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Friday, 16 September 2016

18


she is 18

so I am not allowed to look?

if I didn't look I wouldn't write

the female form is so much more to me than a sex object

sex and objection make for poor bed fellows

anal wankers judging  my morality

age restricting musing is for cunts

18

and she has bloomed like a flower

an impossible flower

art is her legs

art is her ass

art is her eyes

art is her chest

art ankles and art toes

18

and she is nobody's

she will break the boys

she will equal the men

she lies just over there where the grass stains her flesh

just over there

close enough to smell her sweet perfume

her promise

her potential

a life of surprises and heartbreak awaits those who touch her

just over there

a precious stone in a common park

a part time angel in a pretty dress

18

and I already love her

just a few lines in

my stains will never lift

she passed through my mind just

inside the sleep

the bit before dreams take over

and fuck you up

place food on her flesh and hope your heart can take it

look but don't touch

she is in the shop window of the impossible

and she is...

18

I only want her so I can muse her

sex for me was going down on her

on them

all of them

my climax never an issue

it was all about them

never about me

the taste of cunt

I am a passive man with an aggressive pen

a broken soul with only art to look at

glances thrown but not understood

18

and made by an artist

but penned by a lady junkie...

me

man can only find his truth when he finds the need not to spill

metaphorical orgasms come without the anticlimax

or the guilt

18

and I love her

but only for existing

in this dull world I so hate.



© Written by Tim Roberts September 2011 ©

Saturday, 23 January 2016

Flowers for Future Funerals


She wore black and she was beautiful – beautiful like a day full of sunshine but where a cloud was raining in my ever so fragile head.

I was happy to have passed her because my reality is a sandwich in plastic wrapping and staring in shop windows. Mirrors and reflections haunt me – they are everywhere.

I walk the West End for hours searching for my soul and that one line but I return home with only dirty finger nails from the tube train.

I pass the flower seller who cries for the flowers never sold.

Rosebud and redundant thorns discarded to the gutter with fag ends and the stud which dropped from the rude boys’ ear.

Revolution stirs and I'm calling time on clit tipping and salad hating.  There are more important things to worry about like a nation masturbating over orange looking women.

It’s been years since a fuck. Drip, drip, drip goes the tap – coiled like a spring and fit to burst.

I can’t tell the difference between sunrise and sunset any more.  But I do know that daytime TV is the graveyard of the damned.

I look for clues in soiled metaphors.

Love binds people with no road to live on. Sex wets people with no one to love on.

We need a meeting place for the lonely where the 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 an old shirt collar – a souvenir of utopia past. Euphoria replaced by apathy. 

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

But then I see her. 

She wore black.

A Southbank lovely who carries flowers for future funerals.  A fragile butterfly in a tormenting wind.

Mourn the loves which broke you. Get out before slap hits face.

Divine angel – you are my sweetshop, the origins of ice cream, the lollipop of my immorality.

I live in shadows painting her in words. I will capture her bliss on a sepia photograph.

Everyone likes a beautiful woman – very few will love one. Trophies become neglected on dusty pedestals.



TR 2016