FINALLY! The new book is here, and it's honestly epic...
Check the link for more info. Write a FREE review, let me know, and I will personally thank you :-) ∆ https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07141ZNW6

This bed is like a coffin
With a burial each night.
I could tell you where
it all went wrong
But it wouldn't make it right.
I'm never worth
Remembering
You each showed me that.
With your pretentious self obsession
Words that always fell flat.
Each day is long and empty.
I cannot find my way,
So forgive me
Graciously
While I slowly fade away.

.
We might as well be
shearing sheep
instead of sweating over
things we want to change,
but want to keep


it's
in fukin sane and
that's like being
in fukin London.

the poet a
complicated halfwit
tails off into a distance
that was never there
and shares a memory,

Paul, an old friend was
diagnosed with something terminal
and his end was nigh,
he flew off to Spain
and said,
'if this is life
I'm not doing it again'
but
he died in
Bromley by Bow
I know
I was there.

We're all sleepers
frightened of bogeymen.

What is it that stops You
from smashing them windows?
is it the old biddy who watches
everything and will tell your
Ma it was you?
that she saw you?


You're either class acts or
brass tacks
it's in the way you take
the breakage
that defines you
and not
the last thing you see
before
the night closes in,

remember when you're
shearing sheep
you are just looking
at chaos in
the cosmos and there's
**** all you
can do about that.

String pickers,
violinists
Poets
Bad Boys
The lot of you
We fall in Love
with you
a thousand times a day
We listen to your songs
poems
Voices,
over and over
Common thread in crystals
cloud bursts of feeling
that you each sharpen
daily
You
Bad Boys Of Poetry
You
cut we
black butterflies
and
dark diamond
poetesses
daily,
hourly
We butterfly bats
dance,
sing
write!
Yet,
you
Bad Boys Of Poetry
Still
Lie, there in
to your ownselves,
and say
"No one loves me,
I'm alone
Forgotten"
Well,
No.
We each see
as we wish
Pluck your strings!
Sing your songs!
But know,
you're LOVED
A thousand times a day
By black butterflies
and dark diamonds

Poetesses
~only a poetess
A

These words don't belong to you
or me

They come from down deep
From the low guttural rumblings
Of our sleeping planet

They come on the wind
as it flies into your ears and eyes
forcing you to take that deep breath: inspire

They come, gently, from the trees
whispering the song of the season
as you stroll beneath their branches

They come from the heart
as it pumps blood through us tenuously, with a rhythmic beat

They come from the stardust
of a thousand dreamy worlds
drifting slowly through the universe
and out the tips of our pens

where the river runs
is a ghost
blue as the sky

i want the beauty
of my mind
to run through
my pen

i want the sky
to cast its shadows
of the shadowy clouds
to where
darkness flows
and the moon,
the arching moon,
grows cold,

love could not be
more beautiful
when i am,
flower of the wind
sea of dark sky
ghost of a river
that runs.

Pick me up easy
And put me down slow
You’re making me queasy
I thought you should know

It’s not all that clear dear
Don’t know where to turn
I’m running your gauntlet
In your fire I will burn

So…

Pick me up gently
Be tender and kind
Don’t try to pretend girl
You know that you’re mine

I’ll be yours forever
Or to the end of our time
For now and whenever
Let’s dance together

Today
everything
is standing
still
the sun
the sky
you on the other side
and I
still waiting
for you
still staying
for you
proving
you
don't have
to feel
the same.

Shiny bricks and skeins of yellow grass
Barely perceptible colours
Hung with liquid haze
Dog **** and thunder
Heavy close and thick
Miasma
Clings to sweat
Running with drizzle
Clings to damp
Drowning the pores of the skin
Making collars clinging sticky
Rubbing and abrasive

In view of the towering flats
The greyly awaiting wait
Standing at the bus stop
Speaking quiet weather talk
In the distantly English way
So safely meaningless
This polite evasion
Ignores their damp dilemma
Soon, as they sit inside the bus
These bodies shall steam
Like cattle in a byre

Kids hang around the shops
Emptying and kicking cans
The younger ones
Run and shout manically
Their elders spit
And swear casually
All hoods and shadows
Asking adults to buy them lager
Because they can't get served at the "offie"
Rain changes nothing here

A bedroom guitar plays
Weakly electric
And the Turneresque sky
Swallows the sound whole and flat
Sophisticated trash
Crying into a cloudy breast
Shaded darkly round
Full and swollen
Grey and sodden
The distant rumbling
Tumbling closer to home

                                    By Phil Roberts