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Sunday, 14 August 2011

Melancholia

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

48.

the romance of

the streets

moves me no more.

the bare foot waif like women

don’t tempt me to spill.

fetish all

gone.

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


3 comments:

  1. you articulate some of my deepest fleeting moments. thank you.

    ReplyDelete
  2. thank you so much...this makes me happy

    ReplyDelete

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