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Tuesday, 16 April 2013

Flowers For Future Funerals


she wore black and she was beautiful

like a day full of sunshine

but where a cloud was raining

in my ever so stupid head.

I was happy to have past her.

these are my roof top reflections of a nearly man.

my reality? a sandwich in plastic wrapping

and staring at my image in shop windows.

mirrors haunt me, they are everywhere.

I walk the west end for hours searching for that one line

but return home with only dirty finger nails from tube trains.

the flower seller cries for the flowers never sold.

rosebud and redundant thorn discarded to the gutter with fag ends

and a stud that dropped from a rude boys ear.

revolution stirs and I'm calling time on clit tipping and salad hating.

there are far more important things to worry about,

like the masturbation of the masses over orange looking plastic women.

a fuck and a fag?....it's been years.

drip, drip, drip, like a tap.

fit to burst.

coiled like a spring.

I can't tell the difference between sunrise or sunset anymore.

but I know I hate daytime tv for it's the graveyard of the damned.

look for a clue in my soiled metaphors.

love binds people who have no road to live on.

sex wets people with no one to love on.

we need a meeting place for the heartbroken where

first kisses are recalled and mourned like a death in the family.

I hung my dreams out with the washing.

supermarket flowers were never you.

I found traces of lipstick on a shirt collar.

a souvenir of a past utopia.

euphoria was replaced by apathy.

memories of the halcyon days that didn't really exist.

time has just made the memory prettier.

melancholia and desolation stretch like an endless desert.

but now I fear only the death of pages....my inability to write.

blank pages waiting to be filled but ultimately banished.

poems I haven't written become landfill

and eventually fucked by ants.

but then I see her.

she wore black.

a south bank lovely who carries flowers for future funerals.

mourn the loves that broke you.

get out before slap hits face.

fragile she is, like a butterfly in a tormenting wind.

divine angel you are my sweet shop.

the origins of ice cream.

the lollipop of my immorality.

she walks bare foot and fears not glass nor scars.

it is only life that cuts.

I will capture her bliss on a sepia photograph.

I live in the shadows, painting her in words.

filthy words enslave my dictionary.

everyone likes a beautiful woman.

but very few will ever love one.

trophies get neglected on dusty pedestals.



© T.A.Roberts 2012/2013

Sunday, 6 January 2013

The Un-kissed Hours


I read books for company.

I read books to fill me.

finishing a book is a like a funeral

or the aftermath of great sex.

the un-kissed hours.

a void of the unspoken.

bliss at half price

where desolation reigns

but

where words are found.

there is nothing more intimate

than silence.

are we flirting

or just talking ?

flirting will be the death of love.

but I am bereft.

a worn out cynic.

solitude is a soul breaker.

solitude is a man maker.

just like vulnerable buttons on a blouse.

we all come undone too easily.

bravado just covers the blushes of

a socially inept fool.

a recluse.

never expecting much

but hoping

all the same.

at times I mourn all these years

not having someone to love

and to love me back.

life seems unfair.

some of us are just born not to be desired

or noticed.

condemned to writing about it.

but I can unearth a muse.

I bet you can't.

I expect you just drown in smiles.

sip the melancholia.

it may become you.

during the

un-kissed hours.


© 2013 © T. A. Roberts