Suddenly, i'm aware I can look at you and write words of beauty about you.
Compare you to things that suddenly appears.
I guess, i'm saying-you're the music to my lyrics.

A quick melody written to music of a skilled symphony played by the best musicians.
Or maybe I just write you into a great musical.
I might even take on the title of conductor.

Just be prepare to have the best of love from one of the best writer of written love.

Coughing like a cold start
Wheezing like a bag
Spitting through the back door
Have another ***
Doing the dying thing

Filling up an ash-tray
Feeding a fat face
Drinking cans of lager
Getting in a state
Doing the dying thing

Reading ****** papers
**** and bingo cards
Have another lager
Another pound of lard
Doing the dying thing

Sitting watching game shows
Rattling paper bags
Looking bored and farting
How the sofa sags
Doing the dying thing

Working for a *******
For very little pay
Yes boss and no boss
For eight hours a day
Doing the dying thing

Safely empty headed
Dull of thought and eye
Ignorant and vacant
There are many ways to die
Doing the dying thing

                                       By Phil Roberts

Here, wilderness hangs around, just outside the door
indeed reaches in through the windows
and touches you deep, deeply touched
by the ancient pathways birds have flown
and the way of wild freedom in all hearts that ever beat
to the tunes of the Universe in her silent motherhood
the cradling of her children, all made from her dust
held close to her ******* who's milk all suckles
and lives a tamed wilderness who hangs around
doors and , just inside, outside, windows.

You've seen her a hundred times
With a hundred faces
But she's always the same
Always at the bar
She's there when you arrive
And she'll be there when you you leave
There beside the fullest ash-tray
Lighting another cigarette
With fluttery fidgety fingers

Her lipstick is far too red
And not quite straight
Too much make up to hide the lines
Which show all the more
As she cracks the mask to smile
Her hair is too yellow
And her eyes are long lost grey
The arc which her glass follows to her mouth
Is restless and constant

As the evening wears on
She will talk too loudly
She may even sing out of tune
She will laugh too shrilly
When nothing is funny
But sometimes
When it's late
She sheds silent messy tears
As she rocks on her bar stool
Because there's a reason
This woman at the bar
Has a story as real as any other
And it matters just as much

                                    By Phil Roberts

Dusty dreams clutter my mind
And my past litters the present,
Crippling the slender future.
I walk in the shadow of rumours
And uncomfortable truths
Follow me doggedly
But I refuse to lie
Or hide who or what I am.
I ask no forgiveness for how I've lived
Nor do I seek salvation
Because the truth is, you see
I've had a ball!
And if I'm ******
I'm ****** if I care

                                 By Phil Roberts