"salisbury" poems
while i do love
the taste of unhealthy
t.v. dinners for every meal
and i do enjoy
the slobbery salisbury steaks,
extra salty ramen noodles
and those little tuna cans,
it's great to come home
after a long emotional
roller coaster week
and have abuela cook up
some arroz con garbanzos
and unas buenas chuletas,
get the latest family gossip,
comments on how
el gobernador is being
the biggest pendejo
in power at the moment,
watch the news,
see how many were killed this week,
and just shake our heads
as the island crumbles into Detroit like
madness (at least we've got great beaches),
ah but yes,
abuela's cooking,
what i need to forget
the girl with the pretty hair.
Mar 1, 2014
Mar 1, 2014 at 2:28 PM UTC
soon I found
where you wrote those words
on the back of your hand
soon I found
the black planet
where you reside
soon I found
a child’s sickness
and the comfort it takes
to make one whole
soon I found
that you went with him
with a Salisbury steak
and a name tag that read
husband
soon I found a hole
dug by a badger
I donned its claws with my fingers
I carved a toilet in the corner
I drew your face on the ceiling
soon I found
I was an animal
a boy
alone
soon I found
I was never to be conceived
I was never without legs and feet
I was never meant to
climb out of the black star
soon I found
I would be without you
forever
Mar 7, 2016
Mar 7, 2016 at 7:19 PM UTC
got so drunk at their little, ahem, initiation ceremony: drank a bottle of whiskey when i heard we were going clubbing wearing lycra shorts... the man with the biggest bulge and the biggest stick... never understood male group psychology... or any group psychology for that matter... it isn't exactly a throng of noblemen following Henry VIII.
i joined the lacrosse university team
for a bit,
left it when the time came to buy the
equipment - i didn't think getting
smacked by the defenders' longer sticks
was worth it, to be a striker with the shortest
stick - too physical - i thought i'd seek
some other physicality,
got stuck-up on rock climbing, and mountaineering
for a while, nothing serious,
a bit of easy bouldering on the edinbrugh crag,
the one lining the skyline at holyrood park,
the salisbury crag, just west of arthur's seat -
i'm not going to lie about clinging off the
matterhorn or something -
but i did an expedition with the mountaineering
club near Ben Nevis once...
Glen Coe / Coire nan Lochan...
and i figured, with all this talk of light pollution,
well, "pollution", to think that a bunch of
street lamps can blind away the stars of what
former poets spoke of: about the illumination
of the heavens for the blind eye to see...
we camped outside one bothy (basic shelter)
set off fireworks, drank whiskey, played music,
burnt a fire in the bothy...
but to be honest... i was not amused by this whole
theory of light pollution...
i looked up at the sky, and the number of stars
was no greater than the number seen in a bright
lit city... i know they say all those telescopes
amplify the chance of peering into the heavens
at night and see more stars...
but why cite light pollution, when, in a remote
highland hideout the number of stars didn't
increase in number... i've heard a girl from
australia cite that, in the outback she said
more stars could be seen... even without a telescope...
so the scottish highlands are unlike the australian
outback? is it just me... or is it simply ********
this whole light pollution argument?
it was dark out there like in an **** after black coffee
and charcoal tablets.
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 6:45 PM UTC
"This is a song..."
"This is uhh, This is a new song..."
"It's through the eyes of one of the greatest people alive, I feel..."
"The Lunchlady"
[Laughing]
Woke up in the morning
Put on my new plastic glove
Served some reheated salisbury steak
With a little slice of love
Got no clue what the chicken *** pie is made of
Just know everything's doing fine
Down here in Lunchlady Land
Well I wear this net on my head
'Cause my red hair is fallin' out
I wear these brown orthopedic shoes
'Cause I got a bad case of the gout
I know you want seconds on the corndogs
But there's no reason to shout
Everybody gets enough food
Down here in Lunchlady Land
Well yesterday's meatloaf is today's sloppy joes
And my breath reeks of tuna
And there's lots of black hairs coming out of my nose
In Lunchlady Land your dreams come true
Clouds made of carrots and peas
Mountains built of shepherds pie
And rivers made of macaroni and cheese
But don't forget to return your trays
And try to ignore my gum disease
No student can escape the magic of Lunchlady Land
Hoagies & grinders, hoagies & grinders
Hoagies & grinders, hoagies & grinders
Navy beans, navy beans, navy beans
Hoagies & grinders, hoagies & grinders
Navy beans, navy beans
Meatloaf sandwich
sloppy joe, slop, sloppy joe
sloppy joe, slop, sloppy joe
sloppy joe, slop, sloppy joe
sloppy joe, slop, sloppy joe
Well I dreamt one morning
That I woke up to see
All the pepperoni pizza
Was a-looking at me
It screamed, why do you burn me
And serve me up cold
I said I got the spatula
Just do what you're told
Then the liver & onions
Started joining the fight
And the chocolate pudding
Pushed me with all its might
And the chop suey slapped me
And it kicked me in the head
It's called revenge Lunchlady
Said the garlic bread
I said what did I do
To make you all so mad
They said you got flabby arms
And your breath is bad
Then the green beans said
You better run and hide
But then my friend sloppy joe came
And joined my side
He said if it wasn't for the Lunchlady
The kids wouldn't eatcha
You should be shakin' her hand
And sayin' please to meet ya
She gives you a purpose
And she gives you a goal
You should be kissin' her feet
And kissin' her mole
Now all the angry foods
Just leave me alone
And we all live together
In a happy home
Thanks to
sloppy joe, slop, sloppy joe
sloppy joe, slop, sloppy joe
sloppy joe, slop, sloppy joe
sloppy joe, slop, sloppy joe
[Spoken]
Well me & sloppy joe got married
We got six kids and we're doing' just fine
Down in Lunchlady Land
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 6:45 PM UTC
Here, on the flatlands
I was put in my place.
formed and pressed
into their neat and presumably safe little box.
It's all they knew.
It is so hard to think of them as once children themselves,
formed and pressed.
Formed from a different time, with different conformists.
There are no manuals when we are born,
you get leftover instructions from previous pipe fitters.
Agrarian raised, like grain fed beef.
Complete with the fears and habits of bygone generations.
I leave one bite of each item on my plate,
with just enough drink to wash it all down.
I have done that as long as I can remember.
I want the whole candy bar, rather than just a bite.
Pressed and formed my Father saves.
He saves twist ties from bread bags.
He saves old welcome mats, and garage door openers.
He buys in bulk, and has two deep freezers full.
Full of freezer burn, tasteless, barely nutritious,
neatly formed and pressed portions of frozen in time Salisbury steak.
It is as if he himself would like to be frozen in time.
He is a depressionite child.
In the basement there is an old dresser that he found at a yard sale.
He painted it a hideous green,
but it has a formed and pressed neat white little doily on top.
In the top drawer there are various expired drugstore items,
some dating as far back as 35 years ago.
"You never know when you might need something in there."
Expired aspirin that has broken down into powder and smells of vinegar.
Vicks Vaporub, in the pretty blue glass jar, that is dried up and orderless.
All brand new and have never been opened.
Formed and pressed neatly in their little containers.
I watch these molders of my life slowly pass away,
becoming neatly formed and packed into their aging corner of the world,
neatly formed and packed into a stereotypical old folks home.
Forgotten, in the way, slow, aching.
Soon all they will have will be memories.
Soon all they will need will be memories.
Neatly formed and packed in their aging minds.
And then, like a comet that has shuttled through space
for thousands of years, millions of years,
they will burn out and fade into dust.
And their whole lives
will be neatly formed and packed
away,
in a trunk
in the attic,
to be opened like a time capsule,
at a later date.
the result of a week with my 94 yr old Parents
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 4:32 AM UTC
Robin Hood's Ball
there is a stretch of land
built by ancient calloused hand
4000 years before the year of the Lord
just north of Stonehenge in that accord
and nearly one thousand years before
on Salisbury Plain and right next door
a part of Wiltshire England town
and shares a name of the renown
folklored bandit who helped the poor
though no real connection of that they're sure
it's purpose of use not really very clear
a neolithic causewayed enclosure here
a circuit of ditches encasing each on the sides
meeting in the center for a gathering of tribes
built in the transitional period before the pyramids
from hunter gatherers to permanent settle with kids
Gomer LePoet ....
Oct 25, 2011
Oct 25, 2011 at 9:08 PM UTC
Stranger in a strange land
Roaming the halls.
Lost between the feet of giants.
Outnumbered. Outmatched.
The lunchroom.
Already?
Where to sit? Who to talk to?
Salisbury steak. Yes.
Always analyzing.
Sitting with seniors.
How’d that happen?
Their excitement is my fear.
A friend. Finally.
Becky.
Yellow vehicle of safety.
Home.
I made it.
Only 719 more days to go.
Jan 31, 2013
Jan 31, 2013 at 7:52 PM UTC
MY OWN PRIVATE PRESIDENT TRUMP
Oh the lies lies and ****
statistics of you!
You tell a better lie
than I can tell the honest truth.
"I didn't say that...I never
said that!"
The Trump...the whole Trump and
nothing but the Trump.
So - help me God!
The outright lies of you
the half-truths...evasions...obfuscations
the lie so
see-through
the Russians have a word
for it - VRANYO.
That is to tell a lie that you do not
expect anyone to believe
the totally transparent
told purely to save face.
Although you do do - LOZH
the straightforward lie.
Or MASKIROVKA
the "little masquerade."
The Salisbury Cathedral
Spire of you.
The fake news
of you.
Well listen Buddy
I can't spare a mind.
And I've just quit
this friendship.
Oct 8, 2018
Oct 8, 2018 at 3:42 PM UTC
you know those tv dinners?
the ones with the
corn
mashaed potatoes
and salisbury steak?
the meat is soaked
with
that weird brown
liquid they call
'gravy' ( though it really isn't)
and it's all very
fine and sloppy and it feels
like chewing
cardboard that's been
left under the rain.
the corn
is fresh (though it really isn't)
and the potatoes
are... edible
i suppose (though it really isn't).
yeah,
those tv dinners.
well
they keep me fed
so
i guess that's ok.
i'll have one for dinner
every night
because there's no time to cook.
salisbury steak,
the one that comes in the red box,
that's my favorite.
feast produced
(not cooked because
i'm sure they're made
in some sick scientist's lab)
for champions
(because only
a
true champion
can
digest this stuff
well)!
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 3:45 PM UTC
in the tauntingly quiet
florescent hospital hum
waiting for a hospice bed
people floated in and out
along with the scents of disinfectant and Salisbury steak
all spoke, in muted tones, words moving
through the liquid silver air of the night
they would squeeze your hand, gently
maybe casting a glance my way
before they walked into the dead vinyl tile halls
to the white squeaking sounds of faceless nurses’ shoes
where the obligated visitors would
breathe a proverbial sigh of relief
for they did not want to be there
at the moment
at the horizon between the slits in your eyes
imagining the ones behind the walls
and across the hills you would never again see
I would be there,
recalling horizons we had seen together
perhaps with you in my arms
before words built walls between us
and years were soaked up like desert rain
after seasons of doubt and drought
I wondered if you would ask me again
or if I would say yes this time
and if that would be enough
to release you
surely, I gave you life
another father and I both did, I suppose
could I take it as well
if you asked me again,
to increase the drowsing drip
of modern Morpheus’ elixir?
Nov 28, 2011
Nov 28, 2011 at 10:42 PM UTC
Once, upon the Salisbury plain,
the English Elms stood stately tall.
Sergent's paintings leave us memories
for there are now few left at all.
Perhaps when you were young you spent
Long summer days beneath their shade.
Then a fungus left them bare
and horticulturists were dismayed.
In Canada's far North remains
examples of the old Elm Trees
In Amsterdam they cultivate
Elms resistant to disease.
So in our children's children's time
I pray that we might live to see
once again on Salisbury plain
Elms such as live in memory.
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 8:00 AM UTC
I have felt anger, of that I am sure
Though it came and went in gentle tides as if babbling brook
Ever-flowing through the currents of my mind eternally pure
Always a victim of the many rocks and stones thrown in jealousy and rage
Cast by those in awe of the tranquility they caught glimpse of in my honest gaze
Unreachable to their bound and broken hearts, the sight brought envy and despair
And rather seeking peace of their own, they sought only to disturb that which wasn’t theirs
Their bullets only brushed gently against the banks, never breaking upon the shore
And though they pained me as the surface was hit
As they lay to rest, the pain was no more
Always brief was the anger, as the stones sank below
Raising my waters higher, making my current more strong against their every blow
No, never have I been Angry, though Anger have I felt
But I feel the time is coming, after the injuries that Woman has dealt.
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 1:14 PM UTC
I didn't choose to be son of a scared Jew
and angry Irishman
who never laid a hand on her, even when
she turned the butcher knife on him
when he tried to stop her from slashing
her red wrung wrists
this spectacle in plain view of 5 children for whom "woe is the world" was daily refrain
I recall Father's blood trail on the concrete between our house and the neighbor's, a surgeon not expecting a bleeding Sunday guest,
but my mother's madness didn't rest on the Christian Sabbath, nor on her own
after that, the shrinks did their magic: Mom did the Mellaril march, the Haldol hop, the Stellazine stomp, and the less alliterative Thorazine shuffle
none of those chemically induced dances did a thing to increase the chances for my mother's salvation
soon she was behind the locked doors of "Ward 30," where I visited and Mom told me she had found Jesus
a befuddled revelation since I didn't know she was looking for him--her kin had hung him from a cross and taken the heat ever since
the doctors released her to the street, where she made misty retreat to the hills of Saint Francisco's bay
though she found faint solace in Pacific waters, she would never again see her sons or daughters
half a lifetime later, I found a long lost cousin my mother agreed to see, though not with me, for I was too much a reminder of scars which never heal
she sat with Mother near the end of days, sharing silence, the scent of Salisbury steak, and a view of the distant shore
as my patient cousin rose to leave, my mother finally spoke of a sea she watched turn from cerulean to indigo dusk
childhood beaches my mother did recall: the castles she did craft, the crawling ***** she did follow, the sun bathed sand where she made her bed
far from the one where she now lay, the one in which she would go smoothly into the night, perchance returning to blue waters, where hot blood trails cannot follow
Oct 9, 2017
Oct 9, 2017 at 11:57 PM UTC
The boys ran
After the ball exploded
The bedroom window.
Shattered glass shards
In indiscriminate flight.
The ants re-grouped
To build after
The red-cherry erupted
The hill like Pompei,
Scattering serendipitously.
Grimmacing quarter moon
Pumpkins lay in hodge-podge
Pieces on All Saints Day.
Suitcases, clothes and neckties
Stewn on a runway
Like a kid's bedroom.
We move from order to chaos,
Like the third light
On a match.
I was lead to believe
Displacement Laws,
Science, and regular
Bowels could explain
Explosions,
So we can lift the stones
On Salisbury and Newgrange,
Or re-arrange grains of sand
With projected order.
We only have a beginning
And an end, while living
Through the explosions.
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 8:02 AM UTC
A walk in the streets of Harare,
Once the affectionate him of her,
No longer the beaving heaven,
I used to know,
The pothole infested streets,
And the dilapidated buildings,
Tell the story,
So do the people,
And the atmosphere,
Unfortunate crossfire victims,
Of circumstances,
Poverty is written all over,
Like advertisements on billboards,
Everybody looks like a street kid,
Men, women and children,
Shops are very empty,
Yet pockets are heavily loaded,
When you stand at a shop entrance for a short while,
People come to form a queue behind you,
For anything you need,
The magic process is queuing,
Is this the hand of enemies of freedom,
Apostles of oppression,
Through out the lengths and breadths of Salisbury,
In homes, garages, Hospitals, at funerals,
Queues are the order of the day,
Harare lived,
And Harare led,
One time humble midwife,
For the restoration of your people’s peace,
An important part of their mortal bodies,
You are now a dry season for everybody,
What has now gone wrong Harare,
Who is responsible,
You decided to become nothing,
And you have become the best nothing,
Who is responsible Harare,
Shame on you.
Mar 13, 2015
Mar 13, 2015 at 7:21 AM UTC
If we are mark’d to die, we are enow
To do our country loss; and if to live
The fewer men, the greater share of honour.
God’s will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.
By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,
Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;
It yearns me not if men my garments wear;
Such outward things dwell not in my desires:
But if it be a sin to covet honour,
I am the most offending soul alive.
No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England:
God’s peace! I would not lose so great an honour
As one man more, methinks, would share from me
For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more!
Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,
That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
Let him depart; his passport shall be made
And crowns for convoy put into his purse:
We would not die in that man’s company
That fears his fellowship to die with us.
This day is call’d the feast of Crispian:
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when this day is named,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbors,
And say ‘Tomorrow is Saint Crispian:’
Then he will strip his sleeve and show his scars,
And say ‘These wounds I had on Crispin’s day.’
Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot,
But he’ll remember with advantages
What feats he did that day: then shall our names
Familiar in his mouth as household words:
Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester,
Be in their flowing cups freshly remember’d,
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remembered;
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition:
And gentlemen in England now abed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.
May 30, 2022
May 30, 2022 at 9:36 AM UTC
Sycophants and Salisbury!
What does the basket in your heart hold?
Doris Dearess,
The where has gone
And sold away the wind.
Now my little hairs
Stand cold,
And I feel older than old.
May 12, 2021
May 12, 2021 at 12:03 PM UTC
Once again the
lights go out
like fought-out
children in
divorce.
Twice again the
lantern masks
it's ambiguity
in laughter
from a
solid source.
Thrice the country
rises round ye olde
England, Richards
ground. The author
contemplates a paint
roller moving on its
own like bullets
once the shooter's
made a drum-roll
cease.
Mar 27, 2013
Mar 27, 2013 at 4:22 PM UTC
The money-changers, chased from the temple
and since that time, it's never been that simple
Always at the forefront, conniving, profit margins
mankind always looking, for, financial bargains
The greed and avarice, of the rich, the few
****** everyone else, for a buck, or two
I'm sure there was at least one, erstwhile hot dog vendor
getting the maximum profit, unwilling to surrender
Selling his wares, and feeling justified
there at Salisbury hill, as Jesus, crucified
Jul 26, 2017
Jul 26, 2017 at 11:01 AM UTC
Solstice midsummer is famous for revelry around the stones
The sacred stones on Salisbury plain
Laid as monuments by our ancestral people
The henge of countless moons and previous seasonal
wheel turns stands steadfast
Silently they hold the history we crave to unravel
The years of news, turmoil and worship
The rising and setting of our life-giving sun
The bitter cold winters, likewise winter solstice
Where few find solace holding their offerings
Or enjoying the feeble warmth from a far away star
The nature of Stonehenge carries the enigma
Which makes it special, mysterious and commands
Respect, awe and love
I believe like it's close neighbour Avebury
The Henge will remain enigmatic
A giant in the soil of the flat plains
Certain to give us the love it once received from Druidic
Peoples laying down their hopes and their wishes
Spending time absorbing, making and mending
Rekindling the connections around themselves
With the earth, through this massive conduit
The sacred stones everywhere hold their story
Close to their chest, the mirrored knowledge
That embraced the folk that built the magickal elements
Will be there for ever
Claiming the fascination of the masses but the respect
Of few that understand the real Stonehenge
Jul 7, 2018
Jul 7, 2018 at 5:15 AM UTC
My mind isn't at ease
It has sailed from Salisbury to Atlanta to eclogue of Greenwich
What has religion defamed me into,
I seek the meaning of life;
I had a tree back in the Indian Summers of May,
It had dried and summoned poison in recluse,
It is dead.
Jul 6, 2019
Jul 6, 2019 at 12:22 PM UTC
the guy sits
by the window as a car drives by and the rain pours gently
on the street.
he says
'' I'm tired of waiting here'
and then promptly
pats his own shoulder.
the light dimly blinks , and fly buzzes in the corner;
mildew collects under the sink faucet,
then in
walks the nurse.
''I HAVE YOUR PILLS ready MR. DOVER''
''why thank you m'lady''.
mr.dover swallows the pills,
black and shiny.
''ahhhhh thank you m'lady, just what I needed''.
The nurses' face remains pulled tight and she nods and walks back out into the lobby where she then interacts with another patient
morbidly obese and frothing,
then the door closes and mr. dover is alone.
''hmmmm,, what shall I do now?''
Mr. dover looks around and notices a magazine with a CUTE girl on the front. Asian, of about 14 years old, or maybe older; they all look young.
'''AHHHH yesss.''
He then tugs on his 12 inch ***** for some time,
and itches his ***** the light flickers dimly as usual,
and truck passes by. A scream is heard in the distance, and mr.dover times his *********** accordingly;
then without warning,
the nurse reappaears.
''MR. DOVER. I HAVE SALISBURY STEAK FOR YOU? WITH GRAVY I PRESUME?''
'uhhh yes mam, yes mam'
She drops the steak directly on his crotch and pours the hot gravy on his belly where it pools into his naval.
''My god! woman! directly into my naval?!! why that hurts!!! OWWWW!!''
''I'M SORRY MR. DOVER. I APOLOGIZE! I APOLOGIZE!''
the nurse then pulls out a luger
from her back pocket and loads it with a round. Mr.dover and the nurse maintain eye-contact for about 20 seconds
, before she pulls the trigger and her brain matter is projected onto a market board behind her.
She falls to the floor and a blood pool forms and she convulses violently before all movement ceases within a manner of seconds.
mr.dover, with his gaze fixed at the body is unperturbed,
and calmly spoons a bit of salisbursy steak into his mouth.
He collects some of the gravy and mixes it with the steak and eats it some more.
After he is done, he washes his plate and pats the nurse on the shoulder.
''you had such lovely eyes,
too bad you settled for this **** But it was all you could do?''
The door opens,
and Dover steps out,
then eventually finds himself in the parking garage. He gets in his green Toyota
and drives off whilst loudly belching from the Salisbury
steak and gravy as the
rain patters on the window.
May 24, 2018
May 24, 2018 at 7:19 PM UTC
I was born in Salisbury,
Salisbury,
I was born in Salisbury
And no one knows me there.
There’s no money in Spencer,
Spencer
There’s no money in Spencer
Everyone thinks that’s fair.
Granite Quarry is still there,
still there.
Granite Quarry is still there,
And so’s my fam’ly, too.
There’s strangers now in Charlotte,
Charlotte,
There’s strangers now in Charlotte
And they don’t even care.
Copyright © 2018 - Zane Safrit - All rights reserved.
Jun 3, 2018
Jun 3, 2018 at 7:36 PM UTC