Thomas William Edge

Archive for the ‘Uncategorized’ Category


In Uncategorized on September 29, 2012 at 2:22 pm

I don’t know what I’m


reverse engineering?

You took away my sight

then you took away my steering.

I can’t move a muscle

and I’ve turned God-fearing.

Whenever I see your smile

I can sense the end is nearing. 



In Uncategorized on June 26, 2012 at 1:14 pm

Barbecue ribs

stripped to the bone,

like a withered legacy

on a withered throne.


In Uncategorized on February 22, 2012 at 8:57 am


The jingle jangle

of the jester;

court-appointed, mandated pester,

comic foil – your uncle fester,

performing clown, King’s patience tester.

On borrowed time, a short semester.

A smile as fake as polyester.

To face the throwing-fruit investors.


The vibrant colours

of the fool,

high-in-demand, stand in queue.

An easy target on his stool.

Knock him down, if you’re so cruel

to see him fall into the pool.

Teach a lesson not taught in school.

He’d rather play a game with rules.


Another go!


 ‘He wants more gruel!’



New Poem

In Uncategorized on February 22, 2012 at 8:21 am

I rolled the dice

on a beautiful thing,

gambled all and won only

ribbons and string.

I took a chance  to double my odds.

Offended the heavens 

and angered the gods.

I siphoned money from the

bottomless pit.

Never stole, simply borrowed it.

I span the gun – the chamber loaded.

Shot down your trust.

Our love eroded.

Miss Jackpot sang the most wonderful


But of course – only after I’d left the room.



Poetry Pt 28

In Uncategorized on January 30, 2011 at 12:24 am


I found the phone number of God,

scribbled on some park bench

In a Salford Garden, in falling rain,

Running my fingers over scratched digits

I felt the splintered grain.

A feeling I would know again when I rang that number and no answer came.



Poetry Pt 26

In Uncategorized on February 9, 2010 at 7:49 pm

Civil roses coil into barbs,
brutally rooted in a city soil
of red hot sweat and overflowing engine oil.
Where honey boils into bars
of Gold too hot to touch or mold
which are thrown directly at the Throne
and scold the King who’s far too royal
to ever realize he’s spoiled
this glorious garden that he built
where seeds aren’t scattered but rather spilt;
Where Kingdoms rise
and Roses wilt
On his throne the crow king lilts
On his own, his knowing guilt.

Poetry Pt 25

In Uncategorized on February 9, 2010 at 7:44 pm

The water spat
out from the ground
where children sat in their apple-seed skirts,
not far a reach from where Gold was found,
and near the well tumbling dryly down,
down into the infertile mound;
signposted: Doyle’s post-harvest town

It’s a miracle that no one drowned,
preached the Vicar on his desolate pew
precisely where he had found God too.
Nobody even heard a sound, those little angels,
and then he frowned,
for their meat aren’t worth a pound in price,
but to save this infertile mound, their sacrifice,
is all our God finds too suffice.

See these oily mountain tops,
so slick with rain the trains must stop,
else off the slopes,
they’ll fall and plummet!
Your stomach drops.
A far cry from Doyle,
see these….starving starch ethiopes,
pale-white, wilting thunder bolts,
that Zeus himself would disown,

The Vicar’s pulls the pages back,
on his bible, bound and black;
and with his thumb, just like a tack,
traps a page and reads it forth and back.
In his wisdom, now he sees,
there is no cure for this disease;
but, like all wounds, it can be addressed,
just as a white bandage tightly pressed
around his throat.

The ink stops spilling
from the quill.
The author retires to bed
he is desperately ill.

Early one morning a Child (Sabine)
whilst playing near the deep ravine,
found a body by the rocks,
with silver hair and whitest socks;
and as she called,
the towns people came,
though, they were slowed down by the torrents of rain;
But as they carried the body away,
Sabine could hear a grownup say
‘In the end, he got his way,
we’ll have our Harvest once again,’

Poetry Pt 23

In Uncategorized on December 29, 2009 at 4:35 pm

Once upon a windy walk,

I found myself lost in the land where Mother talks

of bells of butterflies,

and subtle shells of chalk,

the daffodils, the roses, smells of champagne corked;

a ray of light came weaving past,

as a Halo cursed around the trunk

of the biggest tree,

sap dripping fast,

into our mouths, drowning me.

The rain kept beating like a nurse

to dress the wounds of Summer’s curse,

a bead of sweat from Mothers’ brow, tippled of

the bow, and landed curiously, somehow,

on the palm of my hand,

like a hand in a hand,

and it was then that I knew My Garden,

had been miraculously planned

from that very first seed;

like the Children in our minds;

blossomed from the virginal thought,

where Nature grows,

by bud, blossom and rose

coincidence is naught

and neither is Prose.

Poetry Pt 17

In Uncategorized on October 10, 2009 at 6:20 pm

Ted Bundy
and his Friends
show no remorse
so why bother flogging a dead horse?

Poetry Pt 15

In Uncategorized on October 7, 2009 at 4:13 pm

Van Helsing
goes through life,
killing all culture ’cause he lost a wife!
Disturbing peaceful corpses as they lay
and leading honorable men, Doctors and Gentry astray
to conduct his odd phil-oss-o’-phay.
He roams at night
and Sleeps by day.
Foul creatures of the Night betray
Your Dracula
and with Van Helsing stay.