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Sunday, 12 November 2017

No Title


I smiled at her across the road from desolation

too young to love

too far away to write a poem

too pure to spill on

too distant to smell

I chew me up on a daily basis

my inner monologue torments

I read books to forget her

I bought records to forget her

I bought a scent to remember her

killing the unsaid

the filth beneath the tree

lost as lost said

I'm never quite noticed

brief encounters with the untouchable

I find my peace in films with subtitles

in writing for a muse

in coffee

in the streets of London

sad as sad said

I have danced with the damned and dreamt of nothing much

passing the cunts who stink of stunk

passing the bare footed violinist

she is beautiful and

she is lost in her music and I am lost in me

hearing her reignited a memory

like the sensation of touching new flesh

like leaving school

I idolized her for 3 minutes

writing words on my flesh in the hope they will seep in


T






Sunday, 13 August 2017

Poem


I only see through desolate windows

atrocity never far away

she was smoking but not looking

she was dripping but not wet

she was dreaming but not living

my role in life has been to torment myself with the not so erotic

she kills me back to life

she the hot day ice cream never achieved

I brought myself back from a suburban oblivion

on a bus with cunts

my pen stood still and my head was rotting

I play to the theatre of the unhealthy - caffeine my whore

I toyed with the idea of a coffee with you in Soho

like a poor cliche

we start our adult lives as wank junkies and end them that way

I only see across desolate streets

me...a mediocre artisan

my Ian Cutis dance moves moved nobody

clear the table for I need to burn insence to make myself appear interesting

culture theft is so fucking trite

during my days of death by melancholia I was half a catch

discussing burns on arms and medication intake

I waited so long in the doorway called life for you to arrive

my nuclear winter and Forever Autumn

my dreams haunted by those eyes and film posters

you slap me to a tickle

just

a stone's throw from utopia

I suffer dazzling lucidity

I almost found myself again

In a neon washed alleyway stinking of piss and regrets

she kills me back to life

but I only see through desolate windows

she was smoking but not looking

she was dripping but not wet

she was dreaming but not living


TR 2017