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1d · 17
Cracked. (2.0)
The light has dispersed
And migrated
To another crack in the universe; somewhere
Shut off from those
Who are so acutely delirious, a place
Where you can mingle with a docile smile
And weary half-shut pupils.

Somewhere shrouded in half-cut peace
And dwindling creases in bone-white cheeks.

When the light
Has found this place
I shall roam the foreign streets, ducking
My way through the brick retreats
And sleeping bodies, squeezing
Through huddles of gristly hands
That sit upon embers and
Empty stomachs.

I shall
Ignore all this and rather
Look upon the sides of buildings
Where pictures can linger
Of children
Grasping red balloons
Or of husbands
Washing up famished teaspoons, my
Eyes are welcomed by these sights
For they are dull
But they are so very kind.

And, when I am asked
Why I stand here, waiting, on the curb
In my damaged demeanor
I shall say,

“I am crowned Lucifer, fallen
From the edge of envy, shut
Out from the clouded glory, and now
Tasked to seek a question, a
Time-weathered question”.
And the crowds
Will reply in their frayed utterings
And silver-laced mutterings,

“We do not know
The queries you seek, or
Why you stand
Upon the ledge of the street, alas
We do not know what it is
You seek at all”.

And so,
The brick and concrete
Will have to do, it is where
I have made my bed
And where I shall lay
With my wings clipped and
Smile cracked, but
I am not yet dead, only my
Hands which sit dipped
In the gutter, and I natter
And I mutter -

“Where does the Morningstar go
When the gates are sealed
And the couples have gone to bed
And all that can be heard,

‘Am I dead,
Am I not yet dead ?’ ”

These words that I muster
And create (these words
That I bleed and paint)
Take on the form
Of a twin-headed snake
And they let out a snigger
And a slither, intertwined
And brittle, my
Voice passes on
Thinner than before.
2d · 17
Cracked.
When the light has dispersed
And migrated
To another crack in existence; somewhere
Shut off from those
Who are so acutely delirious, a place
Where you can mingle with docile smiles
And weary half-shut pupils.

Somewhere shrouded in half-cut peace
And dwindling creases in bone-white cheeks.

When the light
Has found this place
I shall roam the foreign streets, ducking
My way through the brick retreats
And sleeping bodies, squeezing
Through huddles of gristly hands
That sit upon embers and
Empty stomachs.

I shall
Ignore all this and rather
Look upon the sides of buildings
Where pictures can linger
Of children grasping red balloons
Or of men washing up teaspoons, my
Eyes are welcomed by these sights
For they are dull
But so very kind.

And, when I am asked
Why I stand, waiting, on the curb
I shall say,

“I am Lucifer, fallen
From the edge of envy, shut
Out from the pearl clouds and
Tasked to seek a time weathered  
Question”.

I do not think
They shall believe me
When I try to tell them
And I do not think
They shall understand.

And so,
The brick and concrete
Will do, it is where
I have made my bed,
I shall lay
Wings clipped and
Smile cracked, hands dipped
In the gutter, and I natter
And I mutter -
These words that I muster
And create
Take the form
Of a twin-headed snake
And they snigger and
They slither, intertwined
And brittle
They pass on thinner
Than before.
5d · 30
Crow.
Today is a crow day, a day
Where I shall mimic
The winged coal, and pick
Deeper at the ground, do
They seek food ? Or is it
Purely to play their role ?

They do not nest
In burrows in the earth, nor
In homes made of dirt, but
They have found their place
In the somber alleys
Of some wrinkled face.

Today is a crow day, a day
To wear a beaked mask
Of prestige, to uphold
My place as a distant link
In the chain, a lonely son
Of shadows and liberty.

I have become fond
Of their mischief, the way
They coo on repeat
At passing dogs and other
Furry things, I think
They only wish to be seen.

Today is a crow day, a day
Where I shall yearn for the wind
And some sharp change
In the weather, I hope for clouds
To conceal my dull eyes
And my betrayed wings.

I have never seen them
Lose their obsidian gleam, are
They careful with their coats
Or is it luck ? Or perhaps
They are the directors
Of all things lost.

Today is a crow day, a day
To stare with guilt
And envy, a day to peck
At redundant trinkets
That lay abandoned
On half-built bridges.

Alas, I do not know much
About the crow, but I have
Noticed when they linger
And when they go, when
They tire and
When they cease.

Today is a crow day, a day
To be whisked into
All the chaos and glee
That persits
Through echoed existence
As this feathered fiend.
Tom Salter Oct 7
Lately i’ve been enjoying the eastside
Of the beach, to the left of the pier,
A mile or two down
Where the people are sparse and
The stones seem plentier, it’s
All so much prettier there.

Dotted about
The seagulls are at rest, cooped up
Into a nest of equilibrium
Between earth and sea, I
Have found myself mimicking
These coastal fiends, as I too perch
Onto the world and wait
But unlike these natives I do not
Know what I wait for.

The sound of authenticity
Hurries along the downtime,
Of late Lennon has found
Himself in my ear
But I do not think he knows
Why he arrived here, and
I do not think I have the
Means to tell him.

This place where I sit, this
Man-made beast wedged
Between two crowds
Of pebbles and weeds, this
Place is where i’ve found
Resonance with time
And all her happenings,
Where I go to watch the
World function as she should.

Middle aged men find
Themselves stripped down and
Engrossed in the cold waters, I
Am in awe of the freedom
They exhibit and
I wonder if they know
Their limits ? There
Is beauty in their playfulness,
For a brief moment
They revert to innocence,
I do not think they came
To impress me but alas
They make me laugh,
Something even the waves
Have failed in recently.

And in these waves,
Waves on the brink of winter
That foam the edges
Of my shoes and spit
Salt and purity at my face,
These waves carry
The sound of a girl
Who cried wolf, I fear
This is only my reflection,
Fragmented between
The ripples, alas
The sea does not stop
For me to ask questions.

Time dances along, maybe it
Is her I see in the ebb and flow
Of the emerging tide ? Or maybe
She lingers in the man
Who owns the red kayak, he’s
Only a few metres from where I sit
But his mind is far off, I wonder
Where he wishes he could be, I
Do not think it is France, for that
Place is much too far, and
I do not wish him to stay in his
Kayak for much longer, but
That does not seem to be
An option.

And the girl will cry wolf, perhaps
This fact of life is why
I find myself glued to
The beach on the eastside and
Not with the free minds
To the right of the pier, perhaps
This is why I grow older
With each visit and why
The middle aged men
Have found their
Youth again.
Oct 5 · 49
The Change She Sings.
Tom Salter Oct 5
Summer spent her last breath today,
A breath that still lingers on across the hills,
Filling spaces in between the bushes
That run parallel to the rambler’s routes,
She paints a shallow layer of verdant, kissing
Her mark upon the cheeks of the land,
An annual goodbye before she disembarks.

Autumn speaks, his spit fires off and pushes out
The thin remnants of Summer’s song, the colour
Turns flat, greens become murky, and
The shimmering glare that filtered the leaves
Now turns dull, paving the way
For yellow and rust, and joyless lungs.

Winter drowns all in glitter and white flame,
Burning the remnants of Autumn’s change,
She brings comforting dreams
To the sleeping fauna and staples
The grey flora into the tundra-like soil,
She shrinks the trees, the hills
And the grass
But alas she never lasts.

Spring comes quietly, a drastic change
But she is never boastful of the life
She brings, the blessed births
And the reformed prisoners, she
Breaks the chains of Winter, defrosting
The world and allowing colour
To return; the world is now emerald
And shall remain this way
For ninety days or so.
Oct 5 · 34
Hell is my Domain.
Tom Salter Oct 5
How do I play with this
Devil-dealt hand. When
Each card ignites at the touch,
Now my hands have become callous
And rough
But still they are clean, indeed
They are clean. I
Do not care to mend them
But I admit
I worry who shall
Comfort them, if they shall
Receive comfort at all.

How then, do I proceed
Through hell, through
This brittle landscape
Forged from badluck
And prescribed
Mistakes.

Perhaps, I shall laugh
As Dante does and
Perhaps, I shall dance
As time has done.
Oct 4 · 24
Hell is my Domain.
Tom Salter Oct 4
How do I play with this
Devil-dealt hand. When
Each card ignites at the touch,
My hands have become callous
And rough
But still they are clean, indeed
They are clean. I do not care
To mend them but I admit
I worry who shall
Comfort them, if they shall
Receive comfort at all.

How then, do I proceed
Through hell, through
This brittle landscape
Forged from badluck
And prescribed
Mistakes.

Perhaps, I shall
Laugh as Dante did
When he painted
That world.
Tom Salter Oct 4
When did the music
Become so bleak and dreary,
I do not recall letting chaos
Play the night’s chords,
And I do not think
My ears have grown weary, so
Why then
Has the music taken
The form of tired melody, why
Then has it terraformed
Into a tilted maze
Where notes carry
Shame
And it all beckons the
Same, can it no longer
Cure me ? Can
It no longer translate
My murky puddle of
Thoughts ? Oh, whatever
Happened to the music
That Dante sought, did
It forget what
Brought joy
And what bred love ? I
Now only hear struggle
In the siren’s voice, did
It lose sight of the coast -
Is it left, now, with
Nowhere pleasant to go ? Or
Perhaps it is me
That struggles to see
The genius. Alas, I
Do not hear the Sun in
This song of yours,
And I confess I am
Afraid of the sound
That shares my bed,
I do not think I shall
Sleep tonight, I do
Not think I shall
Sleep at all.
Oct 1 · 41
What Grandad Said.
Tom Salter Oct 1
Tomorrow I shall go to the beach
And begin to throw each stone,
Pebble and rock back
Into the sea,

But I shall deprive the lonely conch
And the bundles of seaweed,
They shall stay on this
Stoneless coast,

And I shall sweep the snow
Back into the clouds and
Cut the mountains
Down into the ground,

I shall unsow the forests and
Consume the leftover seeds
And perhaps if you let me, I
Will persuade the bees
To disperse,

I shall do all this,
All this ******, out
Of fear
Of the universe.

Am I heard ?
Am I heard ?
Tom Salter Oct 1
The end of the street seemed so far away,
Perhaps it was the faulty light, flickering
And highlighting the absence of tourists,
No one walked this way, not since the baker
Moved two streets over, but the smell-
The smell of bagels drowning in honey,
The smell of butter
Cuddling up to warm bread,
These smells had not yet
Escaped the concrete slabs
And brick walls,
And maybe that was enough
To still linger,
A faint whiff of pleasantry
To persuade the day to go on
Ever quicker.
Tom Salter Oct 1
On Cabbage Mound the birds tweet gold,
So says the porridge eating man,
The spontaneous trek up that grassy reserve
(To see the flocks and frolics of finches conversing)
It’s a matter of season he said,
In joyous spring they produce song of glitter, but
Catch them under the wave of a solemn winter
And you shall only hear a dull twitter.

Often he leaves bowls of porridge upon that place,
Abandoned to absorb the view,
Wilting amoungst the bush and flora,
Like a planted trap for the lurking fauna,
Their ceramic bodies sit unnoticed and unaware,
Soaking in the sunrises and
Mourning the day’s ending
When the sun crawls under the horizon.

Early dawn conversations leak
From the finches’ rookeries,
Where they dwell cooped up
Amoungst feather and trinket,
Their endless nattering awakens the sun,
Coercing it to rise, and
Bleaching the ground in tints of orange.

A breakfast awaits them
Outside their homes
Of woven branches and loose fur;
Berries and scattered delicacies
(From the Sunday morning ramblers),
And perhaps a touch of porridge too.
They bury their beaks into the thick pools
Of weathered oatmeal,
And perpetually pick at plastic wrappings
Until their brandished beaks begin to go blunt and sore,
A monotonous task even for an eager flock,
But they never end their labour without reward.

After breakfast,
The porridge eating man
(With porridge in hand) arrives,
He approaches with a staggered limp,
Perhaps a scar from some late night disagreement,
He approaches holding his lower left limb,
The finches have come to learn his routine.

First he stops (whether to take in the view
Or to rest from the trudge up Cabbage Mound,
The birds have not yet asked),
Second he takes out a package
From his right pocket,
He undresses the wrapping
And produces a small pad of paper,
A pen follows, signifying
The start of settled concentration:
Strings of ink,
Intertwining lines and shapes,
Letters touching letters,
Forming meaning and breeding words,
A sharp coo startles the man,
Breaking his focus, and anchoring
Him back to sobriety,
Finally he disembarks from Cabbage Mound,
Turning his back to feathered insight
And slowly sinking behind the hill,
A bowl of porridge takes his place,
And so, it shall stay
Until the finches start to natter
And their hunger begins to ache.
Tom Salter Sep 28
I have chosen where I shall lay,
By the edge of the stage
Just before the actors and
The ropes that draw the curtains,
I shall sit here
Watching audiences
And making tallies
At the pass of each scene
And at the moments
Where I see
Through the performance
But I shall not applaud
And I do not hope to be seen,

On occasion I may smirk
Or cringe
At the nanny and the kids
Who line the front row, like
A single hair upon a chin
But nonetheless they sit
Strapped in
Eager to watch, but  
I fear they focus on the rot
That lays hunched
And gaunt, like a plague,
Oh, whatever happened
To the man
At the edge of the stage ?
Sep 26 · 63
Without Mary.
Tom Salter Sep 26
(And they will say,
You are a stalk without a flower)

A Spring without Easter,
Where eggs are never cracked
And the rabbits stay buried
In overgrown mounds, perhaps
The green grass forgot to wake up?

(And they will say,
You are a candle without a wick)

A crowded room unlit,
Where mirth is spread
But smiles can’t be seen,
Where joy is masked
And yet, is it not bliss?

(And they will say,
You are a river without a mouth)

Dry words converge only in lies,
Stories are poured
And ears **** in the vapour
That fills the damp world,
But do I not see tears?
Sep 26 · 33
Old Steine, no.25.
Tom Salter Sep 26
Even the pigeons can see the puddles
But i’m not sure they can see the rain
And I do not think they will look at me,

They hop across the swamp-filled curbs,
Dipping talons, and scraping wings as they go
And maybe they will dare to disturb
The still liquid reflections,

But I do not think they will look at me,
Not in the mirrors on the street floors
And not during the purgatory
Of waiting out the bus stop storms,

And the magpies come in twos,
(Nana told me
What that meant once)
But now I forget, and now I refuse
To believe that there is any meaning
In two magpies singing, alas
I do not think they will sing for me.
Sep 12 · 69
Unkept.
Tom Salter Sep 12
Wait for me there,
By the crescent tree
Oh, nature’s stair, built
From bark and root,
Grown from fallen fruit.

Wait for me there,
Where the ivy clothes
Swirl into white skin
And where the fawns
Go to moot and sing.

Wait for me there,
By the shallow pond,
Lie down at the bank,
Tangle in the lilies, and
Wait for the thirsty fillies.

Wait for me there,
Down by the thin ridge,
Where rabbits sit
And chew the earth,
Bit by bit.

Wait for me there,
Between the rock
And chiseled stump
Where moss never grows,
And dirt begins to lump.  

Wait for me there,
Where the promise is kept
And my time is unspent,
Wait for me there, darling
Show me how you care.
Sep 11 · 75
An Evening Shared.
Tom Salter Sep 11
Spaces form between foreign fingers,
Resting hands go stale on oak tables
Where infatuation peeks and lingers.

Cups and candles placed like pawns
Waiting for battle, cups and candles
Lay between love and smiles.

Plates take their seats, carrying
Conversations and dripping mistakes
From one mouth to another.

Glasses touching and kissing,
Stirring desire into love, and
Teaching courage how to dance.

Knives and forks lay dormant,
Imprisoned to the landscape
By moving lips and perpetual talks.

Chatter comes floating, bound
To the bubbles and the foaming,
And ending at ears steaming.

Spilt love soaks the evening,
Washed out by late night dreaming,
Disguised as buoyant thinking.
Aug 22 · 33
The Mermaids' Song.
Tom Salter Aug 22
Moonlight covers the pebbles gathered,
Soaking the shore in shade and fog, walk along
This beachfront, in sandals and white socks.
Take your toes and your feet, and embark
In the shallows of the sea, splash
And splash at the sand’s edge, until ***** and fish
Swim towards your disturbing intent,
Forgo their cares, send fish and crab skipping,
And splish and splish at the water’s end.

The mermaids are in wake, grieving their friends,
And pouring tears into the waves, they cry in song
Wallowing out loud the ocean’s fables, and
Stirring the great waters with their lurking tails,
Bubbles form where their tears have dwelled,
Carrying their grief to the surface, and popping
Once they touch where night is held, releasing
The weight from their sullen faces, and
Now the mermaids may smile again,
Their songs shift from misery to mirth, and
The moon smiles back, kissing new light
Upon the cheeks of the emerald earth.

The chain is brought back to you,
You distrbued the *****, and you disturbed
The fish, you distubured the waters.
The mermaids, they never bothered
To gaze upon your crimes, they never even
Bothered to give you their time, they sang
Not to you, but they sang for your sins, healing
What you could not, and sending
Your demons back, back to the rot and rock.

Resume your normal day, walk your dog
Along the paved waterway, and sing
Your songs of joy and hope, and hope
To settle near pebble and boat. Most things
Now make you smile, crack a smirk
To the ramblers on their Sunday travels,
Teach the postman and teach the milkman
What the mermaids have taught, show
Them the meaning of the mermaids’ song.
Aug 17 · 97
Tighten the Cord.
Tom Salter Aug 17
Join your limbs, curl your toes,
Muffle the children, and knead the dough.
Pour the milk, and drink it straight
Scold  the postman  for being late.

Greet your lover and whisk the butter,
Gently frown, and skip away in laughter.
Speak in tongues, and kiss the door
Raise a glass and tighten the cord.

Stack the books and climb on top,
Stumble a little before jumping off.
Hang like the cherries upon the cherry tree,
Blossoms now falling, you are now free.
Aug 15 · 84
When Dead Men Speak.
Tom Salter Aug 15
The pavements creek down London Road,
Slabs of stone lay uneven, waiting
For a misstep or perhaps a purposeful tumble
So that the day may begin.
A young lad, no older than twenty,
Takes the day’s virginity, and yet
He gains nothing from the exchange,
Left to curl into the floor, strapped
To an overturned slab.

And on this fragile surface, this new
Home of his, he separates the loose
Fragments of pavement into shapes
And size, hoping he might find
Some pattern and rhyme.

But the floor is unforgiving
And misleading, offering
No rhythm and no reason.

All this perpetual solidarity, all
This miserable conformity and lack
Of understanding takes a toll
On his youthful hands as the shards
Pierce his skin and convince blood
To pour out onto the streets.

He is tough but his skin has retired,
His exterior is withered and begins
To smell of a gloomy musk, and yet
His skeleton still dances eagerly on
Behind all the frowning rot.

Passerbys readily move on, dodging
His numb and hopeful soul
As they know it will soon become
A sunken and nameless corpse.
But, until then,
Our street bound friend
Seeks desire and fortune, but luck
Seeks privilege and passion, leaving
Only the welcoming dusk
To bring kindness to the streets.

He is not the only one, the sun rise
Washes dead men ashore, dry
And unloved bodies find themselves
Motionless and dull, glued intimately
To the jagged street floor.

But these bodies once lived!
Their fingers thrived on tobacco dust
And half burnt poorly rolled papers.

Their mouths fed on second hand
Crumbs, leaving a foul aftertaste
Perhaps guilt or malicious tongues.  

Their voices garnered an audience,
Proving uneducated souls could please
Others through word and love.  

Their eyes witnessed
The intricacies of the changing seasons,
They saw autumn wilt and winter born.

Their hearts pumped pure, drugs
And blood rushed through streams
In their arms and powered
Their merry croaking lungs.

And they were once loved.
Indeed, they were loved.

Perhaps not by their mums, or
Unborn sons but by existence.
Life’s brilliance dwells
In the dead men on our streets,
A reminder that merely existing
Is a burden, but also
The greatest responsibility.
Aug 9 · 44
GATED BY DESIRE.
Tom Salter Aug 9
Out there hides mischief made,
Adorned in the smiles of tariffs
And trades
But in here, in these construed
And garnered walls
Slumbers the chief of miss timing
And improper confiding.
Untalented men take fruitless lies and
Place them brick by brick, until they
Stick, stick,
Stick. A miss timing at this point
Will mark the novice liars, and
Blemish their masked desires. Perhaps,
It’s best to leave this hapless labour
To the more well-tempered neighbour
So that they (like us) can weave
In the lies and lust
Of saying ‘I love you’ rather
Than naught. Perhaps,
This is the better choice, to lock
The voices inside, and silence
Those ever so distraught by our
Unconditional decisions and thoughts.
It is unanimous then, the neighbour
Shall take the job and you
(the inexperienced boy)
Shall vacate your dreams, and bow
Down to the universe like a
Daft begging dog. Perhaps,
Then (and only then) we ought to throw
The inexperienced boys asunder
So that they may learn
How to dance with the thunder.
Aug 7 · 42
To Be Loved.
Tom Salter Aug 7
It’s bin day tomorrow,
And the Sunday weather is meant to arrive.

                   Perhaps we can skip  
                          the morning complications and    

Lay intertwined.
So apropos, that would be just fine.
Tom Salter Aug 5
The bounders are saying that noon is coming early today,
And that we should retire before the sun is at her highest.
They tell us to lock our doors tight, and to throw away
Any desire to open them again, at least until
The bounders’ wives come knocking early the next day.
Strangely, they warn against closing our windows
Instead they state that they ought to be kept feebly ajar.

But I can’t sleep with an open window anymore.
The village doctor, who dresses in suit and tie
But likes to lie and speak rather astue, says it’s due
To some scar I acquired fighting the morally confused.

Every Wednesday, when I go to meet the ‘doc’, he
Assures me that he has some kind of qualification and
Always says not to worry about the specifics (or
His motives) as they would probably go over my head.
He starts our hour asking about the terror in the air
And the echoes of shriek-filled nights, and whether
They still remind me of that summer on the front line,
Without fail, and without remorse I always reply;

“Lovers sleep because we (the
Buoyant folk) gave our souls,
Our limbs and our speech, and
Now we live with these deep
Aches and fake laughs. These
Are what we gladly deserve”.

The words leave my mouth at a crawl, and
Take a miserable five minutes to complete.
The rest of my time at the quackery (this is what
The wife use to call it) is spent ironing
Over my other, less obvious, flaws. The doc
Says they are from much more recent wars,
And that I ought to use his miracle stock
To see if that succeeds in finding the cure.

The wife use to chuckle when I told her of my time
With the quacking man;

“More like barking mad!” she would exclaim,
Always through a snide but warm grin.

Those words always come quickly to mind
When I visit the doc, I shan’t tell him or he’d
Probably prescribe some strange empty remedy.
You see, the wife died a few years ago, not long
After my hate for open windows began. The doc
Thinks i’m over my wife’s permanent leave and
He even believes that i’ve started courting again.
I even told him once of a woman named ‘Claire’
Who would regularly visit my home to cut my hair,
And that on such an occasion we had started an affair.
The doc readily consumed this lie (reminding me
Of why the wife called him a fraud), and I sniggered
Into my elbow crease so he wouldn’t catch on.

The wife sits on the mantelpiece now, watching
Me from above the evening embers that light up
The eerie and solemn nights. I often converse
With myself, pretending the wife still listens but
I know her role was revoked from the world.
Alas, I am forced to play her part but I am afraid
There are few words left now, only mocking
Phrases for the quacking man and the barking mad.
Aug 3 · 100
After March.
Tom Salter Aug 3
Perhaps one day we can settle down, not today  
(and not the next)
And maybe not even a year from now but I hope
One day that   that ‘patch of trimmed grass’
                                                       (by the towering Oak tree.)
      Will be ours.
Aug 3 · 35
The Sunken Side.
Tom Salter Aug 3
Heather mounts the whispering hillsides where, since
Time’s genesis, hopeful men have retired and gone to die
And where their murmurs now permanently reside.
Where there is a home for the settling magpies, between
The bushes of bleached purples and murky greys. This place,
This stretched out place, sits under the teary drowned out sky,
And beyond the sight of the youthful starry eyes -
This place, this dreary place is coined the Sunken Side.

Gormless men limp out onto those hills, parading
Their depleting health and bragging to the clouds
Of their dampened wealth; all without the grandeur
Of uniformed marching limbs. Rather, they are more akin
To a slow drunken tide coming in at day’s end. Alas, this
Is how the Sunken Side has been penned, a place for buried men
And sullen men to withhold remorse, and play dead.  

Strangers strapped to strangers, glued to one another’s side,
Like mere passerbys queued in crowds of outsiders and snides .
This is no Holy place, and neither is it a Royal place;
Kingly deemed men are not catered here, rather only
A peasantry mess is ever vindicated, and spaces are reserved
For those sulking on islands, or those looking for new faces.

These same men bathe in buttercup fields, and seemingly
Fall in love with the briskly buttered on luck. But,

Do they dare take the Sunken test? Go out onto the Sunken Side,
Take in the hollow sinking breath and abide
Now only to the heather hills and the stranger men whose eyes
Are sewed to stars where each pupil latches
On to a flicker in the heavens, and men turn bizarre. Sparking
An obsession, and initiating constant digression with their
Sunken life. No, they rather regress to soaking in time.

Their need for kingdom
And want for graded inclusion outlives their mortality
And perpetuates their morality. Kingdoms always die.  
But the thirst for kingdom will never dry.
Alas! on this Sunken Side, amoungst the heather and
Whispering hills, men surrender their wills
And gladly give their final farewells.
Jul 31 · 75
Clock Hands.
Tom Salter Jul 31
Round and round the four walls,
A clock hand
Comes to a slow crawl,
Eager for time to stop.

(tick tock.)

Winding back and forth, tossing
Lemons and limes over the floor,
Across mother’s caring look
And through the double doors,
Landing at the base of the cat’s paws.

Rewind and wind back the clock,
Pick up a rock
From the naked garden patio
And lock the backdoor, where
You wait for 2 O'Clock.

(tick tock.)

Back inside, go and find
Those lemons and limes,
Stop with the tossing and
Anger, focus now on juggling
Limes and lemons and
Try to answer
Mother’s questions.
Tom Salter Jul 30
Marble, sweat and rivers jolting away
This is the veil in which we play.
A city distracted from other’s gaze and
Far astray from the turtles’ graze. Torchlight
And illuminating words, spark a phantom turn
Ditching the foreign birds and when justice
Is spoken, it is unheard. Unearth
And unearth the doubting worm, feed it
The thieves of the land, allow
Them to punish the thieving man. Speak
Bitter and more wittier than most, tell the
Impotent and spectral ghosts that they, like us,
And like today are not entitled
To a rise in pay. Like the potato men
Who would weigh and weigh
And wade and wade for as
Little pay as
Fourty pence and a kind
Delay on their crippling rent.

Over and over the marble hedge, and
Across the pools of delirious sweat sleeps
Bountifuls of brush and deer, soaking up
The tears of lesser fellas, queer men
Back from deserts,
Tightening their belts and
Clasping at their mother’s gifted quilts.
Cactus sounds follow them home, prickly
Towns await in their ready made tombs, and dirt
Dirt, dirt filled cracks block comfort
And solace in their tracks.

Remembering when thunder struck, and how
‘Tough love falling out of love’ is a thought
Keeping the boys away from graves. Keeping
The boys safe and tucked behind
The garden maze, the green paths and walls
Of Europe's lavish sites keep the boys
Safe and tucked,
And in and out of love like a parrot
Stuck barking the same
Unpleasant rhymes.

Kingdom come, come marching towards
The heavy crimson sun and speak
Easy towards fun and fun. Men have not
Seen fun for some time, it was barred
From the camps on the riverside.
“Pick up a gun and have some fun” the corporal said,
“Pick up a gun and have some fun” the witness said,
And “Pick up a gun and have some fun” the grieving
Brother and
Tired mother cried.  

Fun has thieved the land, taking
Man and man away from the rivers and the lakes. Sinking
Man into water, and engulfing water in man.
Fun has taken life after life and
Watered down the meaning of strife, men
No longer tighten their belts
Or grieve on their mother’s quilts
But rather sip at straws and pause
The heroes on the screens, wishing and hoping
For more meaningful means, perhaps
As numbing and forthcoming
As their midday dreams.
Tom Salter Jul 29
Beyond the violet and violence, through the hole in the heap
Dwells men of fierce histories and stone conditionings, there
They sit in circle and misery, holding guilt close
To their ears and parting with their own ditch-dipped words.
Collections of tragedies and schools of morose mentalities
Dance in the middle of the room, speaking down on eachother;
Most likely an attempt to impress Mother and to scold Father.
They don’t get very far, these talks, rather
They end further down the ladder than when they commenced -
Two rungs down and the heavy tattooed butcher man
Sinks two quarter-full whiskies to help him find his bed.
Five rungs down and the spanner wielding skinny man
Calls up a number to haunt unpaid listeners with what he said.
Nine rungs down and the privileged uni boy
Smokes batons of magic leaf until his eyes are painted red.
This is where the stories end,
Those Who fell past rung nine
Are no longer falling and alive.
One rung up and the naive boat keeping man
Tells his wife he’s feeling better but out of luck.
One rung down and the naive boat keeping man
Tells his wife he’s feeling worse but rather proud.
The ladder stands tall and overarching
At the ‘dried out men’ meetings,
It’s the only one that keeps its posture
And never falls under -  
Perhaps one day it will falter
And the men will see
That they are more than just
A rusting rung on a ladder.
Jul 27 · 57
Family’s Faint Mark.
Tom Salter Jul 27
Mother sits downstairs, ear glued to the phone
Chatting eccentrically to faces and voices unknown.
Father stares at a screen filled with numbers and
Names of people and places causing his frustrations.
Sister dwells a few towns over, and brother reeps
In his rewards, often found in splendour
At some foreign resort.
These siblings share many things, fruits and offerings
From fleeting days past, occupied by long nights grafting
At the pen, paper and graphs.
Also a brother, who is younger and half the laugh. He perches in his room,
Strapped to his chair and like his father, stares at screens
Where beaming colours, instead of boring numbers, cause
His frustrations and late slumbers.
Perhaps this is why he has such strange dreams?
Jul 25 · 31
The Lucky One.
Tom Salter Jul 25
The rain stopped at the window, staining the glass
With a pattern of chaos and dance.
Time decides to pass,
And my eyes decide to mask
My tried and tired mind.
This room that we occupy, the first room on the left
As we come rushing through the street entrance, this room
Holds a preliminary summer haze
Where each day starts hot and heavy but ends
In summer’s hug, a warm comfort of clasping and love.
I was the lucky one.
The one to strum life’s great strings,
I will master this instrument, the moments it brings
And the joy it sings.
Yes, perhaps tomorrow.

Mornings offer distraction
Where i’d often witness perfection,
Laying there unannounced and present
Like the moon painted in the river’s reflection.
I still can’t believe I was ever allowed to hold it -  
The birds, they already knew this
As they would often sing, reminding me
I was the lucky one.
I was the loved one.

The window was left ajar and the rain slipped in
Like a snake slithering or a coin finding
Its way into an impossible space.
This rain ends the summery haze
And brings nothing but wintery days.
Water builds up in this room, drenching the comfort
And drowning out the bird’s song,
A faint sound bubbles in the drowned room;
“You! Bed thief, smile maker
And tea taker! Why do you laugh
At luck? Why do you laugh at all?
You were the lucky one, and now
You are all but undone.”

Grief and gloom have filled my lungs,
Leaving me few words to answer
The birds’ water-logged song;
“All hail existence,
Uncover your ears and listen!
Come and learn to be resistant
To life’s twisting condition,
Sign a petition! Or take down
The ruling system! Its all
A part of existing, this vicious
Persistent brilliance so say yes
To existing! All hail existence.”
Jul 23 · 112
Human Tales & Pigtails.
Tom Salter Jul 23
Through the drawn kitchen blind lurks a hand
Resting upon the island mantelpiece
Where a deserted ham resides.
The hand extends from the crippled man’s gaze
And he simply seizes the ham, traversing the kitchen maze.
He takes the ham to the second stair.
Here is where he retires - the second stair
Is where the deserted ham and crippled man shall expire.
Where man becomes ham but retains his crippling attire, and
Ham becomes man staying lost and yet still desired.

Heaven would be naive to willingly believe that this,
This strange analogy, is indeed about a ham and a mere man.
Rather, a man is nothing but a mere ham.
His life begins as someone else, perhaps a pink perfumed piglet.
Born into mud and stuffed to the brim with dirt laced love.
A ham, like man, comes from a humble and simple dawn but is
Swiftly thrown into a larger lie or a shortcrust pie.
A lie of paradise and quiet, a pie of mustard and thyme.
We, like the ham, are ripped from our genesis
And forced to be something sublime.
Something needed,
And something that never gets the time to bleed.

Man is to be consumed just like the solemn ham.
We are sold as ideas and ideals. And never separated
From those very same stale ideals and ideas.
We are what we conceive and we conceive what others
Wish us to be; never do we truly conceive our own reality.
And often we will wait aimlessly, not at the kitchen side,
But by the side of our lovers and others.
The resting ham sits in its juices, taking in the rosemary
And amber, sticky honey.
Man also sits in an array of flavour; tastes of dark thoughts,
Fleeting romance and persistent boredom.
We soak up our own shortcomings and we leak out all and any
Chances to not be eaten.

Man is devoured not by others but by reason.
The very tool we use to debate, learn and
Understand the ever changing seasons.
But what of the ham? The deserted tasty ham.
Well, it like man, is either shovelled into a waiting gut or
Left out to rot, and befriend dust.
Never to decide when they cease, but both
Are destined for the grave nonetheless.
What has left the man crippled and the ham deserted?
The realisation that man and ham are the same.
Man leaves the ham to rot
On the kitchen counter top, sending it to be removed
From the world. Never to be consumed. Never to be consumed.
Man’s neglect of the ham is a neglect of connection,
Man has crippled himself in hopes to remove association.

And so, the crippled man
Extends his hand in hopes
To regain the deserted ham.
Jul 20 · 31
My Dearest Listener.
Tom Salter Jul 20
Will you sit with me in March?
And wait for the haze to pass.
Let us sit
By
The abandoned bandstand and upon the
Trimmed patch of grass
Where you once bravely
Asked,

‘Where ought we stare when the postman
Stands by the door and
Lingers there
For far too long?’

I digress.
And I digress.
Conversations are empty lately, they
Have taken the form of the streets;
Bare but filled with crass souls, wandering
For a place to buy pistachio shells. And
To snigger
At the dancing girls
After a slurred
Sinister joke.

I hope.
And I hope
That these men, these hollow-skulled men, find
Delight in the barren streets,
Like a treat
After a numb month’s labour.
Do we reject their
Raunchy behaviour
On account that they
Saved our saviour?
I speak.
And I speak,

‘Hold me to these streets, where men once worked
By the arching lamp post and the
Abandoned home
Of the Holy ghost.’

Will you come and walk in May?
When the birds
Scramble on the park floor
As if to bluntly say
We are rather dull and
Dire in the way
We walk and
We play.

I am aching and I am grey.
And
I am aching and
I am grey.
Do a man a favour, and do
Refrain - please
Do not stay.
Let my hair turn dry and grey, and
Let my
Age fade away. Please
Do not stay.
I have talked with the doctor, and they
Often say
That I will be
Okay for today and perhaps
Tomorrow I will not. Alas!
All people will
Rot. And
Minds never stay
The same type of sane.
Hearts
Will often sway and sway, until
They graciously decay.
And death yields no delay, it comes
When it ends, and starts
When it comes. Whether
Young or almost done.
The fun will cease, often
On that empty street
Where crass men wander, or
By the postman who
Endlessly lingers.

Will you embrace me in November?
Where my limbs are weak, and limber.
Where the bandstand singer
Has moved on
To some place bigger.
Will you let me go in December?
Say yes, and please
Remember, that we both
Surrendered.
Let us spend this time
In slumber, so we can find some kind
Of splendour
Once the streets
Begin
To busy again.
Jul 19 · 134
My Dearest Listener.
Tom Salter Jul 19
Will you sit with me in March?
And wait for the haze to pass. Let us sit
By
The abandoned bandstand and upon the
Trimmed patch of grass
Where you once bravely
Asked,

‘Where ought we stare when the postman
Stands by the door and
Lingers there for far too long?’

I digress.
And I digress.
Conversations are empty lately, they
Have taken the form of the streets;
Empty but filled with crass souls, wandering
For a place to buy sea shells.
Seemingly an innocent task and yet so pointless
To ordinary folk.
I hope.
And I hope
That these men, these hollow skulled men, find
Delight in the barren streets,
Like a treat
After a numb month’s labour.
I speak.
And I speak.
‘Hold me to these streets, where men once worked
By the arching lamp post and the
Abandoned home of the
Holy ghost.’

Will you come and walk in May?
When the birds
Scramble on the park floor
As if to bluntly say
We are rather dull and
Dire in the way
We walk and
Play.

I am aching and grey.
And I am aching and grey.
Do a man a favour, and
Refrain - please
Do not stay.

Let my hair turn dry and grey, and
Let my
Age fade away. Please
Do not stay.
I have talked with the doctor, and they
Often say
That I will be
Okay for today and perhaps
Tomorrow I will not. Alas!
All people will
Decay. And
Minds never stay
The same type of sane.
Hearts
Will often sway and sway.
And death yields no delay, it comes
When it ends, and starts
When it comes. Whether
Young or almost done.
The fun will cease, often
On that empty street
Where crass men wander, or
By the postman who
Happily lingers.

Will you embrace me in November?
Where my limbs are weak, and limber.
Where the bandstand singer has
Moved on to some place bigger.
Will you let me go in December?
Say yes, and please
Remember, that we both surrendered.
Let us spend this time
In slumber, so we can find some kind
Of splendour once the streets
Begin to busy again.
Tom Salter Jul 18
Down on the sun-bleached ground, treads a white wolf. Prowling
At the river bank, and seizing the land in which
He has left a deep dent. There is nothing left
In the streams, for they are no longer flowing
Like before. Destined by the bark and branch blockade
Perched at the river’s start. The water has fled, taking
The greenery and mirth away, bleeding out in dread.
The white wolf stares longingly now, hoping
Life forgives his abhorrent and
Disgraced growls.
But he forgets in this moment, that
His great biting jaw is to blame for the depressed landscape
Torn at the base of his grand griping paws.
His scent lurks in the hollow openings of trees, and loose fur
Lingers atop of sullen bushes like a covering
Of thin March snow. He has no say in what should be done now.
And like his distressed whimpering howl, he
Is thrown into the endless nights
Of this soon dying world.
Alas!
When white wolves walk, the skies
Sell their freedom.
When white wolves walk, trees sink
Into their soiled beds.
When white wolves walk, rivers
Stitch their mouths shut.
When the white wolf runs, the world
Is blinked into chaos.
And we
Must answer.
And we must answer.
They have left the earth asunder.
And we -
We must be better.
Jul 15 · 21
Duty.
Tom Salter Jul 15
Duty is a dynamic affair.
Often it is a hurricane, storming in unannounced
And breaking
Your habitual customs. Causing terror to your previously calm
Demeanor. Flying in abandoned tasks
Longing for completion, and
Trivial ordeals
Nagging for deletion.
It reminds you in its booming tone
What should have already been done, long ago.
It’s breeze carries guilt and distress, forcing
A haze of sickness upon your chest.

Duty is a dynamic affair.
Showing itself, on the occasion, through
A mere stomach ache.
A constant weight on your body, a perpetual reminder
Of what must be done.
What others demand from you.
What you demand from yourself. It will
Cry and cry into
Your fragile ladened
Insides.
Overbearing all other burdens, tearing
Away at your exhausted heavy eyes.
Bursting your gut, convincing you to bleed out
In rivers of remorse. Wishing
You paid attention sooner
To the looming business
You were too eager
To neglect.

Duty is a dynamic affair.
Waiting patiently like a
Biting snake. Hidden in the
Long tasks tangled, and grasped
Around your tilted feet.
It camouflages in shades of doubt, becoming
More and more invisible to your
Lazy fleeting sight.
It will strike when your
Mind is practicing indecision and your tongue,
Poor diction. Piercing
Your relaxed skin, numbing the rush
Of the draining venom injected
Into your blood flow. It will sit
There until you are entirely drenched
In the stench of duty satisfied.
Tom Salter Jul 12
Behold! The agony of love,
Hidden through receipts
In the leather folds of
Pocketed wallets, and
Phantom habits exposed
In ordinary scenes,
Perhaps
On the beachside street
Where
The wind took lead
And all bare witness
To blossoms in Spring.

Do I let the praying man wither?
His eyes so eager in
A holy begging manner.
Strapped
To the streets, afraid
To dare ask the pretend
Upper class for
A passing favour. On and on
He gives his lecture: ‘Behold!
The agony of woe, hold
Her from toe to toe, and
Let her know. Let her
Know’. A lesson
As hollow as his cheeks for
He knows not love, but
Alas he tells truth
Of life perhaps.

Behold! The agony of life,
Begging me to ponder:
‘Do I waver?’
and ‘Do I waver?’
In the face of love.
Do I seek equity
From up above? Or
Shall I trudge ever on
With my naive heart, and
Veteran laugh? Oh,
Shall I linger?

No! For
Life and love
Lay dormant
At
The edge of every smile
And in the canyons
Between stale fingers
Where lovers
Once rest, or perhaps
In the words
That come knocking
When we fail to see the door
Momentarily ahead.  

A door hidden on every street,
Packed away beside
The royal garden gate, guarding
The statue of Victoria Royal.
(That statue. That statue.)
She gathers gazing looks,
And men stumble upon her
Shouting profanities, and
Lurking behind her
Great shadow.
To us, she is a mere
Conversation
On our walk home from
The old Gladstone, where
You plead me
To think, and
On I sink,
And on I sink.

(And on, and on.)

And on I waver, and on
I waver; but the
Face is anew, and we
Trudge forward -
Ever braver.
Jul 11 · 44
The Accuser
Tom Salter Jul 11
Grass grows occasionally in
These stone-ladened
City streets, crawling
Out of the laboured pavements, and
Residing for a mere
Moment before we point our gluttonous claws, and
Take on
The role of accuser; shaming nature
For their abstinence.
We no longer want their verdant wealth, now
We favour more precious things; an array of
False saviours, endless labour and
Self-diagnosed health.
When the natural order of things
Crept away, we were mistaken.
Alas, the world
Was ready to forgive.
Persistent
To grow, and live.
But we failed the world, when
We blamed the world. When
We blamed the world. When
We blamed the world.
(The world has turned rough)

A grey existence with an
Absent landscape, removed
Of the abstract and joy that once
Mothered life and love.
Jul 10 · 58
Tidings from Nobody
Tom Salter Jul 10
What have you become in this hollow space,
You were once somebody,
Once something
But now,
Your words are nothing,
And your face yields nobody.
A sunken man, a man so grated
He has abandoned the joys
Of
Wandering, and
Instead taken sweeter to whining; “why me”
And “why me”.
But these concerns
Never slip from his flakey slim lips, rather
They tumble and tumble
In his heavy limbered skull,
Rattling into one another
Like cheap cream chinos upon a white apron,
Resting and soaked
At the street corner laundrette. Never to dry.
Never to dry.
Emptier
than his pockets. And
Looser than the screws clasped to his spectacle frames.
The lenses are slipping. Vision is ending.
Words are nothing.
And so, passion ceases
As
The walls
Squeeze the last wonder from his
Breath; “why me” and “why us” - “Why do the stars
Dare to shine”.
Alas,
The universe lays gormless, and
Relishes in its own undisputed silence.
Tom Salter Jul 7
Behold! The agony of love,
Hidden through receipts
In the leather folds of
Pocketed wallets, and
Phantom habits exposed
In ordinary scenes,
Perhaps
On the beachside street
Where
The wind took lead
And all bare witness
To blossoms in Spring.

Behold! The agony of life,
Begging me to ponder:
Do I waver?
and do I waver?
In the face of love.
Do I seek equity
From up above? Or
Shall I trudge ever on
With my naive heart, and
Veteran laugh? Oh,
Shall I linger?

No -
Life and love
Lay dormant
At
The edge of every smile
And in the canyons
Between stale fingers
Where lovers
Once rest, or perhaps
In the words
That come knocking
When we fail to see the door
Momentarily ahead.  

And on I waver, and on
I waver; but the
Face is anew, and we
Trudge forward -
Ever braver.
Tom Salter Jul 6
Behold! The agony of love,
Relished through receipts
Hidden
In the leather folds of
Pocketed wallets, and
Phantom habits exposed
In ordinary scenes,
Perhaps
On the beachside street
Where
The wind took control
And all witnessed
Blossoms in Spring.

Behold! The agony of love,
Laying dormant
At
The edge of every smile, and
In the gaps
Between stationery fingers
Where others
Once lay, or perhaps
In the words
That come knocking
When we fail to see the door
Ourselves.  

Behold! The agony of love,
Leaving you at a ponder,
Do I waver?
Do I waver?
In the face of love. Or
Shall I trudge ever on
With my naive heart, and
Veteran grasp?

And so I waver, and so
I waver; but the
Face is anew, and we
Trudge on.
Jul 5 · 72
The Other Men
Tom Salter Jul 5
And now come the other men,
The figurines, the foragers
And those who marched
Onward
By the failed evergreen. They
Speak of war grown days,
And times before the land
Was tore. Their voices
Shrouded
By one anothers’ patience, and
Each man carried his scars,
Cradled,
In their shadowed
Limblike arms, they bore
Tear marks
Printed
On their gormless
Salty cheeks, and
Under their heavy
Sullen eyes
Paraded gashes
And stains
Of crimson and bleak.

And now come the other men,
Out of the ovens, rushing
For some safer housing.
It’s all a conundrum, this
Waiting and wavering, an
Uncertainty
Mounted across a ditch
Of slightly burnt
Flesh, men mashed
Into one.

And now come the other men,
An identity shared
Between friends, who bask
In the untimely forgery
Of their postured
end.
Jul 4 · 19
An Evening Spent.
Tom Salter Jul 4
The half-moon approaches
and mounts the great
charcoal sky,
showing the distant
town’s men
why she rules
the day’s end, she
silences the tide,  
allowing
the boat keeper
to reel in the line,
dragging
his weight closer
to
the land’s edge,
straining
his heavy worked
limbs, he catches
the wooden
sea-scarred masses,
stretched out
across the rim
of the
empty bay.
Jul 4 · 48
Runaway Breath.
Tom Salter Jul 4
The privilege of knowing we
Has fled,
Runaway
To some harsher place,
Fallen -
Gone to bed.
And
Longing now is
Thy breathe, locked,
Waiting
Behind some other
Face, clawing at
Their throat and
Hunting for
A grip so
That
It may escape
And let it
Be said
I
Was too late,
Fallen -
Gone to bed.
Jun 28 · 92
Town at a Distance
Tom Salter Jun 28
Did it even happen? That month in a distant town. Where
I would be seen squatting from day-to-day at the rat’s
nest found cradled at the summit of that busy street. Then
you called out, a faint breathe resembling my name, barely
heard through the thick haze of mould and cold corners
but you managed to fish me out, reeling in my naive line
with the ease of one falling in love, but that was to
come at some later time so for now you placed me in a
kinder home and let me stay for a while. Have you heard
of the month in that distant town? Could you let them
know that it really happened? Not all towns are friends
with the sea, but this town that we chose was more fond
of the water than most. It gave us beaches to happily sit
upon, and visit from time to time. Piers and vast walkways
to trudge along when the moon came out to greet the great
charcoal sky. Pebbles and joy littered those beaches and
litter was in abundance at all times, but that didn’t
dampen our eyes for they were never concerned with the
town’s scars. Nor with the gaze of others, it was our
world after all, this distant town. Brick, beer and bearded
love filled our evenings, but now that’s just a fleeting
privilege. A social life waits for me there but not the
same one I left behind. Your home sits ideal, waiting for
intimacy and comfort to return but I fear I am no longer
welcome, I dare say I will have to play the mask of friend
to even enter that place again. I’ll have to adopt a new
view of a world I once ruled, but the crown is lost and
I'm stuck in this peasantry mess. And now I'm scared to
return. I will have forgotten that town. For I only truly
knew it through our eyes, which have closed now. I am tired
of trying to open them alone, and I’m slowly going blind
to my old life. You know, I think it happened, everything
I left in that distant town was the truth at some point
but maybe not to the extent I wished. All I know, whether
true or not, that was the happiest time I’ve had. I can
only tell myself it must have been an accident, when my
heart broke so gently but then I remember it was my
choice after all, and what’s a man who doesn’t hold
himself accountable to himself, a man I wouldn't want
to be, and that’s a truth I know for sure, one I am
still chiefly in charge, that is the one thing I can
be happy about, that I am still the man I was before.
Jun 14 · 117
Tea Bag Smiles.
Tom Salter Jun 14
Was it a shiver or a dance that split the tea bag in two,
her laughter told him she knew the truth, something
he grievously missed for her smile alone proved
enough for his stewed gaze, but now her laughter
has moved on and he’s left to his memories
of tea bag smiles, now gone.
Jun 12 · 122
Gone is the Kind.
Tom Salter Jun 12
The kind hand chased
the loveliness from the
page, carving a path
through his chest and
filling it with rivers
brushed morose,
abstracting his vision -
but through this blur
he builds a bridge,
placing a plank for
each memory that aches
for he intends to cross
this trench in which
the loveliness left.
Jun 12 · 93
An Ode to Tolkien
Tom Salter Jun 12
Old man Oxford, plump
and merry in shape
and glee, a professor
of all things written
and green, his friends,
wooden and tall,
endowed him a pipe
of oaken skin, gilded
in bark and mirth, and
with this gift, he
smoked their leaves
and painted tales
of wondrous things,
each puff and ember
smithed his words,
carrying his thoughts
up high, where they
ventured in the golden
glitter of the sky, and
onto pages, forever,
in our minds, so,
thank you kind Tollers,
for you are the treasure
at the start of this
adventure.
Jun 6 · 37
Evening Spent.
Tom Salter Jun 6
the half-moon approaches and mounts the great sky,
allowing the boat keeper to reel in the line, catching
the floating wooden masses, stretched across the bay.
Tom Salter Jun 3
9 minutes in ****, spent
pleading for rights the world has
failed to give him, but the white man
won't listen as long as he’s on that racist
coloured mission - a bent knee, once a pledge
of loyalty but now an act of atrocity: a snap,
crack and one final bark as a shade of black is
smashed, into the sharp, hard ground of the world
he once loved - so, please don't be silent, pick up
what is left at the pavement, a human life taken,
shackled, name-cuffed to a movement that
should have never been needed, but it now
rises, out of a community shattered,
to defend those lives that
should have always
mattered.
Jun 2 · 1.2k
9 Minutes in He11.
Tom Salter Jun 2
9 minutes in ****, spent
pleading for rights the world has
failed to give him, but the white man
won't listen as long as he’s on that racist
coloured mission - hell bent at the knee;
snap, crack and one final bark as a shade
of black is smashed, into the sharp, hard
ground of the world he once trod, cherished
and loved - so, please don't be silent, pick up
what is left at the pavement, a human life
taken, shackled, name-cuffed to a
movement that should have never
been needed, but it now rises out
of a community shattered,
to defend those lives that
should have always
mattered.
May 25 · 729
boys behaving badly.
Tom Salter May 25
“Bountiful
            Beauty”
broken
         beaten
burnt
         by
badly
          behaved
  boys
           bearing
  burly
               bodies
brusquely
                  built
             by
                “Boisterous  
      Benevolence”.
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