Tuesday, 11 December 2012

Primrose Hill

I am a peace envoy at war with himself.

I went to the school of love but was taught hate.

I like the Theatre but have a foul mouth.

I enter a library to achieve freedom but leave with my hands chained.

I get my kicks from pissing in canals and calling it art.

conversations on stairwells and a lost life.

love only happens to those who don’t fight it when the lights go out.

sepia moments tainted by black and white memories in colour.

avant garde plimsoll wearer and full time lolly licker.

coco chanel.....

memories will do for all of us..

cakes and cunt can taste the same but no summer was ever complete

without a picnic and finger nails sinking into a wet August Primrose Hill.

precious lips and dysfunctional eye lid... details I notice.

simmering glances from a hedonistic temptress.

I sit on the tube and regret my entire life.

ascending escalators and descending dreams.

twisted dreams and blusher stained pillows.

a love that died in clouds of cigarette smoke and my periodic madness.

some people touch your life but very few will consume it.

places I will never see.

flesh I will never touch.

songs I wrote that will never be sung.

roads never trodden and post cards never sent.

those post cards from impossible holidays.

those love letters of the lonely only ever read by the author.

comfort found in solitude.

© 2010 © T. A. Roberts

Wednesday, 21 November 2012

Experiments In Sex And Grocery Shopping

she says she painted all night because art helps her remove the lust I placed in her fragile god fearing mind.

my lust left on a bus many years ago and hasn't been seen anywhere near me since.

I need a muse...find me a muse.

hand up thigh in public.. torture for lovers without privacy and no where else to go except public spaces.

I saw a Muslim girl relieve her man in a royal park and the irony of the moment
cracked a smile on my wasted face.

I visit London parks and spend hours sitting looking at tree's, occasional couples, and pieces of litter.

I talk to lamp posts and duck the flies that reject dog shit.

London is my canvas and I walk her to be tormented by her.. the flash of flesh on a decent pair of legs not only inspires but torments.

the measure is equal.

I see a whole life in lost afternoons in this melting pot.

carry my baggage for it is far too heavy for me.

I am not tall enough to see and not broad enough to be a man.

I enter a cafe/wine bar and ask for a table for two knowing that I will be the only one dining.

It is a strange kind of company knowing that you can order for two but remain alone.

I call it ‘the experiment of the never ending line of broken souls who suffer heartbreaking self pity’. 

was going to be a book but the title is a bit of a cunt. 

my next idea for a book is called...

experiments in sex and grocery shopping.

sex won't save me but food will.

I am finding the past tense in future scribbles.

I know it is going to be hard so I may as well start writing it now.

recently I have been starving myself and surviving on only water.

feeling this bad requires one to look bad.

I start a class war every time I leave my flat, every time another ‘broadsheet newspaper’ is pushed in my face.

I would shove it up his arse but where he comes from it would be considered as sex.

criminal bankers and half bald wankers...suburbia is the toilet you do your worst shit in.  

I got stuck in a thought process and not even the traffic in bayswater road could deflect me.

I want to be in this slumber forever.

depression becomes me.

I love the sound of lawns being cut...

something about it brings comfort to me.

I like 99 ice cream cones and the smell of nivea on sun burnt flesh.

cheap holidays and rock that rotted the teeth.

sucking on it just to get at the skewed badly written letters.

the smell of a penny arcade...

all cruel tricks played out during the innocence of childhood. 

she says she painted all night because art helps her remove the lust I placed in her fragile god fearing mind.

all I have left are bad thoughts and the perverted kicks of a tired word junkie.

2010 © T.A.Roberts  ©

Saturday, 3 November 2012


I purchased a book in a shop for cunts and unemployed cats.

It was written by the biographer of cafe life

and the author of love letters for coffee drinkers.

I read it whilst sitting in a greasy spoon just off chapel street market.

burns on arms and good wine on lips.

the lady who served me brings comfort.

she has a London accent and lives for nicotine.

she is perfectly imperfect like the rest of us.

lust has long been replaced by the crumbs of an unloved biscuit.

melancholia has messed with her libido.

she spends most nights dry.

give me a word and I will write you a poem...

give me a stone and I will break you a window...

I saw the end of love in her eyes.

she is my mother and sister.

she is the ballerina of my soap opera.

I threw my cigarette into a bin that cared.

forbidden fruit is overrated and it gets messy.

I still seek reason in the gutters.


the first girl I kissed tasted of spangles...

and this is all I know.

© T.A.Roberts 2012

Wednesday, 18 April 2012


I wrote a love letter in 1983

to my tragic wallflower and sister of the dark side.

I woke up next to you afraid.

a beauty in slow motion.

I was born just behind your eyes.

one day your picture will hang in a gallery for the lesser people to view.

I suffered the streets to reach you.

do you remember the bus stop? I think it was a Sunday.

chalk hearts were melted by rain.

they were just testaments of young love and


I was, and I still am , a melancholy mother-fucker.

I miss the park life of hand holding.

unclaimed jelly tots on a dusty mantelpiece.

I can say I kissed your lips in 1983.

old letters left stupidly in the bedside drawer.

a photograph left behind for the purposes of torture.

her eyes painted dark like the sky.

I met her at a Gary Numan gig.

my hand brushed against her chest outside a chip shop in

the fulham palace road.

and to say it changed my life would be an understatement.

hammersmith odeon was my kind of church.

watching her apply make up was my personal art gallery.

a dark angel with nice boobs.

happiness is easy, darkness was meant.

under the hammersmith flyover...

in another life.

I serenaded you with marshmallows and occasional plastic flowers.

tube platform salvation on rainy days.

catch a 37 bus out of peckham.

love is a stranger.

warped on a walkman.

the pavement cracks somehow reflected our lives.

the sun never quite shone.

our landscape was concrete.

I stole an eyeliner pencil and became me.

eyeliner made my eyes acceptable and warped vinyl records validated

my entire existence.

I got kicked around by skinheads...

who are now sucking off the state.

I was never ordinary.

who wants to be fucking ordinary ?

trodden on bubble gum.

dancing with damned.

rubik cube confusion and Our Price Records

am I in love?.....

love at first sight?....

phone me a cliche.

I want to go home

to coffee stains.

I started writing this on a fag packet, in a pub, and called it

a love letter.

a love letter to 1983.

she stuck it on her fridge

with an abbey road magnet.

it's more than I could have

hoped for.

one day I will write a line

that will crush you.

you with a

face like flowers.

texture like candles.

taste like spangles.

© Written and owned by © T.A.Roberts 2012

Monday, 5 March 2012

Dead Flower Pointlessness

I write with limited expressions and long forgotten honesty,

all shaken in a cocktail of innuendo

and dead flower pointlessness.

it lingered and tortured my thought process.

the scent of a passing stranger on a tube station platform.

she smells somewhere between heaven and a better place.

traces of a past that I am not quite sure really happened.

a face crafted by an artist who cared.

she drenches angels with self doubt.

why don't I know you?..

maybe your hand slipped from mine whilst I wasn't looking.

I started writing to find you.

I wrote some lyrics.

It will be our song that will never be sung...

....tragic but poetic.

a vase full of dead roses that never loved me.

are you the last of the unblemished roses?

and is it nice being adored?

well, at least falling apart has soul.

each night I drip in insomnia.

In my cracked sleep I dream of you. It's a charitable psychosis.

there are kisses that will never find the lips for which they were intended.

the brutal emptiness of a one night stand, not desired.

I fell in love with you and hated the world for it.

but I don't know you...

and never will.

she dances through my life...but she doesn't know it.

she sang for me once and it broke me.

her pale flesh a canvas for a fucked up artist.

painted finger nails waiting to scratch the life from this life.

perfection is over rated

like tea with sugar and nicotine.

I would drink from you if you allowed me.

I would worship at the church of your dirty laundry.


never shout.

love is loud enough as it is.

the scent of a passing stranger.

misguided lust from an innocent pen.

I write with limited expressions and long forgotten honesty,

all shaken in a cocktail of innuendo

and dead flower pointlessness.

© Owned by Boris Danski Written by Tim Roberts March 2012 ©