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Francis Chapman Jun 2016
Giraffe in Salford

We clung to each other on our raft bed,
Over hot breath amidst summer storms,
Our bodies held fast.
Melded.

He gazed nightly into our Love Room,
Without judgement.
From an unsullied eye he blinked,
Deliciously at our coupling,
And pondered our fate.

We sought him in the quiet times,
Where our eyes first sculptured him,
нιdden ιn тнe тreeѕ.
     Caught in the wind,
           Arching backwards,
            Giraffe yawned.
Chewed on his home-grown high flung leaves,
And dreamt of Africa.

F.S.Chapman.
The bedroom window overlooked a beautiful wood. In a muse, my lover and I could discern quite remarkable shapes made by the trees. The Giraffe seemed always to be indifferent, but kind. ☺️
Tony Luxton Jan 2018
Constables hay wain crossed
the Stour, wooden wheels creaking,
countryside colours clouded,
trees shrouded Flatford Mill.

Lowry's people were going to work,
guarded by furious chimneys,
darkness conductors, limbs aching.
Beneath the plumes short lives streamed,
inhabiting a rent collector's dreams.

Thin models for humanity
suffered Salford's acid rain
from satanic wage slave mills.
two paintings of workers
Dan Gilbert Jul 2016
on the platform
a girl drops a pink tissue
and it lies there,
all scrunched up like a rose
lowry painted pictures in his salford town
with his matchstick people. he would jot them down
chimneys from the factories smoking all around
he put them in his pictures set as a backgroud
he just loved to paint on canvas everyday
lowry he was different with his special way
his pictures they remain and now there here to stay
this painter man from salford with his matchstick way
Dylan Gabo Nov 2016
J.C.C., he's bigger than J.C.
Cos' he's got an extra C, see?
The best thing since B.C.
Since the wanna be man climbed down from the tree
He's a lyrical Bruce Lee
Cos' he's got chops
You see, not ALL poets are fops
Some of them are hound dogs
With poisonous bark
And some of them write tributes
To John. Cooper. Clarke
Mary Pear Jul 2016
Sunset Harbour
Built to mock an Andalucian village
Hewn from rock
And filled with sand from Saudi Arabia.
We sit between reception and the pool
Stars shine,but not as brightly as the streetlights on the distant hills.

Our host is singing,'Penny Arcade' and up she's got;
The penny's In the slot.
Let the magic begin!
Our marionette awakes.

Short curled hair
Sponge bob body in a purple dress with flat triangles at the *******.
Little chicken feet lift in time to the music as she covers the space
Between reception and the pool.
Arms akimbo, hands waving and excited at the release.

Laughing, he takes his place,with portly belly thrusting forward
Arms bent and elbows jutting, chin thrusting forward to the music;
A cockerel to her chick.

Corner to opposite corner they dance,
Grinning at each other as they pass
Sometimes chasing
Sometimes. Backing off;
An Oldham Tarrantella
A Salford tango
A well - trod mating ritual
And still a joy to watch.
Ben Gillespie Aug 2011
Rebirthed into cold waters,
with saint Sebastian's arrows falling on our foreheads,
leaving a penitent blood dripped on my lips. You kissed it off me like it was honey.
I wanna meet you again on a desolate hillside,
with a punctured bicycle
without a Salford lad narrative.

Splitting my lip,
on your ivory messages of total control
and I love it.


I want to ******* while you're wearing figure skates
until marble floors grind down to Henry Moores.
You are paradise, found.
Dante's balming embrace.
It was a bright and soothing daytime.
You were ticking the right boxes so often that pencil went through paper and stained my knee with graphite while I was left figuring out a composition,
of a portrait of the artist as a young fan of your beauty.  
as we fell lips-first and made head on collisions look like speedbumps.
intended as spoken word.
janet chavarria Aug 2015
A three day extravaganza
of traditional folk music,
and rustic camping bonanza,
relaxing and therapeutic.

dance, crafts, children's activities
presented at the Old Poole Farm.
the ultimate of festivities
in upper salford, a schwenksville charm.

an event you won't want to miss!
workshops, showcases and concerts,
rain or shine, foods galore, what bliss!
lots of sleeveless shirts and short skirts.

jamming and camaraderie share
a great way to spend summer's end.
the Philadelphia folk fair,
an experience to attend!
Sin's an easy enough contract to get into
(no one reads the small print)
just sign on the line and have a great time,
it's a caper on paper, creating the kinks,
and if anyone thinks it's not so,
go.

When you sign and you've had your great time
you should look up the terms and condition number four,
states,
'what did you sign for?
I'll be waiting for you at the doorway to hell when you're through, meet you there, come prepared to be scared it's now my time for fun'
The terms run on long after you're dead and gone and the tortures continue, terms and conditions sub-section two,
'you'll be here for eternity or at least 'til infinity comes into closer proximity,'
the wheels on the rack go round and underground the wheels go faster and faster, as you wear out the tread on your own eternal disaster,
master of all, master of none when you're gone.

Sin's so easy, delightfully ******, practically impossible to refrain from staining your soul,
The Devil doles out no favours, there's no fruit pastille flavours or chewing gum treats,
only long winding streets filled with pain, a bit like Bradford in the rain,
I prefer Salford in the sun so I'll hold off on the fun, won't sign on the line, and have a reasonably boring but much safer time.
Mother will you ever really like
My painting of a man riding a bike
Through disappointment, heavy sighs and cruel lies
See the life that I often capture through my eyes
Workers all flowing out of a factory gate
An image that your mind just loves to hate
People that are short but also tall
Or the man lying horizontal on top of a wall
See the children all wild and full of mood
Like ants all collective on decaying food
Mother won’t you just stop and see
I’m a painter an artist that’s just me
White paint stroked over fabric sheets
Under reflections showing desolation on
Salford streets
I am a man who paints what he sees
Like children running around with funny knees
Matchstick men and matchstick cats and dogs
To children on the ***** streets with sparkling clogs
I know I seem a disappointment to you
But when your gone my images the world will finally view
Those funny people, animals and smoke
Were done by me, L S Lowry, the maternal joke
lowry painted pictures in his salford town
with his matchstick people. he would jot them down
chimneys from the factories smoking all around
he put them in his pictures set as a backgroud

he just loved to paint on canvas everyday
lowry he was different with his special way
his pictures they remain and now there here to stay
this painter man from salford with his matchstick way
Ryan O'Leary Feb 2019
Just imagine, a three defined
person in one ***. For example.
Joshua Chadley O'Rourke living
in Salford, a Jew Black Irishman.

So, he comes home from work
to find his house graffiti'd in white
paint saying, no blacks no blacks!
on his orangey coloured door!

Hmmm, " Bet you this has got
something to do with Brexit and
no doubt they think I am a DUP
supporter from Enniskillen ".
An Autumn like day (August 28th, 2021)
found me and the missus venturing
along unfamiliar roads.

Said spouse manned wheel of automobile
courting entering land of the lost,
nevertheless experiencing zest
she drove as I determined,
whether we went north, south, east or west

her purposefulness deliberately linkedin
delving off course to test
comfort level, interestingly enough
not experiencing feeling over stressed
possibly because place names
(an abridged version follows)
Green Lane, Perkiomenville,
Sumneytown, Upper Salford,
and Zieglerville somewhat familiar,
thus any uneasiness
(straying off the beaten path)

got put to rest
regarding moseying along
our spontaneous quest,
cuz I trend toward anxiety
(and most likely
would suddenly turn gray)
at prospect of trekking into
hinterlands not many miles
away from the place
the two of us call home.

Joyriding not something we
(meaning said married couple in question)
indulge since cost of fuel thee
cannot deny nearly cost an arm and leg
as one who drives regularly can see
the folly spewing gasoline exhaust
tooling around within 2009 Hyundai Sonata
for no rhyme nor reason unnecessarily re:
leasing gasoline exhaust pollutants

into the atmosphere whereby eco police
unlikely accept me to cop a plea
one garden variety ******
a bloke who strives to exalt glee
crafting poems, and reading as well
ranking his significance no higher than flea
common name for the order Siphonaptera,
dear unknown aforementioned comparison
ye might not agree.

— The End —