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Thursday, 2 October 2014

Pictures


my mind is so close to insanity
but closer to utopia.
same thing when you think about it.

I ask difficult questions of skewed mirrors.
skewed mirrors which present images of me
that were never quite right.

always fragile. always close to shattering.

marks on my arms forever there.
pictures of you forever imprinted on my mind.

I'm in a poetic slump where words are stolen
and where shit smells of flowers.

glazed eyes reflect suburban sunsets.
beautiful stories yet to be told.

butterfly kisses and wet underwear confirmation.
playground bully who became a bedroom princess.

salvage what you can -sleep- then wake up and
try again.

we have little but we have us.
park benches made for lovers.

strive to be the worst
because there's soul in failure.

urinate in a font...god is a cunt.

shed tears for the hair you will never stroke.
see her neck and cry a bucket load.
she's a hidden gem alongside
the afflicted ordinary.

crunch on a tasteless salad because the
government told you to, and if your
shit comes out green then blame it on the boogie.

washing the dishes is a metaphor used by dissatisfied couples.
the English rose has been replaced by the she man.

I know the road to all that is wrong.

class war in the bedroom. It never phased me.
her knickers were up and down like the Dow Jones.

instability has been my economy.

melancholia cooked in the oven of solitude.

my mind is so close to insanity
but closer to utopia.
same thing when you think about it.

T A Roberts © 2010 




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