"salford" poems
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.
Jun 3, 2016
Jun 3, 2016 at 10:34 AM UTC
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.
Jul 25, 2016
Jul 25, 2016 at 2:57 PM UTC
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 **** you 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.
Aug 16, 2011
Aug 16, 2011 at 5:01 PM UTC
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
Apr 7, 2010
Apr 7, 2010 at 8:16 AM UTC
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!
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 10:40 PM UTC
on the platform
a girl drops a pink tissue
and it lies there,
all scrunched up like a rose
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 8:06 AM UTC
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.
Jan 4, 2018
Jan 4, 2018 at 2:07 PM UTC
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.
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 8:30 AM UTC
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
Nov 10, 2016
Nov 10, 2016 at 8:08 AM UTC