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she is my sister of the dark room,

the candy floss girl with toffee apple dreams

and an arse I would worship.

pierce me with a scream and I will write you a song with no verse.

it will be an urban bittersweet story with a twist of cunt envy.

coco chanel upon flesh so tortured.

the art house whore, that I am, can picture the tears falling

on a black and white face where the only words spoken are

oui oui oui.    

     
he the perfect failiure and dead flower blooming.

fucked a hundred girls but only made love to one.

broken soul trying to find his way home.

redundant romantic with unused one liners

common as muck and a London accent.

loved the love but hated the mess.

cut the grass but killed  the roses.

took a smile and made it a frown.

built a circus but sacked all the clowns.
     
cheap thrills and Dream Topping, the horror of

high street shopping.

hallucinations brought on by the pills

I had been dropping.

brown sauce on bacon, it

liberates one's senses.     
     
I saw another version of me in my local supermarket

oh and she was so beautiful.

she studied her shopping list and I studied the possibility of

mediocre me

with her.

no one owns me and I follow nothing

and that is why they make up stories about me.

look into my eyes and you know

I will fuck you.

but only because

I am

weak.   
     
let me write stories and poems about your

ankles

and how good they look in those shoes.

let me serenade you with my bravado and

cocktails of filth ridden words.

the contents of your handbag and glint in your eyes gives hope to

the lonely.

you are not fit for plastic table cafe and the secrets told by

coffee stains.

I know because you wear lady gloves and glide.
 
us tragic romantics are exactly that

tragic.

and we see everything but deal only

in crumbs.

lost souls with coffee stained teeth.

I am consumed by the dreams of a 16 year old but I am now

46.

all hope left on the train to cuntville.    
     
Boris Danski will rise again and walk by London Bridge.

close the curtains and block out the light for I need to withdraw.    
     
you made my typing finger bleed

and created a space in my head to accept beauty again.    
    
one of these days you will stick your arse in my face

and I will write 2000 words in tribute to it and they alone will only

create one stanza.    
     
I could have come to see you but maybe it was your

god who stopped me.

you liken me to the scent of a pretty flower picked from a

dirty swamp.

rough cut diamond and rose of the underclass.

splinters from dead trees..... but park benches offer me moments of

bliss and solitude.    
     
dirty rain on summer London streets.

it falls on me but I am beyond dirty.

tainted pavements always near violence and never close to love.

holding hands was my favorite game.     
     
I find dark eroticism in the ladder and hole in her stockings....

her on the tube train at 7.45am

it is morning but she has time to have been torn.

torn like all of us.

I am amazed by nothing much but can see the possibility

of a whole book

ultimately inspired by the damaged material

covering a female leg.     
     
Boris Danski 2010 ©   Written and Owned by © T A Roberts