Spangles

I purchased a book in a shop for cunts and unemployed cats.

It was written by the biographer of cafe life

and the author of love letters for coffee drinkers.

I read it whilst sitting in a greasy spoon just off chapel street market.

burns on arms and good wine on lips.

the lady who served me brings comfort.

she has a London accent and lives for nicotine.

she is perfectly imperfect like the rest of us.

lust has long been replaced by the crumbs of an unloved biscuit.

melancholia has messed with her libido.

she spends most nights dry.

give me a word and I will write you a poem...

give me a stone and I will break you a window...

I saw the end of love in her eyes.

she is my mother and sister.

she is the ballerina of my soap opera.

I threw my cigarette into a bin that cared.

forbidden fruit is overrated and it gets messy.

I still seek reason in the gutters.

but

the first girl I kissed tasted of spangles...

and this is all I know.


© T.A.Roberts 2012