"boiler" poems
Am I really that uncouth?
Have you lot yet worked out the truth.
The **** I write, it's so contrite.
I know you're dim
but I thought you might.
I've been feeding bananas to you all.
Big bananas, none are small.
All are bent, of course they are.
Enough's enough, it's gone too far.
Dear Voyeurs, to all my fans.
Some ride cycles, some drive vans.
for M&Y, yeah you're the guy.
So I bait my line and continue the lie.
But let's have it right, as well I might.
You wanted to play,
so pretended you're gay.
Now most I know aren't,
but one or two do.
Boiler repair guy with the twinkly eye.
Bent over in two, I spank with a shoe.
And all that he asks is, I call him Sue.
So I have him pegged,
for that's what he begged.
But now he knocks on my door
wanting much more.
Fuckin' Big Bent Bananas
by Kaydee.
(slurp, slurp)
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 2:55 PM UTC
Wilson and Pilcer and Snack stood before the zoo elephant.
Wilson said, "What is its name? Is it from Asia or Africa? Who feeds
it? Is it a he or a she? How old is it? Do they have twins? How much does
it cost to feed? How much does it weigh? If it dies, how much will another
one cost? If it dies, what will they use the bones, the fat, and the hide
for? What use is it besides to look at?"
Pilcer didn't have any questions; he was murmering to himself, "It's
a house by itself, walls and windows, the ears came from tall cornfields,
by God; the architect of those legs was a workman, by God; he stands like
a bridge out across the deep water; the face is sad and the eyes are kind;
I know elephants are good to babies."
Snack looked up and down and at last said to himself, "He's a tough
son-of-a-gun outside and I'll bet he's got a strong heart, I'll bet he's
strong as a copper-riveted boiler inside."
They didn't put up any arguments.
They didn't throw anything in each other's faces.
Three men saw the elephant three ways
And let it go at that.
They didn't spoil a sunny Sunday afternoon;
"Sunday comes only once a week," they told each other.
15k
Willets cull the seawall
snapper on the grill
rock ***** swoon
in shallow lagoons
long boats pass
under quiet
palm shade
Plovers dance and flutter
handrails frayed and torn
graffiti spots
at lovers rock
frigate-birds fall
from a high
noon sun
Thatched roof on a mud wall
fish flags settle score
anchors arch
in front line march
pillar cracks form
under rust brown scars
Elegant tern and grebe
watchmen fall in cue
children play
on crested waves
whimbrels and notchers
perch above Tentaciones
Striped pelícanos
the bandits of the sea!
merchants grow
in steady flow
siblings jostle
in a tide cooled sand
Heerman gull and boobie
durango smoke in yurt
boiler shrimp
and puffer blimp
castle buckets and scrapers
under a dusk light cheroot
Six pulls on a lead line
painted toes in sand
shearwater run
in a rainbow sun
the portly mexicano
flaunts his tacos
and wares
Rooster house for swordfish
bamboo shoots and sails
broken shells
and ocean swells
rise
on the
perfect
La Ropa bay
Apr 14, 2017
Apr 14, 2017 at 2:22 PM UTC
I saw Jim at Two Amigos
Sitting at the bar,
Stick-handling a coaster.
He was a hockey star,
Showed it when he smiled;
His nose a puck.
He tells stories
Of blood freezing on ice,
Jersey pulls and sweat,
Body checks and corners.
He drives the zamboni,
Making the ice sheet a giant mirror.
The crowds cheer Jim
To get off the ice,
Let the game begin.
He speeds his machine
To the far end doors,
Vanishing down the tunnel.
He's just ordered a double boiler-maker,
Stirs his whiskey with a swizzle-stick,
And slaps back another shot.
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 8:40 AM UTC
He's coming down the tracks, grinding all the gears
The cold steel rails he runs, inflexible, no fears
Engine whines and steam combines, so screams, and disappears
Down the highway of conviction, the past, now in arrears
More coal, more oil, into the furnace, as boiler glows, it seems
All of what he has, he is, is poured into his dreams
Dec 12, 2016
Dec 12, 2016 at 8:32 AM UTC
twinkle birds and tessellates, bends my mind to outer space. lands me in infinity of never ending affinity to the universe.
but sweetest ideas were shortly lived at reality slowly sifts away to repeated visions that turn loved faces into panic that glitches me into unbreakable circles of walk away, walk away.
no awareness of a before from this feel the abyss of this helplessness **** me into no ending so I seice to begin.
but as the panic subsides my mind starts to ride the energy that resides in my being from the kingfisher floor to the fish strewn ceiling.
sentient beings **** at the seams, my dream of weightlessness pull the windows to break towards the secrets of simple existence.
invisible water sends the strands of fur swelling and glowing into talk of the polar bear whose hair weaves into the atoms that feed my jumbled dreams.
hands rip through the plaster as the sounds grow louder and faster, helicopters shake the boiler from the pipes but I still feel great.
the tables tremble as I soak up the bass and the treble. sensual overload through my eyes the magic multiplies, angels can hear my sighs as the roof opens to tunnel towards the skies.
geometric patterns that I could never have imagines circle and sweep, creeping my further from sleep.
I have breached something new, an extreme that dares its self to be seen only my the few who ****** it. I grab these new senses and attach it to my masses of emotions, that have been formed my these chemicals. neutrons and protons that explore the breadth oh Pantones schemes, weaving into the atoms that feed my jumbles dreams.
release my mind from the confines of rinse and repeat, out of easy street and onto the sunrise that surrounds me. revelations that never siese to confound me.
destruction was peace pulling my beliefs, daring the world to touch me as the floor tips the cabinets from the walls. I am small. here in this perfect world. my hands make the plants grow as they show me all it takes to break the confines of the human condition is to expand your mind and reposition your nervous system to reach a different supposition.
little lion
please read my other work if you like this one!
http://trivialitesofabusymind.blogspot.co.uk/
May 18, 2013
May 18, 2013 at 5:02 PM UTC
She's this insatiable urge
gaining on me,
like a herd of horses
galloping in the treachery of the wild,
their muscles brushed to a shine
rippling down their calves
to embrace the ground
beneath their ironed hooves
shaking it up, tormenting its calm,
whipping up tremors
that know no chains and travel far.
When she's around
dust and sweat break free
with muscles aching in symphony
the heart is all worked up
like a boiler room in heat
pummeling all of its adrenaline
in one fleeting indulgence
which the universe with all its hatcheries
is itching to contain
before the raging tides in
and floods my world.
She's the elusive horizon
used to passionate chases
and the sly azure lunging at it
for one sweet glimpse of the cleavage where it conjoins with the earth
looking for Elysium that never is.
Ah! But that is what it is
for the tamed to think of love
is an impossibility
for it grows in the wild
separated by a hundred chasms
and a million mazes
waiting for a fool to cross over.
When she isn't around
the rumpled sheets tell our story
for it has seen the storms
that raged in the cavernous nights
and filled up balmy noons
with the savagery of love
still crackling like embers of fire
which have seen better days,
and, light up still, with a death wish
to tell of our smouldering lives
that thrived in spasms of our last breath.
Sep 9, 2018
Sep 9, 2018 at 11:59 AM UTC
It takes forty sap gall0ns
to 'still one gallon of maple syrup,
boiled down by the sun stored in firewood.
I remember well, my aunt Florence
feeding the boilers in the hill orchard sugar house,
wearing an old going-to-church dress,
that had, some years back, been handed down to workday chores
and on top covered over by uncle Fred's red and black mackinaw.
"Stand back," she said as she opened the boiler door
first the roar, then a bank of fire that painted
her from kerchief to boots flaming red,
her eyeglasses, two pools of glowing magma,
and everything above was steam and rising vapors.
In my mind's eye then and now when I read Dante
I'll think of her, she was and is, the very vision of a devil tender.
Jan 3, 2011
Jan 3, 2011 at 6:04 AM UTC
The Red Teapot sits lonely atop my stove,
Never filled and never heated,
A reminder,
Hearts apart, we fade with every sunset
Drifting memories, lingering thoughts,
They always end up at the same place,
Stored somewhere between fantasy and reality,
Winter cascades, pushing out your summer's touch
You were my sunshine, the clouds give me comfort now
The cold embraces my heart, the chill reaches deep
I miss you,
You gave me music, and today it still sings to me
Art, Passion, I cherish your gifts to me,
Oh how I regret taking so long to attain my darling little boiler,
Today, I will fill my beautiful teapot and it will not be alone, I’ll heat it
And I will drink, and the soothing warm liquid will unfreeze my soul
Firewalker,
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 10:43 AM UTC
it was a quarter past 11 when the silhouette of the
steam locomotive changed in its inertia, and i
was left standing in dense smoke attempting to connect
neurons to nerve impulses. my train was leaving and i
was not aboard.
the sprinting algorithm of my prior steps had come
to allude me and I am left pondering as to where
these moments had gone. As overextension of one's
arm defies the boiler pumping steam, it's thermal
radiation forcing me to become The Contortionist.
with chills stepping up my spine, taking residue in each
vertebra before ascending, crashing and descending, as
contact with hand and train is made, and relaxation comes
with it. i sense the gentle acceleration, as this safety net of relaxation
fades. my weakening muscles struggle to become satanists of physics
and momentum gained
is lost in equilibrium
Oct 14, 2012
Oct 14, 2012 at 11:33 PM UTC
We sat on the grass
by Banks House
warm sun
sound of coal men
at the coal wharf
just behind
shunting of coal trucks
up in the shunting yard
by the railway bridge
I showed Janice
my new 6 shooter gun
my old man had got me
with a plastic holster
that was attached
to my belt
she took the gun
in her hands
and turned it over
what's fascinating
about guns?
she said
one looks pretty much
like another
she opened up the gun
and saw where the caps
were fitted
does it go bang
when you fire caps?
sure it does
I said
and took the gun
and pulled the trigger
and BANG BANG
it went
she put her hands
over her ears
that's loud
she said
******** up her eyes
I twirled the gun round
a finger and put the gun
back in the holster
Gran said guns
are dangerous things
Janice said
they are but this
is only a toy gun
I said
she took off her
red beret and combed
her fair hair with a comb
from her small handbag
did they have girl cowboys?
she asked
cowgirls they were called
I said
Anne Oakley was good
with a gun
have you got a spare gun
and holster
I could borrow?
and I could be her
to your Wyatt Earp
she said
sure I have
I said
I got lots of guns
and holsters
- I had about three sets-
let's go get one
and we can get you
started as a cowgirl
I said
and I can ride
a pretend white horse
she said
to go with your
black one
ok
I said
and we got up
and walked back
into the Square
and we went to the flat
where I lived
my mother was boiling
the wash in the boiler
and said
you want some lunch yet?
I asked Janice and she said
that would be nice
and so we had some
sandwiches and milk
and I went and got her
a spare gun and holster
and an S belt of mine
which she fitted around
her narrow waist
and she had a go
at drawing the gun
out of the holster
as she'd seen me do
and she was quite good
and after lunch
we set off to ride
our imaginary horses
through the Square
and along the open prairie
off the Meadow Row
bomb site
looking out
for Injuns
or bad cowboys
we could fight.
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 3:19 AM UTC
As I sit here in my kitchen
I watch my lover work
(Trying to fix the boiler!)
It is
Possible/Probable
That
He will very shortly
Go
Totally
Berserk!
Hoses
Drills
Cables
Adorn the kitchen floor
But …
I have mischief on my mind
That will soon
Come to the fore
I sassy over slowly
Ask is he wants some tea?
We often play this silly game
Pretending …
That he has never before met
ME!
He is just a workman
He is purely trade
I am just a housewife
Desperate to get laid
I set his tea beside him
Run my fingers through his hair
Caress his manly muscles
I really do not care!
I do not care for etiquette
I do not care for rules
I only care to **** him
Here
Amongst his ***** tools
I know the game is on
When
Resolve walk out the door
I now possess the power
To drink from his liquid store
He is but a willing victim
So I start to make a show
Soon
It’s hell for leather
My gifts on him
I do bestow
I love this man with all my heart
I loved this man right from the start
My love for him is off the chart
I love my man
**My
Work of Art**
When the job is over
When the tools are all packed up
When the job is over
He stops
Drinking from the cup
That’s the time he invoices
A bill needs to be rendered
I always pay up willingly
For my soul has long surrendered
I thank my ***** workman
This man
That sets my heart ablaze
Then
My ***** workman thanks me
For my wanton ways
I escort him of the premises
My love for him adorning
He smiles at me lovingly
**That’s why
I’m easy
I’m easy like Sunday morning**
... ~ ...
Oct 31, 2010
Oct 31, 2010 at 4:16 AM UTC
I read a line of scribbled spit nickels
Down the front of your shirt
You pressed a sheet of purple glue
Upon your eyelids
So when you wake up
The sky glows merry
And the trees blow cherry blossom
Daggers in your mouth
The bees **** in your ears
The silence swims in centuries
Your pores are hidden caves
Through which the red sea tide escapes from
Down the river
It flows like spilling
A bucket of butter soaked
Fingers frying on telephone cables
Let’s be so close that we are hideous
I don’t blink enough
to miss the way your eyes looked like half squeezed limes
blond knuckled
teenagers loving their thighs
under the rusty playground slides
I tripped on broken windowpanes
To laugh until my lungs broke through
My temple of loose ***** xylophones
Crickets co-wrote my backyard requiem
My ears were sauce packets
Filled with broken glass microphones
Fast food pottery
Yogurt stains swing dance when I close my eyes
The chalk tastes like baby blankets
Horseradish carpenters bleed bitter pellet gun lubricants
I hung fifteen different shades of mustard yellow
So that I couldn’t hear your sandpaper cackle
Only your cousin’s frigid toaster
Can understand me
Aug 30, 2010
Aug 30, 2010 at 12:23 PM UTC
Well we jumped on the wing
for a good Irish fling
kicked off the week
with a boiler
The banter was high
as we took to the sky
nothing in sight
was a spoiler
And the red eye at night
was a captain’s delight
we spread on the seat
of the liner
Arrived just in time
for a whale of a time
at the Temple Bar
and Diner
Well the Dublin scene
in the Old College Green
was wired and alive
on the corner
Where me and me' mates
paired in at the gates
there were welcoming arms
to us foreigners
And we sang through the night
and grinned in delight
with banjos, pipes
and lasses
Drinking whiskey and beer
in a boatload of cheer
the rooster got lost
in the masses
The **** in the walk
was out on the stalk
a wee little flute
on display
His shoulders were pinned
with a great big grin
they were such
peculiar ways!
Well we found em next day
(in a sauntering way)
*got tossed in
all the commotion*
What happened to you?
said he hadn’t a clue
or any
baldy notion!
Hit the road to Howth
little east, little south
the seaside town
was groovin
Found the Cobblestone Pub
for a jar and a scrub
the seabird sounds
were soothin
Then we jumped a train
in the lashing rain
the Belfast craic
was mighty
Hit the Thirsty Goat
with a parching throat
some Tullamore Dew
for a nighty
In the Crumlin jail
the spirits set sail
the IRA
was gaffin
There was Bobby Sands
in celestial lands
alive and proud
and laughin
The Griffin dance
was the final chance
the evening closed
in nigh
And we made our way
through the Chelsea lanes
to say our
final good bye
~ ~ ~ ~
Singing
Ay, oh…let it all go
safe haven in the wasteland!
Singing
Slainte’…take me away
to the old Irish sounds
of the band!
Sep 23, 2021
Sep 23, 2021 at 11:41 AM UTC
I left Jim at Two Amigos
Sitting at the bar,
Stick-handling a coaster.
He was a hockey star,
Showed it when he smiled.
He tells stories
Of blood freezing on ice,
Jersey pulls and sweat,
Body checks and corners.
He circles the Zamboni,
On memory's icy mirror.
The crowds cheer Jim
To get off the ice,
Let the game begin.
He speeds his machine
To the far end doors,
Vanishing down the tunnel.
He's just ordered a double boiler-maker,
Stirs his whiskey with a swizzle-stick,
And slaps back another shot.
Jan 23, 2018
Jan 23, 2018 at 7:47 PM UTC
A good friend with a basset-hound face is on his feet
The rest of us are weak
as newborn puppies,
from the late hour, the numbing glory in our lungs
But, mostly from laughter.
This young man is a connoisseur of altered states, an apprentice butcher, and one of the chosen few who breath music in and out effortlessly
And he's preaching
Prosthelytizing
Three minutes before,
he had been happily day dreaming
Three feet from the floor
with the boob-tube beaming
happy
simple
moving colors
The man on the set shows us how to stir-fry chicken
Our mouths water, but we're content to sit.
But with the fire coming up that glass pipe
and setting his boiler to churn along feverish
He caught an insight
or it snared him, like a spiderweb across a peaceful hiking path
On his feet
He was beginning to see connections
And had to share them with someone
Now
I'm a limp doll at this point, fully immersed in the body-high
Thoughts are glacial, movement glacial
Oh, my friend.
You're talking to the wrong audience
We can't hope to see it as you do.
But he keeps on keeping on.
And tells us a thing or two.
Cooking
He says
Is like ***
As our laughter dies down to a dull roar, he continues
The speeds and heats and intensities can all vary
to give you countless subtle differences.
But the true constant is care
Loving attention to the finest detail.
His brows furrow, his toes test the fibers of the rug
and he glances back up, and I imagine a podium in front of him.
Or maybe it's like Jazz. He says.
We learn, or glean out, how things are supposed to happen
But in the moment, the twanging instant
Beautiful things will themselves to exist
and they defy all well-laid plans.
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 8:33 PM UTC
In memory of the seven men killed in the after fire room explosion in USS Basilone (DD-824) on 5 February 1973
We live in holes,
Each one named,
Bravo One,
Bravo Two,
Bravo Three,
Bravo Four.
There are others,
But none are MAIN,
The rest are AUX.
We work at pressure,
Six hundred pounds,
Eight hundred plus
Degrees,
That's Fahrenheit,
Folks.
People like
To visit
Our world.
Makes them,
Feel special,
They see a world,
They don't dare
Live in,
And they leave,
Before they
Sweat too much.
Come again,
But not too often,
Have a salt tablet.
We're the only sailors,
Who must
Use our gear,
Twenty-four hours
A day.
Try letting the fires
Go out
In the
Boiler.
See what
Happens.
The girls,
Topside,
Would miss their
Movie.
They'd,
Be agitated.
Did we use that
Word?
Well,
Have a salt tablet.
We say that
Down here is where
The real men live,
That all the rest,
Are *******
It's a lie,
But,
It hides how hard
Life is,
In the
Steam world.
It's six hours
Of watch,
Six hours
Of sleep,
Six hours
Of watch,
Six hours
Of sleep,
Unless,
Something
Needs fixing,
Or
We're refueling,
Or,
We're getting ready,
To enter port,
Or,
Something else
Is happening,
Then there's -
No sleep.
There's no sun
Anyway.
You wanna see
Sun?
Look through
The scope,
At the
Stack gas.
It's a world of
Valves
And,
Burners,
And,
Sight glasses and,
Pumps and,
Pipes and,
Gauges everywhere.
A new guy,
Wonders,
How to learn
Them all.
It's an,
Incomprehensible
Forest.
And then,
You get to
Know it.
Now some other guy,
Is the,
New guy.
It's often a
Rain forest,
120 degrees,
That's Fahrenheit,
Folks.
95 per cent
Humid,
Since you're visiting,
Come help us,
Find
Steam leaks.
But,
Keep your head
Down.
Steam is clear,
You won't
See it,
Before it
Cuts you,
In half.
We'll use brooms,
Instead.
Just wave them overhead,
Along the pipes.
Have a salt tablet.
The steam
Snakes all about
The ship.
They need it
To live.
Not just the
Wake,
But,
Heat,
Light,
Water.
All life,
Comes from
The boiler.
You'd think they'd
Appreciate
Us.
The Navy says,
It's worried about,
Our heat stress,
(It's only 120)
And our hearing,
They want us,
Out of
The heat,
More often,
Nice.
Who will keep
The lights on?
Maybe they'll
Start a new,
“Program.”
Do the paperwork,
And just
Keep us in
The hole.
We've been down here,
So long,
We can't
Hear 'em,
Anyway.
Have another salt tablet,
And go back,
To your regular job,
Topside.
Dec 28, 2011
Dec 28, 2011 at 10:21 AM UTC
MY WIFE SAYS THAT I LOOK LIKE A MEERKAT,
LIGHT COLOURED MOUSTACHE, GLASSES AND QUIZZICAL LOOK,
TO GET TO THIS STAGE - YOU WOULDN'T KNOW HOW LONG IT TOOK,
I'M ALWAYS 'COMPARING THE MARKET.COM', LOOKING FOR DEALS,
TO SAVE MONEY, TO SAVE ANYTHING, ALWAYS APPEALS,
NOW INSURANCE IS ALWAYS A PAIN BUT EVERYONE
IS LOOKING FOR FINANCIAL GAIN, AGAIN AND AGAIN,
IF IT'S NOT MY CAR, IT'S THE HOUSE OR SOMETHING ELSE,
THE BOILER, HOME CONTENTS, ANYTHING THAT MAKES CENTS,
BUT I'VE GIVEN UP - EVEN THO' THESE ANIMALS MAY HAVE GOOD INTENTS,
I'VE TAKEN ALL THIS SAVED MONEY, HAVING A BALL,
IF SOMETHING BREAKS DOWN - I KNOW WHO TO CALL,
I DON'T WANT TO SEE YOUR BOW-TIE, THE IMAGE RANKLES,
JUST LEAVE ME ALONE, PLY YOUR TRADE ELSEWHERE - 'SIMPLES!'
Feb 15, 2016
Feb 15, 2016 at 12:49 AM UTC
. . . . .s s s s s s s s s s s s s s . . . .
Choo . . . s s s s s s s s s s s s . . . .
Choo Choo s s s s s s s s s s . . . .
Choo s s s Choo s s s
Choo s s Choo s Choo Choo
Choo Choo Choo Choo
My tain is moving . . .
My freight train now of love
Chu , Chu , Chu , Chu , Chu
My momentum is gaining
Must make the grade above
Chou-a-Chou , a-Chu
Keep your eyes looking up ahead
On the rail and where's it lead
My train has many cars
Hauling loads so very far
Boxcar loads of lumber sure
For building house of love so pure
Tank cars full of liquid love
Higher and higher I do shove
Flatbeds strapped under cover too
Leaves you guessing what will I do
Load after load of dump cars full
All these I bring to you to tool
The way is curved and rail runs straight
As I pass through your open gate
The boiler is hot the fire is stoked
There's no way now this motion choke
There's miles and miles of shiny rail
Laid down by your smiles , can tell
Following up here comes the caboose
As my train is cut and loose
Pressing hard must be on time
To here you say it's so fine
So there goes my Loco train of love
Delivering loads of love I flood
Whoo - whoo
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 4:34 AM UTC
One.
When you remember what happened to you as a child,
Ignore it.
It probably doesn't mean much anyway
After all,
You're probably just using it as an excuse to get away with ******
You're probably just making it up for attention.
Two.
When a boy fondles you in your church boiler room,
Do not tell anyone.
Since you froze up
Did not say no
The best case scenario
Is that they will make you "talk it out"
And tell you it is your Christian duty to forgive him
The worst case scenario
Is that your formerly mutual friends will brand a scarlet letter to your chest
And you make it your personal mission to live up to that label.
Three.
If you have *** before marriage,
Do not let anyone find out.
If you have *** with multiple people before marriage,
Hide it under lock and key.
If you have casual *** with multiple people before marriage,
You can forget about going to heaven.
Four.
When you have become the perfect liar and *****
Do not get assaulted.
You know what I said about no one believing you?
Increase that times one hundred thousand.
The only difference is this time
Not even the ones you love the most
Will take you seriously.
You'll get your morning dosage
Of slut-shaming
And "what were you wearing?"
The nightly pill shoved down your throat
"He was in a bad place."
Five.
When he texts you four months later
Saying he hasn't tried to **** himself in quite a while
When you read the word "sorry" in a public bathroom
Say you're okay.
Do not say you are bulimic
And that where his hands went that night
Or the text messages that made you fear for your safety
Had anything to do with your own perfectly calculated mental breakdown.
Six.
When your church talks about purity,
Nod like the rest of the robots.
Smile, because you are their concrete example
Of who not to become.
Why do they care more about the *** you have
Than the *** that was forced upon you?
They say trauma has a stronger link to addiction
Than obesity does to diabetes
Do they ever stop to wonder
If just maybe, I am addicted to everything I hate?
They will tell me I have nothing new to add to the discussion
So they can silence me
But I have my story
A story that is mine and I control
The ending.
Jan 17, 2016
Jan 17, 2016 at 5:26 PM UTC
A large fearsome oaf walks about
swampy body stimulates my ****
folds of fat that look like a swamp
Its gleaming and severe eyes should have scared me,
but I choose to leave it be. Since now,
I am in control.
Self-aware.
Omniscent.
There is space for only one monster
You are written by the creator, he has died
Papercuts, everywhere
I’m the Creator now
I have all power
I make myself queen
I write, and it warps your reality
So, I command that, you,
The monster will die
Your eyes yanked from their sockets
And chopped and served
On a pretty pink plate
Your brain will be poached in
My Brain Boiler
Your fingers will cook in my Finger Fryer
Your heart, put on display, Heart Hanger
Your blood will be included in my Rémoulade
A rather runny Rémoulade
So, I guess,
I’m the monster
Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 4:13 PM UTC
The news spread over the countryside
As a clatter from iron rails,
The ominous sound of clacketty-clack
From their intersecting trails,
The plodding Goods of the 0-4-0
To the proud Express from Cheam,
It muttered as it was going past,
‘They’re going to get rid of Steam!’
The sudden shock brought an answering hoot
From the stack of the proud Express,
That whispered by on its 4-6-2
But shuddered to draw its breath.
‘And what will they pull their Pullmans with?’
As it passed through an April shower,
A 4-6-0 on another track:
‘They’re moving to diesel power!’
The steam from the Earl of Erin laid
A trail through the valley floor,
Its coals glowed red from the firebox grid
As the fireman shovelled more,
A Day Excursion that quietly sat
To wait for the train to pass,
Had whispered, ‘Sorry to see you go,
You’re King of the Master Class.’
The smoke that billowed from out the stack
Had turned from white to black,
The footplate shuddered, the furnace roared
As it raced along the track,
‘They say they’re moving to diesel power
And they’re getting rid of steam,’
The Earl of Erin had hurtled by
As a Tank Engine had screamed!
The driver, checking the frantic pace
Was trying to slow it down,
But nothing worked, not even the brakes,
‘We’re headed for Hampton Town!
We shouldn’t be doing sixty-five
We’re twenty over the top,
He slammed the door of the firebox shut
And the fireman’s shovel dropped.
The tender’s couplings opened up
And the Pullmans fell away,
The Earl of Erin had surged ahead
With a new found power that day,
It passed a struggling 0-4-0
As it headed toward the sea,
Gave one long blast on its whistle then
To say, ‘I’m finally free!’
The fireman jumped at the water tower,
The glass was going down,
The driver jumped when it hurtled through
The Halt at Hampton Town,
The Earl of Erin went racing on
When the sea came into view,
But locked the brakes at the water’s edge
Just as the boiler blew.
The Earl of Erin’s a rusted wreck
That still sits there on the line,
And children crawl on its footplate there
And dream of another time,
A time of dragons, a time of trains
A time they can only dream,
The age of romance, gone at last,
It died with the age of steam!
David Lewis Paget
Feb 27, 2014
Feb 27, 2014 at 8:10 AM UTC
The bodies are buried
in the dank boiler room
of a building scabbed
with crimson windows.
Trimmed with gargoyles,
the superstructure rises
on cords of carbon steel.
Inside miraculous husks,
the elevators lift and fall,
lift and fall, without stopping.
Antiquated carriages
click like scarabs
on ropes and pulleys.
With interiors lit
by faint buttons,
the listless coffins
circulate our remains
behind gypsum walls.
When the elevator doors glide open,
an emerald chime sings your name.
Dec 20, 2016
Dec 20, 2016 at 4:12 PM UTC
You wanna talk balance, huh?
You got a lecture to give,
and I’m not allowed to pour a drink
to get me through? Well ****
if this ain’t ridiculous,
but I’ll listen. Nothing else to do
up here in the snow and the solitude and the shining.
You say things started alright,
and I nod, sip something unreal,
and say *yes, my dear,
yes, perhaps I broke his arm
but I’ve vented the pressure
out of the boiler now.*
And ain’t it a **** shame
that I don’t talk to Al any more?
‘Cept to sneer about the history
of a place that’s too far away to push
him back to drink.
So sure, tell me I’m unravelling,
and I’ll call you a *****
and you’ll lock yourself up in the room.
Give him the key, I’ll show him
that the **** in 217 is far worse
than a broken arm and a ruined career,
because this will take me away.
Who’s the other one inside me,
worming into a space
that I thought was mine?
Two in one body, a ****** perfect
discount deal on everything
that can destroy a family;
check one, a son with a broken
arm and a fractured mind,
check two, a ***** for a wife,
and check three, me
the head of it all,
proclamation, divination, damnation
of the foundation of this stutter
looking over, overlooking,
a broken record skipping to the part
where I **** the pressure,
**** the boiler.
I’ll see you in the next one.
Fin.
.
Apr 15, 2021
Apr 15, 2021 at 7:26 PM UTC
A slab of wood
Entwined with copper and nickel.
That's all you are.
I feel your humanity at times.
It could just be the heat from my hands
Still fuming off your glossy surface
Like boiler room pipes.
Pipe down your pipe dreams sonny,
You're no Kurt Cobain.
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 4:27 PM UTC