"foundry" poems
Sunday sermons are spilling on the inner city streets
through the green heaps and brown bags
through the downtown whisperers
and sage solitude souls
Army bands prepare for march
(their trench members filling packs with canister and cane)
the high command and tricked militia head pinned
quick on the look for splinter, lorry and skuttle
Traffic patterns change at the COP connect
camouflage bearers break formal stride
battle men slip between colorful floats
unsuspecting slumlords (vein pricked and weary)
grin in their second suite dying rooms
Twitching men and rubbernecks
sit discreetly on the corner wall
JJ and the chief revere a 21 gun salute
holy rollers raise cheer (in a moment of silence)
chess men hold steady
with ivory cues
Flames belt from the distant foundry
streets come alive with crackle and dust
members of the attic group glance down from their perch
an elderly man in a straight jacket (happy in the now)
sits solemnly with a cold reflective stare
It’s not far from the steely mud holes
from the flying fragments and sharp broken dreams
from the arsenal digs and madmen (who quietly turned the *****
the ivy trellis
and flowing white gown
are a nocturne fit
for this elevated rolling highland
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 8:33 PM UTC
train to Chicago...
See it from a train.
Should have called it
the Rust Apocalypse.
Endless piles of industrial
woolly mammoth skeletons
turned red by the rust
that never sleeps or blinks.
Miles and miles of factory,
mills, and foundry corpses.
The workers long scattered
to $10 per hour ***** jobs.
Businesses gone with the workers.
Globalization at its finest.
The end of the people's value.
Amerika crumbles of dry rot.
Enjoy your stuff, good citizen.
This will all come to you.
There is no immunity
to endless, mindless greed.
~mce
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 4:51 PM UTC
My words have been ripped from me
uncovering my naked body below
and I bemoan the cold or mayhap
just existence
My pupils will not focus, a lack of dilation
I am not entombed in life
for I blink with each inhalation
I am subtly encased in flesh
not suffering
simply slipping
Mourning the loss of my language
and when I dream
death pervades my visions
when I wake,
I'm approached by none other than heartbreak
at my most fearful perception
Strength isn't to forcefully remove temptation,
but to resist temptation daily and survive.
A man doesn't reflect until he is imprisoned,
and limited by an external boundary,
I re-forge myself within the internal foundry.
Nov 16, 2010
Nov 16, 2010 at 11:29 PM UTC
progressively irrelevant, i write.
each strike comes, reverberating chords
in chambers all my history reveals--
voices forge a living thought, steam quietly;
truth is spent confronting hidden dangers
that, when alight between the flicker awe
our fire-starting letters linger still
to question ashen marvels of, phoenixlike
enveloping that subtle being-as
annulled to meaninglessness tolled.
a bare encounter with the void leaves off,
no symbols rally convalescent winds
for shaping form amenable to time--
rather, my lostness leads to this, and dies.
Apr 16, 2013
Apr 16, 2013 at 8:31 PM UTC
A 14 year old tender,
Came with a situation
He can’t decide his gender
Social keys challenging perception.
A prof. got suspended from his job
Coz he can’t love a woman in the ****
His feelings for affection were just like us
But for men, that he can’t discuss.
A girl of 25 don’t want to marry
Coz she love her girlfriend back in bury
She know it’s impossible to do this
As the law prevent love between two fairies
Now the question arises
If love has no boundaries
Why our brains are in cages?
As metals are casted in a foundry
God has made us in different pages.
We all pray equally
As do lesbians and gays
We all love equally
As do Bisexuals and Transgender
We all make friends evenly
As any girl or a boy
So why we can’t love legally?
Think and make others think
We all are humans, catch the link.
Jan 10, 2018
Jan 10, 2018 at 12:45 AM UTC
Prerogative presumptive judicature, cantankerous cantilever capacity. Paradoxical dichotomy greaves, gauntlets gamut catalyst abstracts, asymmetrical symmetry. Objectified manifest's dimensional delineation, intrinsic endemic innate opaque opulence. Protractive analyses accidence ambience acoustics. Spatiotemporal telemetry tactician's trajectory extant.
Prophylaxis protocol annex annul. Kinesiology kleptomaniac extraversion embezzlement euthanasia extortion, embark embargo extradition. Aura roan's rainbow mare's nimbus nimiety exorcism. Corporeally preternatural's existential exigence exodus. Cerebral cortex's ****** matrix's carousel ceaselessly ceremony chaos character charisma, apex axis crux, exponentially extemporaneous manumission. Categorical imperative hubris, hectic duty deontological probity.
Astral projection's clairaudience clairvoyance. Tenets and principles, maxims and axioms, and doctrinal mandates. Exserted protuberance's edifice ******** Exotically ****** ethereally sublime xylem Xanadu sails. Erotica erectile errantry.
Fulham nuance ***** Formidable foundry of a foyer fracas. Harpy harsh hast, atrium attrition seditious. Oak tree ****** nails swarthy ******** swath swizzles and unicorn railway sails. Anchor pin tachometer troll wood harlotry's root clod rudiments, lightning bow hat pick. Transcendent nimbus nimiety exorcist. Transpicuous translucence alluvium aloof impunity.
Feb 21, 2021
Feb 21, 2021 at 10:07 PM UTC
In Abraham Lincoln's city,
Where they remember his lawyer's shingle,
The place where they brought him
Wrapped in battle flags,
Wrapped in the smoke of memories
From Tallahassee to the Yukon,
The place now where the shaft of his tomb
Points white against the blue prairie dome,
In Abraham Lincoln's city ... I saw knucks
In the window of Mister Fischman's second-hand store
On Second Street.
I went in and asked, "How much?"
"Thirty cents apiece," answered Mister Fischman.
And taking a box of new ones off a shelf
He filled anew the box in the showcase
And said incidentally, most casually
And incidentally:
"I sell a carload a month of these."
I slipped my fingers into a set of knucks,
Cast-iron knucks molded in a foundry pattern,
And there came to me a set of thoughts like these:
Mister Fischman is for Abe and the "malice to none" stuff,
And the street car strikers and the strike-breakers,
And the sluggers, gunmen, detectives, policemen,
Judges, utility heads, newspapers, priests, lawyers,
They are all for Abe and the "malice to none" stuff.
I started for the door.
"Maybe you want a lighter pair,"
Came Mister Fischman's voice.
I opened the door ... and the voice again:
"You are a funny customer."
Wrapped in battle flags,
Wrapped in the smoke of memories,
This is the place they brought him,
This is Abraham Lincoln's home town.
1.6k
White spots on the bathroom floor
Remind me of you
They make me feel empty
Like a glass without water
Like the remnants of a burned out fire
I remember it so vividly
The cold city air smelled of metal foundry
And cut like a razor through my sweater
I thought it would never get better
Until you wrapped your arms around me
(remember how I kicked you in the shin?)
You found me
A broken little girl
Alone in a big scary world
Running the dark, damp streets
We never thought twice
Never planned for a future
No need
We weren't going to live that long
I was weak and you were strong
But now you're gone
And all that's left
Is a box of matches and an empty desk
And me
A lonely insomniac
Vanilla and sandalwood incense
Remind me of you
Of the only home I've ever had
A haven in the whirlwind of my youth
Goodnight Red Balloon
Feb 17, 2012
Feb 17, 2012 at 1:15 AM UTC
When I was young I use to sit in my windowsill,
and smell the foundry late at night.
I could hear the rumble of the coal cars,
I could feel my parents fight.
Then I'd watch the trees dancing in the breeze,
while the moon played Peekaboo.
Life was just a game
on Maple Avenue.
And there were bright Winter mornings and long Summer nights,
but I never knew what they meant.
There were sermons on making time and money,
but it never made a dent.
Amid the factories there were dreams to please,
though you wondered if they'd ever come true.
It was hard to escape
from Maple Avenue.
Yet, somewhere inside of me,
where no one had ever been.
Below the goodness,
and above the sin.
Was a spark of silence,
that no one ever heard.
And I'd close my eyes and follow it
and savor every word.
And even without asking
it told me what to do.
It told me son, you've gotta run,
from Maple Avenue.
Now some of us were sinners,
none of us were saints.
Some of us were ***** and dreamless,
but we had no complaints.
We'd trade it all for just a glimpse
of what we might turn into.
But money only traded money
on Maple Avenue.
I've tried to get it all back again,
but it's not like it was before.
You can't come back into the pack,
when the ***** don't know her pups no more.
It's not a small thing for a man to die happy,
it's not a hard thing to do.
That's just one little thing I've learned
from Maple Avenue.
Jan 19, 2013
Jan 19, 2013 at 9:12 PM UTC
Were all just machines, bound for the train station that’ll hightail us out and over
To the junkyard where we never sleep and the foundry melts us down to make room
For the new undead, but non-living, to starve for what their computers say they need.
But when you smile, your eyes show me that you have a soul inside that’s beautiful,
And it proves my heart is something more than what the factory made it for;
That my love means something more than a series of chemical reactions in my brain,
That the mornings and nights we spent were worth more than we ever knew,
And that you are someone more special to me than I have ever known.
So, as we fly down the track of grayest metals and coldest weather, into the north country
To God knows where to as the sun is at dawn and dusk at the same time,
Remember that your heart doesn’t need to be held like coal, that your eyes are soulful,
That someone, somewhere thinks you’re more than a piece of electric meat,
That I think you’re worth more than my life,—my holy hunk of steel—but don’t let that
Get to your head missy! And that when we’re laid upon the cutting board
To be scraped and melted down, I want to be laid there next to you
To kiss you one more time, while I look into your eyes, searchingly.
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 3, 2014 at 10:33 AM UTC
~
she is woman of softened beauty,
like the sunset’s molten hues;
yet rugged as the rocky crags,
that from afar are mountain’s blue,
and which each night at even’s call,
the sun behind will slowly slide.
she is timid as a doe,
’neath a canopy of green,
feeding by the quiet waters;
yet fierce as timber wolf,
among the limbs and leaves
her young from prey she hides.
within her soul she bears her secrets,
without she is ten thousand verses;
as waters trickle to the stream,
and have no voice until,
they join in gathered current,
to fall in thunderous cascade,
as majestic waterfall.
she is a being... light of spirit,
yet bears on dove white shoulders,
pain endured from cruel world.
in the dark she is a light;
in an age of growing grays,
she robes herself in dazzling white.
to each who calls her friend,
she is to them a heroine;
an angel ’midst the darkness,
she works beside, yet out of sight.
of many thoughts, none spill careless,
from her tongue to cross her lips;
yet all her words are weighty,
a bond of promise, made and kept;
these in secret places dark,
in a foundry, hot with sweat;
her long and dusty journey,
leaves on her soul a branded mark.
loyal friend and steadfast mate,
she brings with her a hope eternal,
yet she alone accepts her fate.
she is peace and love maternal;
within her an oasis rare,
few have found, and fewer see;
for all its hidden beauty lies,
behind her softened hazel eyes,
these she guards, the secret way,
the stair beyond her garden’s gate.
~
*post script.
these words christened in celebration of her life, her birth. she entered the world in the year Camelot began, and though we would not meet til we were both sixteen, she became Camelot to me; a castle of hidden fragrance and beauty. of these few words she is all, yet so much more. she is everything i didn’t know i’d want or ever need; at every turn more than my equal, she is the sum of all my parts. at a glance some judge her simple, yet she is rogue complexity; a woman who discards little, except barriers to those she loves and who love her in return!
Happy Birthday, Darling!!*
Dec 9, 2016
Dec 9, 2016 at 8:53 PM UTC
Plant your voice on the anvil. I write my name
in rust just as you in soot. And you
in skin. Riveted by flint. Coated by grit.
Send me on my way.
What I will find in the foundry
is slag. The husk of some steam shovel
lurching over asphalt. Rip my organs
from the mouth and bore into me.
Bellows amid sparks. Flame in columns.
There was a puddle I would stand
in to quicken the surge. Groping
wholeness in each crescent flare.
My family alone far away. Valley Forge
wet with orange. Tossing crumbs to ducks
from the path. I would join them.
My hands would split open crab.
We row to the dam’s lip and wait
for sturgeon, rocking. Pumice and sand.
Beat and grind and reduce me bare.
Tongue fumbling for the tip.
I think she would be proud of me.
Dec 15, 2011
Dec 15, 2011 at 3:48 PM UTC
Hello
H̵e̵l̵l̵ is lo
Grand Rising
Mind the Do
No Boundary -No burden Man
No Foundry -No Smoking plants
See....(d)s))
We had lived out the ghet̴̹̥̲͈̤̬̘̪͇̗̰̣̼̖͊́̌̃̆̑͊̀̉̓̓̇̋̃̈́ͅṯ̵̢̢͙̹̌̍̽̾̌̃͛̆̔̾̃̚ǫ̴͓̠̳̤͍̜̙̣̳͎͇̳̝̮̆̀̊̅͜.
( at E.) Alaska and poverty w̵̢̢͇̱͔̻̹̪̞̰̬̱̻̉̂͛̏̔̕à̷͔͕̦̭̾̿̌͗͐̕͘͠ÿ̶̝̯̲͈̪̠̥̗͈̼͔̮̖̆͋͛̓̎̍̍̄̿̽͜͠
Been smoking off sphagedro
Don't ask (me) how
the property paid
We had convinced ourselves
this was poverty made,
this was the way
it was the mental
Rather than how to properly pave...
Stop and get saved. We'd rob and rip r̴̟̗͔̣̋̽͂̑̐̍͒́͒́͘ạ̶̡̡̡̭͍̥͔̖͓̜̥͎̩͙̓͌ves
To tap into ley lines , we laid ̶l̵i̶n̵e̴s̵
to hear one another?
Why?
We fade minds to the sidelines
Existence is another mother consumed
Tripped im a land mind
everyday, it was essential
Felt like we saved lives
just by saying
Hi
Who was I supposed to be then
how am I poised to po̸̢̧̡̙̟̥͉̮͈̮͇͇̎͂͌̇̀̃͘͜͜se now?
H̵e̵l̵l̵ is empty
And all the devils are he̶͔͂̿̀re
Don't come and tempt me
And All the bedouins near
the d̵̢̨͈̫̦͈͈̦̣̯̼̔͛̔̅̾͝ͅͅa̷̼̠̱̥̪̥̗̫͖̞̱̻̻͐͒̅́̌̾͜͝r̵̡̨̼̰͉̜̝̳̥͕͇͐̅̈̍̚͜ķ̴͇̖̳̦̞̞̯̲̖̾̈͌̀̀̍̀̈́͗͗́̌͑̅͘͘can be a low hum
That low hum f̵̛̞̲̞̮̙͚̠̮̀̋̆̓͂̓̓̄̔̃̈́̋́̀̐̍͘͘a̷̛͉̭̤̩̳͓̰̦͍͕͈̥̜̣̟̥̼̍̍̃̔̇̄̈́̅̔̚l̴̢̪̮̗̺̗̭̉́̇́l̶̢̢̧̰̰̞̹̙̣̳̩̱̙̀́̏̊̓̓́͘ ̶̛͔͔͓͙̥̫̩͇̭̩̜̻̹̇̅̄͗̐́̒̂̈́͛̀͂͋̚͘ to a dull ***
*** turn silence to the doldrum̴̬͔̰̠̠̳̫̠̠̣̫̺̠̝͍͙̎̌̓̽̌͋̍͛̔̂͌͑̔̂̃̊̎́̄̈́́̕͘͘͠ͅ
** hum eve, press up the tress
the shadow be a pit fall,
mess up your knees
a void in eve become
a slow shade seed
Devoid of the needs
beckon doe ray me
its beyond whats in the fire
in the propane, key
Heating up with Sour D
Pushing to get pro-paid
(C)see)()()
Halo with the dome braid
Angel with the co-pay
Singing singles with lonely
Singing for the lonely!
When did culture become business?
When my business became the culture...
Its not a bug, its a feature,
long exposure measure
the posture of composure,
Who could torture the Rapture,
The picture is the culture
self- Suturing the Future
its a self-evident thing,
so potent it ring
Bout to help Erich architect
A co̴̡̢̰͕͈̦̲̤͖͇̯̮̬̟͍͙̥͉͍͚̳̙͕̫̣͍͓̙͓̖̮͇̼̞̗͇̺̎͗̄̇́͜rner outta the ring
carve a Stone outta the wing
Dem B̶̛̻͇̺̻̣́͑͗̑̽͐̑̍̂͒̀̇̚̚͝͝ǫ̷̨̨̭̲̪̝͎̹̰̺̈́͛̔̓̍̎͆́̉̅̊̈́̒̕͝ň̸̼̞̯̟̱͓̙͈̫͚̙͎̱̝̣̌͜͜͠͝ẽ̴͖̓͊̊͝ gotta be prouda king
But Whats the sound when it sing?
Nov 29, 2023
Nov 29, 2023 at 11:16 PM UTC
It's practically unlawful
Your minds are all bare
The welled up and awful
That compose your stare
You see not the light
But only the dark
The wonders of sight
Are but a mere mark
On the surface of hate
Soon to be removed
Rejection innate
And you've really proved
That the glory of life
The love of the heart
Are nothing but strife
To be pinned by the dart
The dart of no mercy
Of eons of shame
You'll get your hands *****
To garner some fame
You are hardly human
An embarrassment, too
It's the free right of man
It's nothing anew
To love without boundaries
Regardless of gender
It's nothing of foundry
But a natural splendor
So go back to your shells
To hide in your frames
Reject all the bells
And never be tamed
We'll go on without you
Overflowing with love
No one there around to
Pacify your dove
The dove that never flies
And feeds on our pain
His mind soon to die
And we, soon to claim
The crumbling earth
And patch it all up
You're into the hearth
And we've got your cup
Dump all the contents
Into the fire
Now peaceful moments
Can truly suspire
Jan 3, 2013
Jan 3, 2013 at 2:50 AM UTC
At the bottom of our limestone cliffs,
In a great heap on the sand.
Is where they tipped the waste glass,
From the foundry on the land.
Over many years the rough seas,
Have ground it really smooth.
As it is washed along the shore,
By the east tide on the move.
People looking carefully,
For beach glass as they roam.
Popped in a plastic bag,
And proudly taken home.
Some end up in the garden,
Decorating old flower pots.
You find them stored in jars,
A collection of precious gems.
But the more patient and artistic,
Glue them to pots in different ways,
Then finish by painting with a glaze.
As I sit on the rocks by the sea,
Watching people as they pass by me.
I see many different ages bending up and down,
Picking glass pebbles like jewels from a crown.
Old or young there is a look in their eyes,
If they pick a perfect pebble it's excitement and surprise.
Every day they come like an invasion on the shore,
But it's nothing quite so cynical,
They have just come to pick some more.
Sep 23, 2011
Sep 23, 2011 at 5:56 AM UTC
she drank from god's fountain
tore the rake and the peasant's plead
as the chariots blew across this storms foundry
new black ashes, soot stained faces
a gall from the mercurian lee
hunts dark places and wild dogs fear him
the forest is his legion but he shakes from this poison
there is no sky and the trees don't hide him
there is no universe unplugged
neither a human too forgone
to wrestle every inch of skin and sleep
to fight towards her against the leaves
Dec 17, 2015
Dec 17, 2015 at 1:00 PM UTC
The foundry is wet and frothy with felons like you.
They all say you’re not a bad guy, but your breath reeks of Grey Goose,
Your eyes are wild, and your morals are loose,
But I also hear that you have enough heart to share between two.
It wasn’t hard to tell the meager malignant magicians from the brutally bruised and the blue.
You always told me that was true.
Yet, I feel melancholy now that I’ve spoken with this lowly American middle class few.
I pray their sweat will count for something worth more than the products they produce.
Their dime will only go as far as a brick and a bottle of juice,
What will come of such men, I haven’t a clue.
Jan 7, 2012
Jan 7, 2012 at 6:45 PM UTC
What’s poetic about a foundry worker’s son,
Born and bred in Leeds, now idling my time away
In a rinky **** seaside town? What’s poetic
About sitting on my laptop reading Facebook
And pressing Like now and then? It’s got me typing
Like a modern poet, no rhyme or metre to be seen.
I’m going to (roughly) count the syllables then chop this
Into verses. Then post it on my favourite
Poetry sites, plus my blog.
Perhaps there’s poetry in me being a Working Class Boy made good.
In me being a Pro Careers Worker after failing
My Eleven Plus. Even got to Grammar School
For a couple of years. Taught English for six.
The Internet is my Salvation.
Television too.
Is that prosaic enough for you?
**** that rhymed! Knowledge and images,
That yet beget… and much more too.
No need to be there in person.
Just enjoy.
Jun 28, 2014
Jun 28, 2014 at 2:29 AM UTC
We wandered the night aimlessly.
The children of street-urchin-anarchy
sacrificed to the detrivores
of the sky-high metal labyrinths.
(For fear they’ll devour the living)
I remember it vividly.
The iron foundry air
cut like a razor through my sweater skin.
The concrete beneath my feet
swallowing the warmth like a vacuum.
Then you wrapped yourself around me like
a Mylar blanket.
And seeped into my skin
in a cosmic osmosis of lost souls.
For a moment we were home.
Only a moment.
We were thin white plastic blowing in the wind.
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 7:50 AM UTC
Oh Rick, if only things were so simple. . . .
If only there were Nazis shooting children,
bullies like Major Strasser waiting to take over,
women like Ilsa --
so beautiful and passionate
that just the memory of their love, just the shadow,
is enough.
We would sing the Marseillaise
and in the air itself,
just breathing in that hot, dry air,
would find all the meaning we need.
But we live in an everyday world,
with everyday human beings.
And we must start again each morning,
with scraps of faith and feeling,
to make the world's meaning in the foundry of our heart.
Aug 1, 2017
Aug 1, 2017 at 3:43 PM UTC
the layers unfold like spring time flowers
aching to be viewed
by sunlight eyes
a winter spent
under the heavy hands
of the foundry
shaped and strengthened
until it is finally ready
to steal the breath
from your lungs
and make your heart
come alive
Apr 27, 2013
Apr 27, 2013 at 2:23 PM UTC
Loosen your pattern,
Locked in cloth.
The shaded memories dampen.
Blurred be the images of your emotionally betroth,
By the beloved froth
Your horrendous sloth hereby hearken.
The age of light...
What a frivolous delight!
Insofar as to say that all things float.
That's it's just one big game -
Of hide and seek.
“Oh no, what a shame!” Such is presumably remote.
And disgustingly meek.
See that star?
You've come to adore?
Will you spare yourself what you know isn't healthy?
Knowing that all things are.
Dying and nothing more.
You see the tranquil secrets very deftly.
Oh what's this? Face forward!
Feet a' stepping!
Hearts a' ticking!
The truth's all backwards...
But who cares?...
“A human with any insight would say that they don't need a purpose. -
Surplus filled the brightest emotions; Will to commit heinous actions.
A malicious goal reduced to a fraction of importance.
Time to think of yourself in this instance.
The emotions of others the next,
For this most surely directs,
Superfluous answers at last.
This life just moves too fast...”
Says the man who thoughtfully stares.
But oh great joyous occasion!
Oh this glorious revelation!
The presents of the past deny the presence of the present.
Your eyes deceive you; These thoughts control you.
Free the mind within it's own boundaries -
You see all things have a subconscious foundry.
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 5:23 PM UTC
The earth will know your flesh,
Embrace your marrow’s last memory of bone
More encompassing than any lover.
You were received from earth's body,
As much her child as sky’s; even more perhaps
When you are no longer breathing.
Into raw earth, you will change incomprehensibly
As incorporeal as starlight itself,
And nameless as shadows in moonlight.
Just as daylight dies, you disappear
Down into the deep foundry of death;
Swallowing darkness, in bowels of earth again.
Oct 7, 2010
Oct 7, 2010 at 5:03 PM UTC
*Steel
In the morning,
even before the sun got up,
you could smell it.
Thick fog
covered everything with dust.
The dust from
tall chimneys
spewing out
the mornings breakfast of ****
It was like this
every minute,
every day,
every year
since the foundry was born.
It was fog-stench;
you breathed it,
you ate it,
you drank it;
it defined you
then spit you out
as lung cancer,
breast cancer,
the Big "C".
And then you were no more.
~~~
I lasted 10 years
til they kicked me out.
10 years,
and then they modernized
until the foundry disappeared
one day in its fog.
Today it covers another city,
in another country
carrying its dusty fog
to identify another people
with its cancer.
Another people who once
had beauty and lives.
~~~
10 years
carrying hand held red lava,
pushing it into molds
fast - sparks flying -
burning skin;
and above this din, words -
"hurry boy,
don't let it freeze."
~~~
There are many of us now,
roaming dust covered streets,
spewed out
like last nights trash,
wondering who we are.
( written under this pen name ~~redzone 2/12/14)
Aztec Warrior
Note: I worked in a steel foundry
for 10 years carrying 100 pound ladles
of molten steel; pouring into sand molds.
It was heavy, hot ad ***** work.
I have many leg burn scars to prove it.
© 2014 redzone*
Oct 29, 2015
Oct 29, 2015 at 11:24 AM UTC