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Saturday, 26 February 2011

Chocolate



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?...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