"fittings" poems
Strange question indeed,
So I asked one and all;
Explain to me:
“What's a plumber's ball?”
Family and friends
Heeded my call,
But none could confine,
Refine or define it,
Yet Paul was sure
He could design it.
Still, none could satisfy
My caterwaul:
“What the hell is a plumber's ball?”
Does it sweat the pipe
Or wiggle the snake:
Can it clamp the ******
For Heaven's sake?
Could it snap on the cock-hole cover?
All these queries
Made me wonder.
Has it something to do
With hardness leakage,
Or ******** the ball-cock
To stop a seepage?
Has it anything to do
With a saddle valve dripping,
Electric eels,
Or two pipes mating?
And, I heard of male and female fittings,
And should I worry
If I'm standing or sitting?
If you're discharging the head
Or elongating the pipe,
Does the plumber's ball
Help it snug tight?
Is it in my tank,
Or in my bowl,
Beneath the floor
Near the drainage hole?
Is the plumber's ball
In the back of the truck
(Jeff laughed and said
One could rub it for luck).
I asked Michel
If he could tell,
He sensed it was something
He could smell.
I sought out Ray,
Perhaps he'd know,
But he was on call
To restrain a back-flow.
I couldn't ask Gary
For his wisdom and sense,
He was wigglin' the snake
To unclog a wet vent.
Henry, Rick, Scotty and Brian,
Gave shameless answers
I couldn't rely on.
It's not a crapper, tail piece
Or Johnnie-bolt,
Or catch basin, reamer,
O-ring or pipe dope.
So I searched the Net
With a fool's wonder,
And read of ball-checks,
Gas ***** and plungers.
I know it's too late
To ask Rolly or Ross,
For both of them knew,
And that's our loss.
And Ernie's gone golfing
So I can't ask the Boss.
With final resolve
I fell to my knees,
To pray St. Ferrer
With grace intercede.
His silence left me
In a state of depression;
Had Ferrer washed his hands
Of the plumbing profession?
So nothing could settle
My wherewithal,
I still didn't know,
What's a plumber's ball?
Suddenly, it hit me,
He's never wrong,
The Dalai Lama of dip-tubes,
I'll ask John.
Where others did falter,
John's a rock:
He knows the difference
Between a gas and ball ****
With a knowing smile
He embraced our Hall:
Here, good friend, is your Plumbers' Ball.
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 9:10 AM UTC
Flying without abandon,
spinning a spider web, or
saving the day by coming out at nights,
it”s not my powers to be.
I keep no magic secrets,
I drink no miracle potions,
I have no alter egos,
I own no extra fittings.
I just believe.
Just like you believe.
Being your own super hero,
telling your own heroic tales,
crafting your own wins from odds,
no trip to Gotham City is needed for that.
Knowing your intuition,
trusting your gut,
feeling a pinch,
holding to clinch,
the pearl of an oyster
from the deep blue life,
it’s what my force will be.
So, how deep is your oyster at? :)
Nov 6, 2019
Nov 6, 2019 at 3:22 PM UTC
She gives him his eyes, she found them
Among some rubble, among some beetles
He gives her her skin
He just seemed to pull it down out of the air and lay it over her
She weeps with fearfulness and astonishment
She has found his hands for him, and fitted them freshly at the wrists
They are amazed at themselves, they go feeling all over her
He has assembled her spine, he cleaned each piece carefully
And sets them in perfect order
A superhuman puzzle but he is inspired
She leans back twisting this way and that, using it and laughing
Incredulous
Now she has brought his feet, she is connecting them
So that his whole body lights up
And he has fashioned her new hips
With all fittings complete and with newly wound coils, all shiningly oiled
He is polishing every part, he himself can hardly believe it
They keep taking each other to the sun, they find they can easily
To test each new thing at each new step
And now she smoothes over him the plates of his skull
So that the joints are invisible
And now he connects her throat, her ******* and the pit of her stomach
With a single wire
She gives him his teeth, tying the the roots to the centrepin of his body
He sets the little circlets on her fingertips
She stiches his body here and there with steely purple silk
He oils the delicate cogs of her mouth
She inlays with deep cut scrolls the nape of his neck
He sinks into place the inside of her thighs
So, gasping with joy, with cries of wonderment
Like two gods of mud
Sprawling in the dirt, but with infinite care
They bring each other to perfection.
4k
I'm done trying to make myself beautiful
I'm bored with mascara, weighing down my eyelashes
gunking up my sight like a city sewer
I'm finished with lip gloss
a pop of shiny color on my wet mouth
pulling you in for a sticky kiss
I want to be ugly
to let my pores gape wide and let in the air
my skin breathing for the first time in years
I want to claw off my clothing
my fabric fittings sewn to slim me down
to tailor me into something worth loving
I want to be repulsively human
maybe all of this is because you said
how you always love the most disgusting things
Jan 22, 2015
Jan 22, 2015 at 9:30 PM UTC
Rebirth!
Have to clean my house today.
Forlorn for near eternity.
Bathroom once depressed in dank dampness.
Embryonic before new birth.
Now reborn.
Put on dress of new.
Fixtures and fittings sparkling renewed.
Safely delivered took a week.
So glad it was not a labour of mine.
Walls painted as light corn-flower.
Forgotten archaic tragedy as shades of change.
They have evolved!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 7:35 AM UTC
Society's light is one of oppression,
It hides in the shadows the manipulation,
Of likes, favourites and ratings,
And of course, the TV stations,
That tell us how to live.
But there will be a time,
When someone opens up their mind,
And notices the signs,
That dictate our every step.
Why not today?
Let's smash up the light bulbs,
And pull out the fittings,
Let's switch them off at the mains.
Let's wreck up the power stations,
And cut all the wires,
So only darkness remains.
It's time to listen to the crying stars,
It's time to listen to the silent cars,
It's time to listen to the city at night.
Because the city at night is shouting:
*Louder!
Louder!*
And the rain on the pavement's calling:
*Stronger!
Stronger!*
And tribal rhythms,
Inspire the buildings,
To get up and walk.
And driving heartbeats,
Persuade the dark streets,
To rise up and talk.
*"It's time to stand up for what we believe in!
It's time to show the world how we're feeling!
Because the light has blinded them from our point of view!
From our vantage point beneath your feet,
We've observed the city that never sleeps,
And realised it needs to change and let the darkness through!"*
And all the onlookers and sympathisers,
Respond with a chant,
That shakes society's foundations to bring it down.
*We don't want to fit in!
We don't want to give in!
To peer pressure within
Every waking day!
We all want to regress!
To when we all had less!
When money hadn't quite messed
Up every word we say!*
As every light goes out,
Each with a bolder shout,
Those in charge watch in awe as the revolution wins.
The entire city unites,
To bring about the night,
A dusk to match the dawn of humanity's sins.
But in the morning the sunrise,
Brings the reform to its demise.
And light obscures the strings that control our minds.
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 5:42 PM UTC
In another life, my father
must have been a blacksmith.
Essential in his village
Essential to be needed
(otherwise what’s the point?)
Swinging his hammer in heat, in smoke,
content within his St Bruno haze, suspicious
of anything lighter than black leather
anything lighter than brass fittings
- comfortable with sweat stains and scattered ash,
scars and deep bruises marking him
a man’s man and breadwinner,
- relaxed with the air blue, the tribe white
and his iron laughter echoing with every strike,
every blow shaping his son
into his family’s likeness.
Jun 19, 2022
Jun 19, 2022 at 3:22 PM UTC
They sit there in their Gucci pristine suits
and here come's a ***** they don't want to ****
no no they want to see her scrubbing pans
just like their sweet wives back at home
Next they watch her folding linen
now in the bedroom, not the kitchen
wow linen is splitting
in their Gucci fittings
They nod their heads and clap their hands
in this strange rising sun land
now it gets naughty
as the **** sweeps the hallway
Those *** boys have tears now
in all three eyes
this is hotter then horseradish
this cleaning lady fetish
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 8:23 PM UTC
partially due to the weather,
state of the roads.
these are not just closed
due to snow, some
as cars slide, cause a commotion.
it is a steep hill, the crimea,
some call it a mountain
steeped in history.
plans change, while
the bus windows remain *****
sbm.
nails
#notes and jottings
Esgidiau Meirw Boot Dump, Moel Bowydd Primary Reference Number (PRN) : 14626 Trust : Gwynedd Community : Ffestiniog NGR : SH69924845 Site Type (preferred type first) : Modern REFUSE DISPOSAL SITE Legal Protection : Description : A mound of slate waste covered to an unknown depth with the (?burnt) remains of thousands of hobnail boots, heel plates, nails, eyelets etc. Dimensions 40 x 30 x 2.5m. <1> A low mound about 35m in diameter lies to the east of the A470 (Plate 66). Its earliest phase consists of slate waste from a shallow linear working shown on the 1889 OS 25 map. This is almost entirely covered by a dump of waste boots. The upper layer consists entirely of heel plates, eyelets, nails, screws, sole shanks and occasional sole plates (Plate 67). Beneath this is a thick layer of ash, also containing metal fittings. Until quite recently there was a grave slab with a pair of boots incised on it along with the inscription Esgidiau Meirw (dead shoes). The stone now lies on the wall of PRN 14777 (Plate 68). It was probably moved by the land-owner for safe keeping after being daubed with paint. The dump is known locally as Tomen Sgidiau (boot dump) and dates from World Wall II. The boots are rejects from a factory that was set up in Blaenau Market Hall to recycle old boots and shoes for the army. (Hopewell, 2005) A low heap of slate waste lying to the east of the present main road. The tip is covered with the rusted metal fittings of a large number of hob nailed boots, and other small metal waste, including nuts and bolts. There is also a significant quantity of a fine silty material – possibly the residue of burnt and decayed leather. On top of the mound is a slate grave slab with a pair of boots incised upon it and the inscription “Esgidiau Meirw” (dead shoes). The feature is thought to be a World War II army boot dump. (Riley & Roberts, 1995) Sources : Riley, H. & Roberts, R. , 1995 , A470(T) Blaenau Ffestiniog to Cancoed Improvement ( © GAT) Hopewell, D. , 2005 , A470 Blaenau Ffestiniog to Cancoed Improvement Pt I & II ( © GAT) Hopewell, D. , 2000 , Upland Survey 2000 , <1> Events : 40503 : Gwynedd Upland Survey 1999-2000 Moel Bowydd (year : 2000) 43801 : A470 Blaenau Ffestiniog to Cancoed Improvement: Archaeological Recording PtI&II; (year : 2005) 40295 : A470(T) Blaenau Ffestiniog to Cancoed Improvement (year : 1995)
see also
boot dump incomplete blog
https://sonjabenskinmesher.wordpress.com/2015/03/26/boot-dump-2/
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 1:39 AM UTC
My door is open
It is oak with brass fittings
Sturdy and handsome
I oil the wood, buff the brass
And I will never close it
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 1:20 AM UTC
It’s not just bowed wood slats
singed till tar-black
on that bushel basket
keeping your brilliance pinned.
There are mediations of glass
and twirls of brass fittings
regulating its bold flame down
to dull orange glow.
Smash it all,
obtuse and obscuring.
Where will your light go?
To heavens and its birthing.
Nov 11, 2010
Nov 11, 2010 at 7:01 AM UTC
She gives him his eyes, she found them
Among some rubble, among some beetles
He gives her her skin
He just seemed to pull it down out of the air and lay it over her
She weeps with fearfulness and astonishment
She has found his hands for him, and fitted them freshly at the wrists
They are amazed at themselves, they go feeling all over her
He has assembled her spine, he cleaned each piece carefully
And sets them in perfect order
A superhuman puzzle but he is inspired
She leans back twisting this way and that, using it and laughing
Incredulous
Now she has brought his feet, she is connecting them
So that his whole body lights up
And he has fashioned her new hips
With all fittings complete and with newly wound coils, all shiningly oiled
He is polishing every part, he himself can hardly believe it
They keep taking each other to the sun, they find they can easily
To test each new thing at each new step
And now she smoothes over him the plates of his skull
So that the joints are invisible
And now he connects her throat, her ******* and the pit of her stomach
With a single wire
She gives him his teeth, tying the the roots to the centrepin of his body
He sets the little circlets on her fingertips
She stitches his body here and there with steely purple silk
He oils the delicate cogs of her mouth
She inlays with deep cut scrolls the nape of his neck
He sinks into place the inside of her thighs
So, gasping with joy, with cries of wonderment
Like two gods of mud
Sprawling in the dirt, but with infinite care
They bring each other to perfection.
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 7:18 AM UTC
I want to be still
as a pin cushion
Poked, prodded, and robbed
Twenty-five fittings today
Where do you find the time?
Jul 24, 2023
Jul 24, 2023 at 9:49 PM UTC
The engine: Long and black
And sleek as she could be
She shook the earth in her approach
As her heraldry.
An atmosphere of steam and smoke
Expanding in her wake
The Queen-of-the-Rails speeds on
An arrival soon to make.
Massive is her presence
Enormity her design
Power is her excess
This Queen is so refined
Once she ruled with majesty
When o’er the rails she flew
But … now, this one last time,
The railway bids: “Adieu”.
Slowly when she comes to stop
We see she’s thoroughbred
When water, steel and hard, black coal
Within her there are wed.
Her regal-ness resplendent
In fittings’ shining bright
Commanding our respect
O’er the rails of her last flight.
Now sitting at the siding
She’s puffing rhythmic breath
The museum’s destination
Of her life commits its’ theft.
Photographs will mimic
Her image of today
But missing from those photos:
Glories of Yesterday
When o’er the steel she thundered
Demanding from all who saw
Respect for Her grand power
Which held them all in awe.
But Glory, she found, was fleeting
When “progress” came to call
Her future then was set in stone
In the writing on the wall.
Now we hear the brake release …
Her throttle then is moved …
She inches down the shiny track
Where the land with steel is grooved
Then as she gains her speed
And whistles out her “yell”
An announcement for all to hear:
“I know I’ve served you well!”
She’s journeyed through the ages
And a boy – an old man now -
Watches as she fades away -
He waves, then shouts out: “Ciao!”
But in his mind is yesteryear
With his dog there by his side
Watching near the railroad tracks
Where the Queen-of-the-Rails did ride.
And long from now whenever
He says: “Remember when …”
In those times of reverie,
She’ll come alive … again.
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 8:53 AM UTC
**The sign that read 'Room To Let'
hanging in the window of my heart
was removed from the pane, long ago
and discarded, was thrown in the rain.
For if ever to flee from the vacancy you filled
then derelict I'd lay
stone by stone torn away
for you are the cement of my heart.
But if stay you would, and tenancy take up
the key to my heart would you own
and with love would I paint, and decorate
the room that is yours in my heart.
Title deeds to my love would I also transfer
complete with all fixtures and fittings
for the property you'd own is fully furnished my love
no longer so lonely and cold.
With central heating installed, double glazed wall by wall
in my heart you'd be cozy and warm
wrapped safe from the world, in the womb of my heart
adorned with contentment and love.
Only then would you truly own my heart
my own no longer more
the most precious gift that I possess
please take, and hold it with care.
It's given quite freely
with my blessing and consent
a freehold property
handed over, all legal and meant.**
... ... ...
Apr 11, 2011
Apr 11, 2011 at 3:09 AM UTC
mechanical ticking
of maniacal minds
who grind their
rusty gears to dust
never stop stripping
their screws and their fittings
til their mental machines
break and bust
dripping and dripping
their oil is leaking
out ear holes and eye holes
malicious malignant pus
Dec 1, 2011
Dec 1, 2011 at 12:49 PM UTC
Durable Medical Equipment
Standard kit; four wheels and a hand
brake, tubular construction in sober
parsons black with a lick
of chrome fittings, she’s low
to the ground and tight
on the turns with a basket
up front, padded kneeler in back,
our Mardis Gras float, I’ll ease her in
behind the Krewe of Mona Lisa and Moon Pie
while you slosh hurricane and wave
to the joyous, drunken throngs.
Sep 17, 2016
Sep 17, 2016 at 10:48 AM UTC
The world changes sometimes
It starts as a big blue ice
then it melts as the dogmas slip away
from the hands of the strangers.
And when it melts it is beautiful...
Everything that makes a soul dance.
No squares or other shapes,
no fittings...
simply existing
in space
freely and eternally
swimming around
nothingness.
Mar 3, 2013
Mar 3, 2013 at 7:59 PM UTC
in our daily
repetitions
our comfort is
habitually nestled
in a sunny welcoming
of familiar pathmarks...
this smoothness short-lived
when unease finds play..
a once familiar mark
registers differently
our fittings and
complacency disturbed
distressed...
a grasping then
for restoral..
sometimes when darkly
shocked
in disturbed awareness
we are astonished
a minor tweak
resolves into a
path entirely new...
Jun 19, 2012
Jun 19, 2012 at 11:45 PM UTC
~
Simple short phrases
Taken from the grayest clouds,
charcoal mist collecting my thoughts
Entwining my heart with pointed sorrow
as my stupidity takes center stage to a sold out show
Weakened at the knees, dis-jointed disappointments,
assumptions falter my eyes
Blinded by the sight of one more
licking the seasoned wounds of past regrets
Channeling frustrations with a remote, the mute button not working
Shoe fittings find my mouth, at least in silent words
Crying inside and outside too,
rivers of lost dreams stored in a mason jar…its lid rusted shut
Wrenching my fingers, twisted knots,
lacing fears that are merely a mirage
yet still flourish in desert dreamscapes fluctuating
as camels drink from my oasis on Wednesdays
Then, as if a window opens, words are heard
simple short phrases
tiny syllables counted
in Senryu fashion
and in an instant my heart spins in circular motions
A smile of winged happiness adorns my face,
sun pours through and zephyrs unfurl their sweet aromas,
dancing from flower to flower…to my heart
It is amazing how words can effect us
and all it takes is a whisper of affection, a declaration of caring
from you to me,
to make this moment, this day, this world…the perfect place
Apr 27, 2014
Apr 27, 2014 at 7:45 PM UTC
#paulSN
*Is it asking too much
to want to hide away safely?
I never should have met you
yet, I have been looking
for you all of my life--
unwillingly.
You are in me now
so deep; our spirit's gears perfectly
synced- each gear a pre-honed..
precision fit--
even when we clash
Especially- when we clash;
and somewhere,
in the depths of my love
I hate you for that
In a broken world...
dreams were n e v e r meant
to come true.
I think I read that somewhere,
or maybe someone told me..
maybe
or something.*
#
Oct 18, 2020
Oct 18, 2020 at 2:49 AM UTC
I hear the town sing
beneath their fatal groans.
They have loans, embankments of debt,
and light fittings to figure out.
I hear the child-bride sing
amongst the echoing pool.
She sings out for oceans, and static moons
to deliver her from
the television roar.
I remember you left
in a panic attack.
You lacked what you felt two winters ago,
when bells chimed at your bedside.
I remember the mist
over Cawston fields.
The yields of wheat, in my bicycle freedom;
you left when I kept slipping
out of the door.
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 9:32 PM UTC
I opened the shutters
to my window
in the abbey at 5am
and smelt the fresh dew
on the grass of
the garth below,
Deus in omnibus,
touched the old crucifix
on the wall above my bed
felt the pierced feet,
Dio in noi e con noi
the Italian monk said
as I helped him
in the workshop
cleaning brass fittings
for the church,
I kissed her soft fruit
but it was no apple
like Eve's and I no Adam,
there are some
who want knowledge
for the sake of knowledge
but that is Curiosity
and there are some
who want knowledge
so they can be known
by others that is Vanity
and there are those
who want knowledge
so that they can serve
and that is Love
St Bernard said,
I watched as Hugh
walked to the refectory
grim faced and *********
his rosary with an angel
at elbow and demon
at foot or so seemed,
à la fin du péché
de jour est le péché
the French monks said to me
as we scythed the grass
by the long drive
to the abbey,
I climbed her peaks
as we lay in her bed,
I opened the book
by St Augustine which
a priest in London
recommended along
with the poet Hopkins
and I remembered being
served tea and cakes
by a nun who worked
along side him,
George swept the cloister
as the hoover
had packed up
dat is beter
het is rustiger
a Dutch monk said to him,
she spread her legs
like a butterfly and said
take and have your fill
so I did,
nolite iudicare
ut non iudicemini
so it said some place
in the Gospels,
the price good men pay
for indifference to public affairs
is to be ruled by evil men
Gareth said quoting
from Plato as we sat
in the novice room
awaiting Dom Joe,
I wanted to sense
God's breath on my neck
as I bowed my head to pray
but sensed only
a cold wind in the church
on a 5.30am dawn
and doubt was born.
Jul 1, 2016
Jul 1, 2016 at 2:01 AM UTC
I said my year was 2020
That’s why my visions so clear
Just got out neutral
And really got my life into gear
You have to hit the floor
Before you can bounce back
And trust me I hit the floor
And I’m gunna bounce back
I took a trip to the bottom
Then seen that life is worth living
I’m ready to live my dream
That’s life with all the extra fittings
I know that I’ll make it
But right now patience is key
I’ve just got to keep going
And my success is a guarantee
I’m on my way against the odds
Im gunna prove everyone wrong
You can watch me move in silence
But you won’t hear me till I’m gone
May 25, 2020
May 25, 2020 at 9:38 PM UTC