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Thomas Newlove Jul 2015
Today at the train station

A stranger came up to me

And asked for directions.

I had the sudden urge to give him the wrong ones

Or take him behind the stairwell and

Gut him

And let his family watch as stomach and liver

Flobber out over slipping intestines, or simply

Grab him and throw him onto the train tracks

As the half five train approaches.

It would give people a reason to

Remove their sunglasses,

And possibly even their iPods,

Headphones dangling uncomfortably

As they fumble to save a pointless

(As well as futile) situation.

Maybe they would film it with their phones.

Maybe I'd be famous.

Instead I just sigh and give him the right directions,

Tell him the correct train to travel on,

And slowly smile as he waddles off

And doesn't believe me.
Thomas Newlove Sep 2015
If I could travel back in time
I'd travel back to yesterday.
To feel the pain I felt again -
A price I deserve to pay.

If I could travel back in time
I'd travel back two weeks,
To before you found out any of this,
To before my love-drunk speech.

If I could travel back in time
I'd travel back two months ago.
If I could erase the mistakes I made
I'd erase them for you now.

If I could travel back in time
I'd travel back a year,
Before we'd even become good friends,
So you'd never shed a tear.

If I could travel back in time
I'd travel back to '92,
And **** my new-born infant self,
And make the world a treat for you...
6.5k · Feb 2011
Thomas Newlove Feb 2011
The pick
All the stress that an orange has caused is painful.
It is painful for the tree from which it came.
Snatched away with promises of sweetness.
A tree mostly green, engulfing
Small speckles of that deceptive orange.
It was such a bright colour – high hopes!
Handpicked by a man only looking for the best,
Choosing poorly not for the first time.
The green leaves frantically try to reclaim what’s theirs.
Branch after branch reaching out, trying to uproot him.
Close, so close. But they are a sea apart,
At least an apple has a core, a heart.

The peel
Now it is pilfered, the painful process begins,
Never quite ending: disappointment beckons.
To try and taste these orange juices
You soldiers must bear the burden.
Each soldier, a finger digging themselves
Into the tough stressful shell.
Fingernails stained with orange blood,
Eyes blinded by the same tangy juices.
It never slips off in one go
Like a roomy balaclava,
But crumbles like the remnants of a bombing.
Brick by brick, orange by orange it crumbles.
Now it is finally undone
But neither tree nor man has won.

The preparation
The crust collapsed, but now
It is time to untangle the web the mantle holds.
First, a division – the separation of brothers
Who served side by side at birth.
Dissected by these soldiers
Acting as a bomb squad,
Searching for those hidden pips.
Found, but not without casualties –
Sticky fingers with no taps in sight.
Once removed the web is untangled.
Tired, he hopes that the stress will swiftly end
Unaware that the sweetness was just pretend.

The pain*
Finally the moment has arrived
And illogical ceremonies commence.
I fear the celebration is far too soon,
For as white touches orange and tries
So desperately to unite,
The tartly taste slays the poor man’s buds:
Igniting like petrol on his burning tongue.
He wishes he could return that orange
To the green tree to which it belongs,
To return a bullet-sprayed windscreen is not an option.
The orange, once bitten, enjoys its trance
Latching on to those pained tingling taste buds.
His orange, a disaster to undress:
Bad taste – a foolish price for such a mess.
Hint: I am English. I have lived in Ireland for most of my life. The colours are Green, White and Orange.... To sum it up in one sentence:
"What a complete mess the man made of things!"
6.0k · Feb 2011
Indestructible Toilet
Thomas Newlove Feb 2011
Comic relief can’t numb the pain within.
An indestructible toilet stands alone.
That lonely toilet made of white porcelain,
Is all that’s left of some poor man’s home.
This is inspired by a photo I have at home of the aftermath of Hurricane Ivan, which struck the Cayman Islands (where I used to live) in 2004. The picture is of a two storey house, the upstairs completely ripped off. The only thing remaining on the top floor apart from debris and wooden framework is the toilet, in a relatively untouched state.... Makes you laugh until you cry :)
Thomas Newlove Oct 2016
The better *** is so obvious on a night out,
Where there are always men
Walking around, sad and alone.
While the women always hunt in packs.
4.9k · Feb 2011
Ode to a Deceased Calculator
Thomas Newlove Feb 2011
Here lies a calculator, once unstoppable,
Together we solved the world’s problems.
Your black buttons warmed my hands,
While my head was cooled by the solutions you created.
Stress relieving buttons,
How I often mistreated you,
Slamming my fingers into your soul,
Jabbing your rugged terrain.
My intelligence blossomed with you at my side,
But now you have shrivelled up,
Shedding your petals, one equation at a time,
Until you are planted in the grave you resemble.
I etched my name into you
At the start of our glorious friendship-
A sacred bond that would last forever.
Now, at the end, I engrave again.
This time there is no solution.
It is always an emotional time when you lose a calculator that lasted you through most of secondary school :'(
3.3k · Oct 2016
Walking Contradiction
Thomas Newlove Oct 2016
I am a walking contradiction.
I am six feet, five inches tall
But I feel microscopic.
I am a proud Englishman,
Disgusted by his history and absent
Of allegiances to any land, any country.
I am a nomad, but there is so much I haven't seen.
I am filled with wanderlust,
But also crave routine, and hate change.
I am a passionate writer,
But it pains me to write.
I am so very concerned by the world,
Its people and emotions,
Yet I distance myself, want no part in it,
Thrive off any psychopathic habits I develop -
I enjoy the disdain I have for most people.
I am well-educated, above-average intelligence,
But I know nothing... and always will.
I am surrounded by people that I love and care about,
But I feel so often, so desperately alone.
I crave my own space, my solitude,
The freedom of my own head and my mind's
Undivided attention, but it haunts me,
And I miss the feeling of warmth beside me in my bed.
It taunts me. It makes me want to die.
I am a walking contradiction because I desperately
Want to live, if only to achieve something worth
Being remembered for, worth dying for.
There's no poetic justice, beauty in death of
An ordinary man with uninteresting achievements.
That is wasted oxygen to me, and wasted talent
(if you can even call it that for)
I crave success, but fear I am talentless.
I am a walking contradiction.
Sometimes I think I am delusional,
But, then again, I am one of the most logical people
I know. I'm boring. But I want to excite, to entertain.
I am not funny, but I want to make people laugh.
I want to live forever and die tomorrow.
I am a walking contradiction.
Nobody mourns the poor - of pocket or of soul.
I fear that I am both.
I fear that I am a walking contradiction.
Completely devoid of purpose, of meaning
But so hopelessly in love with the beauty of it all.
3.2k · Feb 2011
The Blackbird
Thomas Newlove Feb 2011
Today a blackbird gave me inspiration.
It floated casually towards the ledge.
Inches away, only a thin piece of glass between us.
It stared, looked me in the eyes,
Opened my soul with its piercing eyes.
Gouged away until it found some real meaning inside.
Twitched, no, that wasn’t a twitch,
It was a motion, a signal,
A glorious method of communication –
No pigeon could mimic that!
It ushered my eyes towards the beauty of the lake,
And away from its black and grey and blue
And (I’m sure many other coloured) body.
My eyes were dragged from this beautiful, overweight creature
To the forever-moving, forever-living lake,
Then to the fountain.
Six shoots of white water kept the sky where it belongs.
They held it – of course! The sky!
The blackbird had given me light.
The sky was alive, the clouds were rolling,
The sun was breaking through,
And as I re-adjusted my eyes to thank him,
The blackbird leapt from his perch,
Cawed a “you’re welcome”
And soared towards heaven.
Thomas Newlove Jan 2016
"New Year, new you" she said as she took off her old one and put on a brave new face. This one hid the bruises but not the tears in her eyes
Tweet Verse is a poem consisting of exactly 140 characters (excluding the title) as per the Twitter character limit. The name is my own (as far as I'm aware.)
Thomas Newlove Nov 2016
I had told her about my pin badges -
It was that kind of intimacy.

I had written poems about her -
It was that kind of intimacy.

She returns with another present,
In fact, more than one,
Despite being a woman scorned -
It was that kind of intimacy.

One, a postcard, to return my gesture,
A memory we shared together -
It was that kind of intimacy.

Two, a pin, she travelled to find,
Searching to fix something that
Was never broken.
To her, this was a failure,
To me, it was
Our kind of intimacy.

And three, a notebook,
Because she knows what I love,
And that words lie deep inside of me,
Screaming to come out.

I write this to her to apologise
For being a fool, and to thank her
For her undying encouragement
And her endless inspiration
And her kind, warm words -
A beautiful friendship married
By the endless embers of
Written words -
Our kind of intimacy.
Thomas Newlove Oct 2015
He who says escapism cannot solve your problems
has never been a cinephile with depression
who can sit and watch The West Wing in his pants.
Tweet verse or a Twitter poem made up of exactly 140 characters
2.6k · Jun 2012
Cayman Sunset
Thomas Newlove Jun 2012
A jet-ski, jetty bound, disturbs the waves,
While not too far away, on the seabed
Lies the hungry blacktip and hammerhead,
As a nurse explores the undersea caves.

Harvey wouldn’t capture Marlin here,
Just a glance of turtle, seaweed green,
Gasping at the stuffy air, marine,
Gazing at a sunset he should fear.

The sharks hunt for prey in mere hours.
A flock of ching-chings squawk away,
As mosquitoes come out to play,
Darting between darkening flowers.

Through mosquito nets I take a peek,
In oasis that I realise,
Snuggled in a palm tree lies
A curled green parrot, sound asleep.
Blacktip, hammerhead, and nurse are all types of sharks. Harvey refers to Guy Harvey, a famous painter of marine life, most noted for drawing Marlins. Ching-chings are a colloquial term for blackbirds. Green Parrots are indigenous to the Cayman Islands.
2.6k · Oct 2016
The World Needs Batman
Thomas Newlove Oct 2016
The world needs a hero.
Someone who can steer us
In the right direction.

The world is ******,
Out of luck, divided by factions,
Borders, rules, laws and orders,
Created by selfish *****.
***** politicians.
Men who treat human beings like fractions. Corrupt.
The kind of over-the-top villains you read about in comic books.
Or maybe it came to be by the Almighty all-seeing ****.
Another dastardly, ******* who is as ridiculous as he sounds or the world looks.
Who decides who lives or dies like a dictator murdering for sport or kicks.
He (because it's always a "he") picks which child kicks the bucket
And which rich, white man gets the luck.

The world needs Batman.
Not a bad man with a bad plan
To rid the world of different colours, customs, looks.
We don't need several bland, blonde shades of white.
We need the Dark Knight.
Someone to fight and rid the Joker from his rise.
Someone to take back what was taken, what they took.
Bad jokes everyday that make you choke
On the water that you **** as you watch the morning news.
A fish dangling on the media's hook.
You can't breathe but contradictorily you can't help but be amused
At the crazy things he's said or done.
The media controls our mind, our thoughts.
We've been bought by the capitalist system that we took
To be our salvation.
We need to look forward as one world, one nation
And fix all the massive cracks and little nooks.
And pray that when it's time he doesn't win.
And pray that the Earth doesn't reject it's kin,
By punishing the people who did it wrong.
We need to learn from our perpetual mistake song
And act before the world dies
When big business lies, and the waters rise,
And we continue to drive and live off burgers and meat pies.

We need a hero who can fix the mess
Who looks like Christian Bale or Adam West,
Who can fight for human rights and save the day,
And still have time for dinner by candlelight
With ladies without groping them for kicks
For not all men exclusively think with their *****.
Just the ones with big egos, small brains and smaller ******.

So we need action, we need a plan!
Some way to finally stick it to the Man.
A way to fix environmental disaster,
A way to feed the starving and the masses
Without death and destruction fattening our *****
And eating up the planet on a platter.
We need to find a way to cure disease
And stop the greedy, bring them to their knees
And act to put our collective minds at ease.

So what's my grand suggestion for this plan?
When you vote, you vote with what feels right
Not what's comfortable or written on a t-shirt -
At first it could be difficult and may hurt,
But it's essential for the future to be bright.
Look to the skies at every possible night,
And give the stars and clouds a thorough scan,
And when you find that eerie, striking, stark light
That issues the coming of a dark knight
Make sure you give your vote to Batman.
Bit of a rough beat-poem. I got the idea from a tweet that said: "Clowns terrorising the street. A real life billionaire villain running for president. We need you Batman"
Thomas Newlove Dec 2015
One often 'as problems sleepin'
In ways which affect ones 'ealth
But 'ow can one deal wit 'out but weepin'
When one 'as a fear of their self
Tweet verse uses the exact amount of characters allowed for a tweet on Twitter, no more, no less.
2.0k · Sep 2015
Taco Sauce is Spicy
Thomas Newlove Sep 2015
In times of clarity, or perhaps
Moments of weakness
(Depending on one's perspective)
My greatest fear, I think,
Is that of dying without achieving
Anything worthy of mention.

The idea of being so ordinary
That your death
(or rather, your life)
Will be rapidly evaporated
from the earth's memory
Like light rain on a molten tarmac afternoon.

But you, at least on a mentally strong day,
Delude yourself with bursts of creativity:
Poetry, film, ideas of grandeur,
All of which persuade you that either
You will not die for a long time,
Or you will someday soon achieve.

This thought is comforting
And all is well.

Until one day you are having
A particularly busy teaching day,
And you rush to the usual spot
To grab a regular taste of Dublin life,
And order your chicken fillet roll:
Lifeblood of an Irish working-man's lunch,
And you eat while you walk -
Both briskly to save time before
Rejoining the rich children.

And the slobbering mouthful of
Delightful chicken baguette
Casts taco sauce from its grasp,
And dribbles down your pubey beard.

You stop and take a finger to it,
Knowing full well that the damage is
Done and that those hairs will grip
To the smell of taco sauce until
The drain tastes their defeat after
A particularly overzealous shower.

And it is in that moment,
With finger and beard stained with
The orange-tinged blood of a chicken fillet roll,
That your ordinariness and worthlessness become apparent
And it destroys you...
Because you always thought taco sauce was spicy.
1.8k · Feb 2011
The Plunger
Thomas Newlove Feb 2011
Boredom, normal working day,
Normal person, bills to pay,
Sunny skies soon turn to grey -
Fiery explosion.

First a bang and then another.
Building shakes, he ducks for cover
Fear sets in, he starts to quiver –
Salt can cause erosion.

Quickly he begins to stumble
As his world begins to crumble,
Screaming soon becomes a mumble –
Miracle to conjure.

Building cannot help but shake,
Decision of how to die to make.
Fire or concrete which will take
The lifetime of the plunger.

He runs and jumps for all he’s worth,
Screaming like he was at birth
Seeing the toilet of the Earth
And the lifetime of the plunger.

The world, it seems, is crap sometimes.
You’ve just got to hope and pray:
For the poor souls who get the worst
And the hope that on another day
You are not the plunger.
1.7k · Jul 2015
Tweet Verse #1
Thomas Newlove Jul 2015
To create poetry or flash fiction in one hundred and forty characters. What a truly modern art form. Composing, like a symphony, my laziness
Tweet Verse - poems that can be written on Twitter and its character restrictions.
1.6k · Feb 2011
The Harpist and the Unicorn
Thomas Newlove Feb 2011
To some twas a majestic force,
Mysterious and beautiful,
Courageous and never full
From a vast, adventurous feast.
It roamed – a horn upon a horse,
A gallop one could never cull,
It thought itself invincible,
Yet to some it was a beast.

Its orchestra – a masterpiece
Assembled from around the Earth,
But labouring perfections birth
Was a harpist’s absent beat.
The pains of searching now could cease
As landing upon emerald berth,
The unicorn unearthed its serf
As sublimity filled that seat.

The harpist liked her homely scene,
Despite its audience so small.
She’d rather stay than leave it all
And face the unicorns stampede.
And so she suffered wrath obscene:
She was forced to attend the ball,
Waiting centuries for the call
To leave an orchestra based on greed.

In present day the harp is home,
Back to where it is meant to be,
Beauty played independently,
But the unicorn does not mourn,
For now both creatures often roam
To a ball outside of history
And play a peaceful melody:
“The Harpist and the Unicorn.”
This one's a little cryptic... so for a hint... my passport has a unicorn on it and another passport has a harp on it. I'd love to hear feedback on this because I like most of it
Thomas Newlove Dec 2015
Life can sometimes get bitter-
It feels like there's no going back,
But if the knife ain't gonna slit her
She'll still take her coffee black
Tweet Verse is a poem consisting of precisely 140 characters (akin to Twitter's character limit.)
1.5k · Feb 2011
Son of a Beach
Thomas Newlove Feb 2011
My mother, the Caribbean Sea,
My father, exotic sand,
Amazing that they created me
Out of this tropical land.

Wave after wave caressing the shores,
Giving my father a smile.
Here, my being was put into course-
The soft beach of Seven Mile.

Here, where the soothing sand meets the sea,
The playground of Edward Teach.
This is the place that created me-
A big, fat son of a beach.
This was published in something.... though I can't remember what! Seven Mile refers to Seven Mile Beach, Grand Cayman (one of the best beaches in the world) and Edward Teach, for those of you who don't know, is better known as Blackbeard
1.5k · Jan 2016
Thomas Newlove Jan 2016
It's when you're teetering on the edge of insomnia,
When every pound of your being is exhausted
To the point where you're seeing colours,
Without recognising objects, people,
Kind souls, kindred spirits,
That you soar to the most wonderful place
Of creativity and life-fulfilling happiness,
Or at least if not happiness, then
Contentment or satisfaction.

But, like insomnia, that teetering
Is the fundamental factor -
Because that same day,
In that same continuation of euphoria,
You can be waiting for a train,
And whilst you teeter at the edge
Of the cold station platform walkway,
You can plummet to the depths of depression,
Return to those comforting, suffocating clutches,
And that cry for help is stifled
By the thundering railway carriages,
And all that is left is a ****** stain -
Stained in your mind,
The knowledge that you'll never escape those clutches,
That grasp for the underneaths of railway carriages
Or the cordless bungee of tall buildings,
The comfort of the warm ground below,
And, naturally, a poem,
Flittering away in the gust of the train
Storming through the station
Like your ever-dwindling happiness...
Thomas Newlove Nov 2016
The girls wear lipstick - red or black. They wear it for themselves or at times so like dogs or war criminals they can mark their territory.
1.2k · Jul 2015
A Space Odyssey
Thomas Newlove Jul 2015
A long time ago? Far, far away?
The Death Star collapsed and we could see
The mess it created: explosive spray -
Polluting a space in our history.

Now things are worse. X-Wings coerce
The ice-caps of Hoth to melt into sea.
What are we to do? I haven’t a clue
But hope that the force is strong within me.

The answer is clear watching Star Wars for hours:
Recycling, it seems, is not just for Jawas.
1.2k · Oct 2016
The Beach
Thomas Newlove Oct 2016
I came to the beach today because I've so much love to give.
I came because I've nothing else good to spend time with.
I came because it's healthier than getting drunk on ***** -
Better for your health than watching movies or the news.

I came to the beach to feel the breeze brush across my face,
To watch the foam fizzle and the memories erase.
I came to the beach today to feel completely free
To escape the many wrongs of life and all the tyranny:

To see the sea, you see, is just a free therapy session.
Unfortunately salt doesn't quite cure depression,
But what the hell's a cure going to do to change,
To change a world that's doomed to always stay deranged.

The beach is ever-cloudy and is always filled with stones.
It's cold to the point you cannot even start to feel your bones.
There are too many people to put my mask on to...
Too many people with stupid questions to ask you.

Girls in bikinis , having a swim, who clearly are psychotic,
While I'm just sat here watching, writing, and being neurotic.
I came to the beach today to try to help escape my pain
It didn't work but, hey, at least I did escape the rain.

I came to the beach today to try to look at life anew,
But really, I just came to the beach today because of you.
Thomas Newlove Feb 2016
Apparently the world is my burrito
Or so the philosopher said.
While I'm eating my daily bread
I relive decisions I'd like to veto,
And weep for the girl who'll never dance to my tune,
And pray that life, and my luck, will change some time soon.
Thomas Newlove Sep 2015
If I had to drown one thousand deaths
And sink beneath a quarry
I'd still want to spend all those one thousand breaths
Telling you I'm sorry
Another example of Tweet Verse... an 140 character poem.
1.1k · Feb 2011
Walk Away
Thomas Newlove Feb 2011
Don’t stand beside my grave crying. Walk away.
Wipe away those tears from your eyes.
I will always be near, I am here to stay.
Wherever you go I’ll hear your cries.

You will keep my memory alive,
For what your brain can’t, your heart will,
And it’s there that my spirit will thrive,
For after eternity I’ll be with you still.

In the morning when you open your eyes,
I will be beside you, buttoning my shirt.
When you gaze up at the starry night skies,
I’ll be gazing back until it doesn’t hurt.

When the soft snow is fresh and it’s too cold,
I will be beside you, keeping you warm.
When the rain is strong and umbrella old,
I will be there, helping you ride the storm.

Never stand by my grave crying.
For I never liked it when you cried,
And when I was in my bed, dying,
It was you that never left my side,
And because you kept my memory breathing,
I will never be there, because I never died.
1.1k · Jun 2012
Turtle Tears Storm The Flag
Thomas Newlove Jun 2012
It approaches swiftly.
A monsoon of rain readily setting off
Naive natives and their tiresome routines.
Shutters shroud the windows with irrational security,
Sandbags too are placed; it must be a big one!
Clouds roll and tumble into position.
A sunset evaporates quickly,
Yellow to orange to red and BANG,
As quick as a flash of lightning it blackens.
Pure darkness, but for humanity’s scars.
Another scar takes their places
As a deafening crash collapses the eardrums,
Seconds after its divine light pierces the sky,
The soul and that artificial light.
Darkness now, but for lightning,
Blinding flashlights and candles.

Dewy droplets descend into view,
Dripping hopelessly through a silver fork.
Frightened faces too are seen,
Made more frightening by flashlight.
Rain, lightning and thunder
Can’t silence children’s cries
But can still awaken the waves –
Serfs turned warriors in an instant,
Harassing the horrified sandbags,
Overpowered and silenced.
The satanic storm battles on
Callously battering a weary world.
The sickening sun shines into the eye
And a torn green turtle begins to cry.
About a bad thunder and lightning storm that pre-empted a hurricane. The Turtle in question refers to the turtle on the flag of the Cayman Islands.
1.1k · Mar 2017
Thomas Newlove Mar 2017
As dreamers we are oft to make-believe,
Escaping the banality of time,
Stories of noble royals that we weave
Into the fabric of this very rhyme:

For we three do descend from kings of old
And queens who conquered all of their domain
And live our royal lives burdened with gold
And bound to royal living we remain.

Royal maidens of Portugal and France
With butlers who they keep in line with whips.
While one insists they entertain with dance
The other one decrees "Let them eat chips!"

I just observe, dream, and write what cannot be
Who says Punto's can't belong to royalty?
1.1k · Nov 2016
Tweet Verse #70 - Puzzling
Thomas Newlove Nov 2016
Trying to assemble a completely blank jigsaw puzzle, I am torn - am I missing a piece or is this just a naturally difficult puzzle to solve?
Thomas Newlove Jul 2016
I'm, almost always, a hopeless romantic, and never a misogynist, but some girls are just *** personified - doused in an inevitable emptiness
1.1k · Apr 2017
An Ode to Love
Thomas Newlove Apr 2017
This is an ode to love,
But there is no subject to this love,
This is an empty ode,
A coffin with the corpse long-decayed,
A debt that was never owed,
A terror unafraid.

This is to Donnie, the ****-Kid.
I have so much love to give.
This is to my muse,
But not about anyone in particular.
It's only Audrey I amuse
When dancing with vernacular.

She's what gives me motivation,
But is not the subject of my affection.
My subject is desire itself -
An emptiness which must be filled,
A yearning for a book upon my shelf,
Happiness that simply can't be willed.

This is an ode to love,
But you should know right now
That I cannot love human beings,
I can only love ideas,
And they both fall through my fingers to the tune
Of coarse sand on a lazy afternoon.
Thomas Newlove Jul 2015
There are some days
When one fatal heart-wrenching
Rejection can cascade into a torrent
Of gut-punching, sick-inducing barrages of failure.
One rejection after another for one long week
Of un...something misery.

The first, well, I saw it coming.
There was a heavy inevitability about it in the air
Like the thick sweat before a summer storm.
Yet, despite this, almost foreknowledge,
My heart still lies in shattered pieces,
My head awash with regret, self-loathing,
And a deep inexplicable sadness.
Swiss chocolate - she was meaningless,
Surely soon forgettable,
But in that moment ever so sweet...
And the sight of her would brighten up my day.

The second was a reminder of my "situation" -
That constant battle between our demons and our angels,
The latter of whom have mostly hung themselves by this stage,
Or drowned themselves in vats of ciders,
Awaiting judgement or an epiphany.
Maybe they were waiting for a train,
And the demons simply gave a firm push,
Or whispered sweet infinities into your ears
As they bristled against the breeze atop a tall building.

The third was another, somewhat self-inflicted, destruction.
Less a rejection, and more an ultimatum:
"Sort your ******* life out Thomas
Because you're ruining hers tall, dark, and handsomely."
- That's not what she said, but it stung,
More or less, with the same venom,
Whilst maintaining that same tinge of flirtatious tone.
Somehow I stumbled into this mess without malicious intent -
Just a stupid little boy with a box of matches,
And a canister of petrol, and a blissful unawareness
Of the inevitable inferno.
Undoubtedly, the demons are laughing
At all the tears that will surely come.

The fourth was particularly unfortunate.
In classic "Thomas" style my first thoughts were to hit restart.
I wonder if all Thomas' are arseholes?
I mean obviously Edison was, and no doubt
There was malice behind Thomas the Tank Engine's smug grin,
But I wonder if it is a scientific certainty, or just dumb luck?
Needless to say I packed my bags in my head
And applied for the trabajo.
New start. New beginning. Old cliché.
And inevitable rejection -
One I didn't see due to my
Rebounded energy to avoid failure.
The repetitive nature of life's cycle is somewhat nauseating.
What kind of sadist designed this ride?
I wonder if his name was Thomas too?
Ah well, I've nothing better to do. "Another go, please."
1.0k · Oct 2016
Thomas Newlove Oct 2016
In a world where horrors lurk on every corner
When terror's found on every news report
When violence is celebrated at the movies
And death is seen by elders as a sport

It's no surprise that Halloween is hip
That costumes and liquor are our daily bread
And that the "scariest" 'guise people can think up
Is a ****, whorish version of the dead.
Note to self: should probably change the third line to "When violence has become the new world order"
Thomas Newlove Nov 2016
Epiphanies appear in various forms, and, on rare occasions, they even come at three thirty in the morning with your pants around your knees.
Thomas Newlove Dec 2015
When I was younger in a different time
I had a habit on a special date,
Or on an occasion, to write a rhyme,
Often enough, because I'm a cheapskate.

So as Christmas swiftly soon descends,
And I've but my heart to claim as loot,
I write this story for a special friend
About a Giant and his Little Boots.

You see, these two made quite an awesome pair -
A lanky lad with lanky giant feet,
He'd often smile as people'd often stare
As he'd walk with Little Boots about the street.

A friendship in college they did form.
The Giant couldn't have asked for more.
His Little Boots could help weather a storm
Or bust a move on the Workman's floor.

Those Little Boots helped through thick and thin.
When he was in his darkest places,
They'd help him smile and let light back in
Or send him gifs or silly faces.

He knew they could take different paths -
Boots, like friends, can tread through the rough,
But nothing could silence the joy or laughs -
The friendship was made of stronger stuff.

And so they lived, as friends, forever,
The Giant and his Little Boots,
Strolling down life's roads together
Making it big time, in cahoots.
My friend is almost five feet tall and I am six foot five and Little Boots is my nickname for her.
981 · Jul 2015
Tweet Verse #6 - Fleeting
Thomas Newlove Jul 2015
For it was in that one moment, suspended from fleeting, if only for that very specific moment, that nothing else mattered. And it was perfec
Thomas Newlove Nov 2016
Burying my head in a book
Has a truly remarkable feeling.
There's a deeply personal ecstasy to it.
Still, it's not quite between your thighs
953 · Feb 2011
Dream Catcher
Thomas Newlove Feb 2011
A dark blue duvet delicately sown,
A patchwork of delicate squares,
It is here where I soundly sleep alone,
It is here where nobody cares.

Those carefully crafted covers were made
As a net to catch my dreams.
It is here within my sleep I wade,
Swimming my slumber streams.

I twist and turn but can’t escape
From the nightmares that I fear,
But when a beautiful dream I make
The net knows the end is near.

I panic as it dives beneath the sea
And I try to recapture it yet,
I fail and fall, but delicately
I am caught in the dream catchers net.
As corny as they come... but it is easy to read!
937 · Apr 2018
Thomas Newlove Apr 2018
Sitting in the sun,
Watching old movies,
The Australian heat
Washes up against my feet.
The dog shakes off the afternoon
And snoozes by the couch
And all our troubles melt away
Like the ice cream now resting
In our stomachs.
Sweet peace,
The ignorance of it all.
Only at the cost of our minds
Do we chase our tails and sunbathe
On the crisp autumn grass.
Thomas Newlove Oct 2016
If God exists and he is great, fair and just, why does my nose always start to itch when I'm in the shower and my hands are full of shampoo?
913 · Jun 2012
Cowering Behind a Gun
Thomas Newlove Jun 2012
How can a war be ‘Great’ or ‘Civil’,
When people are sure to die?
Seen by God and the Devil,
Or simply through a child’s eye?

For how can a battle be won,
When the dead will eternally lose?
When cowering behind a gun,
Nobody has the right to choose.

Big men boast of intelligence,
They think they’re number one,
But even apes know the significance
Of Cowering behind a gun.

Is it simply because they’re beastly?
Their technology has backfired!
Their fighting simply disgusts me.
Like other children I am tired.

Why do rich men speak of victory?
Do they think the battle is won?
While these animals line their pockets,
There are children out there, like me,
Cowering behind a gun.
This was written a while ago... as I'm nearly 20 now :P
903 · Oct 2016
Ten word poems (10wX9w)
Thomas Newlove Oct 2016
Ten word poems - what a load of meaningless ****!
Thomas Newlove Apr 2016
I'm madly in love with words, but they can be as meaningful or as meaningless as you want them to be - like rain or blood. Maybe that's why.
Tweet verse is a poem comprised of exactly 140 characters
882 · Jun 2012
Downward Spiral
Thomas Newlove Jun 2012
Driving past the roundabout.
Beatles on, roof down.
Been working like a dog,
And when we go around
I am reminded of Yeats
And his widening gyre –
A concept quite curious,
His genius I admire.
High on happiness,
The battle today is done.
His words consume my heart away
As my shades reflect the sun.

The music: loud,
Really loud, too loud,

Each second stripped away,
Pushed coolly across my face
And through my hair like the
Blustery breeze.
I feel so at ease,
But not for long, for today,
Time turns against me in that race.

Race, race faster.
Go fast,

The fateful call comes.
I must accept it
And ignorantly fall foul
Of the unexpected,
As the fumes of summer fruit –
The movement of strawberry sales,
Crosses the beaten asphalt.
My face rapidly pales.

Turning and turning,
Spinning half a dozen.
Anarchy loosened, burning –
My rough beast has risen.

I fail to feel alright,
Drenched in a poppy field!
The music is slowly dying,

A revolution has been fought,
Restrained as the summer breeze
Is stopped, then turned on its head.
I marvel at the distant trees
Spinning, so dizzy I can barely move.
Crushed car, blood dripping, crushing me.
The world is as red as those pitiless poppies
And I discover the truth:
They will be the last thing I see,

The last glimpses of life:
Choke, choke,
Eyes spiralling,
Choking, blood,
879 · Jun 2012
My Beach
Thomas Newlove Jun 2012
This beach had luscious palms
That restricted the ever-powerful sun.
This beach had golden sand
That provided endless means of fun.
The sea, a beautiful turquoise
That combined with the scorching sand as one.

That burning, yet it doesn’t matter, sand.
Fingers sifted through granules so fine,
That distant tropical land,
With that beach of beauty so divine,
With a sand and sea and sky sublime.
How depressing that it once was mine!
The beach in question is Seven Mile Beach, Grand Cayman
873 · Feb 2011
Boy to Man Story
Thomas Newlove Feb 2011
In 1995 when I was four
And watching films like all the other boys,
I heard great Tom and Tim and sat in awe,
As they told me a story about toys.

I met a boy (called Andy) just like me
Obsessed with cowboys, dinosaurs and war.
His toys, they came to life. He failed to see.
Their lives revolved around his closing door.

They soon became my friends and helped me grow.
I saw them once again in ninety nine.
Ole’ Buzz and Woody taught me all they know,
But failed to tell me when it would be time.

Now Andy’s off to college as am I
And to our childhoods we must say goodbye.
Thomas Newlove Sep 2016
Happiness is like a chocolate cake -
When it's in front of you, there is no
Greater feeling or thrill.
When it's gone, there's just nothing.
Thomas Newlove Nov 2016
The summer's rain starts smashing down,
Battering the seasoned ships.
It wouldn't quite be an Irish town
Without some sodden fish and chips.
818 · Jun 2012
Thomas Newlove Jun 2012
I sit, motionless, a gormless look across my face.
Mouth open, eyes empty, staring at nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
Bored beyond the point of no return,
Just letting eternity slowly, very slowly pass by.
It never does.
The teacher tells us to work, but gives us no indication of how.
You can’t do something with nothing.
The clock hands finally move.
Everyone adjusts their eyes.
I am sure every minute takes at least five.
Awkward silence is disturbed by the occasional passing of a page.
Nobody bothers to show an interest in anything except the time.
I begin to wonder if both my watch and the clock are broken.
Highly unlikely.
Whispers are engulfed by orders of silence.
The hypocritical teacher has an everlasting throat tickle.
The minute hand doesn’t move this time,
For time has finally stopped.
I motionlessly sit, wishing, praying that the silence would be broken.
This was written in a free class when there was legitimately no work to be done.
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