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