open windows on a barmy

London summer evening.

desperately sought after kisses.

rain on windows...never ending.

melancholy pen across depressed paper.

summer washed in

the gutter.

some friends in a car

that ended up hitting a wall

in suburbia.

they all died.

the wheels were

still spinning,

upside down,

and ‘God Only Knows’

was playing

on repeat.

the irony

did wet my appetite to

write dark soul

poetry again.

cunt me

cunt you

cunt everybody.

the clocks tick

but the hands

never move.

I am not in love anymore

well I never have been.

marlboro lights and coffee act

as a diet that soothes me.

I call it the limited means

of a supermarket junkie

I am tired and approaching


the romance of

the streets

moves me no more.

the bare foot waif like women

don’t tempt me to spill.

fetish all


litter blows.

litter cries.

one day

I will find out

what it is

I am trying to say

and will write

a poem

about it.

and you will hate me

even more.

and I will love that.

© Owned by T A Roberts © Boris Danski August 2011

Saturday, 26 February 2011


devastating like eyes, like a painting, like 9/11,

like melted chocolate spread over female flesh

like the page you always wanted to turn in

my book of brilliant things;

let us reserve that seedy hotel room and make it stink.   
coke on your clit became a source of addiction

but it was far more educational than day time TV.  
words spill from me like pre cum on an unknowing tongue.

drugs and addictions.

I am dirty, that is why you come to me.

purchase my filth and watch it grow on your mantelpiece.
I will write a fully deluded, self elected, semi masterpiece via

your cunt.

I want that smell of sex just under my nose.

If you could bottle that scent the men of Paris

would make the creator

a millionaire over night.

melt like chocolate.
my mind is working overtime at the moment and

it's fragile like eggshell,

like playgrounds full of boys,

like sandcastles,

like space invaders

and parties full of good looking people.

fragile like the child on the priests knee;

take the hand of an adult,

motherfucking God lover,

and try to abuse me you bastard.
I put up with your strange little’ fuck me’ noises and

shit perfume

oral sex passed your father by in exchange for a night at the Opera

a lady wears Chanel and a man has a dick.

how do you explain me to your comfortable parents

who live in their comfortable house

in comfortable avenue

over comfortable dinner and easy smiles in middle class suburbia?

‘he stubs cigarettes out on his flesh so as to relieve the pain;

a pain so much deeper

than burning flesh’.
self harm has me, and dysmorphic eyes guide me through stinking alley ways

and Art galleries of silence and chin scratching wankers;

excuse me mate, but that is a picture of a hamburger in black and white;

if that is art then I give up.
I am a falling man so soothe me.
I found seat in the Kilburn Tricycle and was taken for a couple of hours;

cinema can be quite a life saver;

a French accent can inspire the same feelings as when

the perv teacher stuck his hand on my private place during extra maths

(terrified excitement).

the ladies who gather in the bar after are the kind who smoke with the aid of

an extended holder and the men cross their legs in a knowing fashion

and speak of the sub text.
blow through me and torment me with that look;

unattainable you who makes me want to write;

impossible you, with a face made of china dolls;

slide into me and don’t leave;

I need the pain to exist,

to write,

to lust,

to wank,

to cum.

that 30min chat I had with you, in the pub,

made me feel like someone

and I want to feel that feeling

more than occasionally
I am dark

but not like nights

but like nights that are light.

I am dark like chocolate,

like Christmas Eve,

like ghost trains at funfairs,

like the bottom of the bottle I just finished

like all the men who look like men.    
fucked up kisses and blush worthy bullshit is what I bring to the table

and oh how they judge me once they see my scars.

chip away to my insides and you will not find diamonds

but you will discover colours

you never knew existed;
mirrors are like pain,

like torture,

like hell,

like a stab from a knife,

like you

like everyone I pass.

devastating like eyes,

like a painting,

like 9/11,

like the page you always wanted to turn in

my book of brilliant things.

I am a falling man so soothe me.
© Boris Danski  (Written and owned by © T A Roberts 2010)

Thursday, 10 February 2011

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 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

Saturday, 29 January 2011

Poets Of The Dirty Bed Sheets

One of these days I am going to write the tell you from my cuff what really goes on up here in this corrupt head of mine.To spill it out on paper what makes me tick...

I have shifted my rage and dysfunctional self and invented a new me who is even more fucked up and fresh, like dogs shit steaming on the sidewalk. 

I trade in honesty; I don’t write to make you wet.

I will express in my limited terms what it is you do to me everyday and night, waking or sleeping. It’s bad in a good way. I will tell you what it is when I find it even with my base words.

I will shock you and you will hate and love it in equal measure.

In private you will make it your anthem but in public you will condemn me, but that is just encouraging me.

I am wallpapering my room...filling in the cracks.

You want me to paint your toe nails and read to you.

One of these days I am going to walk the walk that I talk.

I wander around this alien Town and see no one who can hold a candle to you; the stinking bodies that dodge mine on the Tube are empty souls just looking for the next pound...

Us... we live because we are poets of the dirty bed sheets and the readers of the truth.

I saw the end of love in your eyes...oh those eyes so dark.

We love fucking but can make do with a coffee and cigarette and people watching.

I don’t need drugs and drink to lift me; I need the smell of you, the taste of you. You rain without clouds on me and it’s my fucking heaven.

Us the fallen angels; your face has worn me and your mouth has drank me; scratches on my back and dick friction; the horny tiredness. The smell of soap on a feminine neck, the spooning , slipping and spilling; pulling hair and whispering sweet filth but ending it with a.....

....... ‘I love you’

One of these days I am going to write our manifesto. It will include long weekends of not leaving the bedroom; filling the fridge with junk food and bad wine and just living in our own fluids; not for the faint hearted but hey that’s me.... a rollercoaster ride with a smile and eyes you will never trust.

I didn’t nearly kill myself for nothing; it was to live and come out the other side to know what life really is all about. Yes it’s to pay the bills, go to work, but it’s to corrupt you in the nicest way possible.

I will know every inch of your flesh so well I will map the spots to tease; glorious torture and no questions asked; teach you the advantages of silence whilst loving the screams of a g spot moment.

Am I bugging you? Good because I mean to. We are all the same but the girls hide behind the me a girl who doesn’t please herself and I will show you an innocent bank manager or a priest who doesn’t try to fuck children.

One of these days we will do all of the things that life promised but that we failed to achieve. The simple things like etch our names on to tree bark, sex outside, a picnic, get drunk and cakes and not feel guilty. Tell the boss to fuck off and piss in his desk.

But most of all we will create coffee stains on a virgin table and die and say...I don’t need to climb a mountain to feel elation........

...............who needs it when I have got you?

Danski 2008 (written and owned by T A Roberts, London)