"leakage" 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
ever been a ***** or a ******
i have. and other names
mostly given.
ever been a scapegoat?
i have. been a toy
to the hatfields and the mccoys.
any ink of brain leakage
taken to the sawbone
stitches over stitches
on my lips sewn by my own hands
the sands of time have passed, slow
as they can fall --
blood from rips goes on the walls
smear memories on the old ****
to make a little sense of the prison
in which i was living
make a little bit of sense of my enemies
apparently, i choose to ride the prisms
of a prison to the coffin, as i'm better use dead
but what kind of exit is a bullet to the head?
tell you, it's a mess, what it is
Aug 7, 2019
Aug 7, 2019 at 5:37 PM UTC
He turns the page
Of old age
For what was once the rage
Now sits in his cage
It's been a war to wage
This, life's final stage
The pressure gauge
Ticking on so outrage
Ticking by in ménage
For his book's cleavage
Untouched and derange
Year's wasted and disengaged
If only there was no leakage
Or ever such seepage
Life on his barren range
With no panacea to assuage
No wife ever, no cat, no life to engage
Nothing but red read rage
Now in his final chapter, this cage
This cage, death does he part this rampage
A life perched without marriage
For he married to himself backstage
Where his curtain veiled fruitage
In lieu of looking at the skies for dosage
He fell hostage to his hermitage
Yet this, his bottled pilgrimage
Sinking now in raging montage
He does sit beseeched in his passage
And hopes someday to bid bon voyage
With direr hopes of turning a better page
Logan Robertson
9/27/2018
Sep 27, 2018
Sep 27, 2018 at 5:57 AM UTC
The cold locket
She gave you
Slipped from your neck
Falling between
Your bare *******
And down past
Your broken heart
You hugged
Your knees
That they might
Save you
And hold you
Together
For just a
Little while
Staring at your
Reflection
In the
Lukewarm water
That stagnated
At your thighs,
A white
Porcelain refuge
Surrounded by
Moldy tiles
Was your solace
The salty leakage
From your
Forest eyes
Fell faster
Than the
Squeaky faucet
That never stopped
D R I P P I N G
The cool
Air grazed
Your spine
And sent
A peppered
Patch of
Chill bumps
Down your arms,
But you
Didn't seem
To mind
All you
Could feel
Was the
Broken pieces
Of your heart,
S c a t t e r e d
In the water
Slicing your body
Like tiny
Razor blades
By their
Jagged, Uneven
Edges
With one
Flip of
Your toe
You whispered
Goodbye,
As the necklace
That she
Gave you
And the
Pieces of
Your heart
That she
Took from you
Slid down
The drain,
Into the
Place Where
Broken Hearts Go.
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 4:52 AM UTC
(seep yourself to leak away)
all reveals are feints;
I take you right
but I am moving left,
always left,
then left again
when I turn the faucet of me on,
brown, rusty pipe water comes out,
never turning clear,
even if the flow
went on for a millennium
someone traveller passerby
reads my excellent explicit illicit words,
with kind sweetness
observes a valid conclusion:
Poems take.a lot out of you
correct+wrong
not take, give
they are the slow seepage
of my overburdening
which is
yes, yes, I know, all relative,
but perspective is a
sometime summer thing,
and all the springtime streets
filled with filthy frozen slush
having come from some rusty water leakage,
never turning clear
no matter how long the street runs away
from you
so you take yourself to give away,
seeping and leaking
ah words;
so useful and so inadequate
crushed petals from the Tree of Life
you ask me If I have read my brother,
the prophet-poet Jeremiah?
*The heart is deceitful above all things and beyond cure.
Who can understand it?*
*When your words came, I ate them;
they were my joy and my heart's delight*
*Then the Lord reached out his hand unto my mouth and said,
"I have put my words in your mouth."*
these are those words
Apr 6, 2018
Apr 6, 2018 at 3:25 PM UTC
.....
...
.
how cunning
this tiny trickle of red
how horrid
this leakage of the dead
don't look at me
with plump red lips
go hide and flee
I might not resist
in dark-ruby richness
it lures the foggy mind
in acrid taste of thickness
it tempts our undead kind
pulsing in the wrist
the scent of human juice
our bloodlust is a feast
an ancient broken truce
so hold your breath
and gaze into my eyes
oh what a shame
a vestal sacrifice
close your eyes
your dreams will end tonight
you will rise
a graceful grandiose sight
.
...
......
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 2:56 PM UTC
Hatred seeps through vicious eyes,
Love like a dream lost forever,
hearts forgotten together,
an ecstacy of broken sadness,
glitter trembles in minds refracted,
Broken tension forgets itself,
lost in the hands of the weary,
never safe in the caress of sin,
for poetry cannot be formed from chapped lips
your fingers ache as words relapse
breath forgets to fill your lungs
your place is gone here,
life begotten through glass shards
piercing the skin to your bones
small drops of crimson leakage
trickle from the crevices of your body,
the pain is unstable and placid
as they tear your heart out
with their bare hands....
Feb 27, 2014
Feb 27, 2014 at 9:13 AM UTC
Her barefoot feels it again
For the third night in a row…
Something cold and fluid
On an even colder floor
As she raced to the kitchen
Prepping for the day ahead
She almost slips, she’s furious
But it’s not in her to curse.
Her mind is wrapped in issues
As she stares up at the ceiling
No signs of rain, no leakage
But how does the floor get wet?
She sips and smells her coffee
And steps into her slippers
She grabs a mop and bucket
And points two fingers in blame.
“Did Tom, my love, spill water?”
Not a chance, he’s too careful
Fastidious and disciplined,
He’d mop it before it spilled!
She’d lay the blame on Tracy
And presume that Tracy peed
But cats are not that messy
As Tracy’s three years had proved.
She starts to get too worried
But decides its not worth it
Once again, she lets it slide
For the third night in a row…
But less than an hour ago
He wakes up from a nightmare
Same nightmare that has plagued him
For the third night in a row…
He slides out of bed slowly
He watches her for a while
She sleeps in peace like a baby
Why can’t he sleep like her?
He sneaks out of their bedroom
To his newfound grieving spot
Three steps to the kitchen door
He falls apart in gloom
He’s in pain, pain unbearable!
Unlike anything he’s seen
After many years in the army
He’s been through thick and thin.
He relives the angst of confession
As he said those dreaded words
“Honey, I cheated on you.”
And shut his eyes for the BANG!
He’d hoped for fire and brimstone
And expected nothing less
But her reply was calm and casual
“I’ve known, and I forgive you.”
Shocked at her eerie response
He died a million times!
He watched for signs of withdrawal
And a possible divorce suit
But after years of waiting
He unforgives himself, and
For the third night in a row…
He cries himself to death!
© Raphael Uzor
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 10:57 PM UTC
She with the deepest cleavage
Will allure the most clicks
**** off b-minus chicks
Cause the most leakage
Aug 10, 2016
Aug 10, 2016 at 8:11 PM UTC
I have all this scratching
and leaking
at the edges of my mind
that I know I can’t fight off
forever.
Sometimes people lose
their subconscious drive to try
all at once
in one day
and just go crazy,
but then I think
my most alluring thought
of all
is that I can't wait
for it to happen
to me.
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 2:49 PM UTC
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Relate Articles:
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 10:36 AM UTC
Crawling inside the depths
are fears of inadequacy and lose of hope...hopelessness.
Senselessness becomes rational where before it had no place.
Often when the spirit is momentarily uplifted
panic abounds of the ensuing crashing down by a broken heart.
Despite this familiar thought, right now this is not the concern.
Joy and harmony must rob the soul
of hurt, anger, and a shattered heart.
The tides of time do not stop for no one stone.
Take your stride soul; be as powerful as you can be.
Spirit be not afraid to kidnap this being
from self inhalation through self-inflicted pain.
Mend the leakage of this being's punctured heart.
Oct 1, 2011
Oct 1, 2011 at 8:47 AM UTC
Starving for meaning, an agnostic
bruising grey and white matter,
choking on maybes and half-truths,
finds indifference too easily. Never
pushing further through, cloudbursts
condensate but never conceive rainfall.
Something and always something
more gives pause, upon bathroom wall.
Scribbled as an epiphany lightening bolts
eye-opener, and its leakage capitalizes.
Each tagger finding more prophetic
words to denounce anything mystical
or godly. So, what's being fertilized
beyond the tinkling drain of insistence,
slumps downgrade to ebb of sewage
reaching sea. There amidst flotsam,
aeon's class of power perceived become
one with Supreme Being, an ocean.
Mar 30, 2017
Mar 30, 2017 at 6:19 PM UTC
#*‘Tis but the flapping of the sail,
And not a rent made by the gale*!
H. W. Longfellow
When bureaucrats, with obfuscation
monotone in data-speak
and mumble to their mutinous nation,
bloodless vessels spring a leak.
Scan in vain the rolling breakers;
leadership is out to sea.
Overscripted undertakers
claim to speak for you and me…
The Ship of State, adrift, becalmed
floats on; a most ill-fated craft.
The body politic, unembalmed
begins to ripen fore and aft.
The crew, grown callous to the rot
and numbed by such expediency
with one last desperate cannon shot
forsake all hope of mutiny.
While computers spit statistics,
crewmen spread the expectant word;
(no more trust in mere ballistics…
hope delayed is hope transferred.)
“Make ready to abandon ship !
The captain’s just a talking head.
Lower the lifeboat, let her rip –
before, like him, we end up dead…”
The Ship of State is rent with breaches
data-leakage, data driven –
the lifeboat flounders, coral-riven
seeking distant wave-washed beaches.
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 11:13 PM UTC
Your droopy eyes are palpable
But their leakage is so very liquid
That everything from your frown and down
are only streaks of monochrome colours.
The shine from your bottom lip’s pout
Is the sole indication of any protuberance
In between the misty, misplaced smudges
And now I’ve gone and lost your focal point.
Your wilted close is tangible
But the reasoning is so volatile
That I’m unsure of Where the dead must head
And whether *** just simply is a sin.
The parameters are but blurred
And lead to a dissipated bit of an apex
Among smears of arrogant ignorance
And now I’ve gone and belittled your focal point.
But what is it, exactly, that you wanted to make an impression of?
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 5:44 PM UTC
undo the rusty bolts
underlining
my frizzy hairline
the crummy ones that hold
volatile turmoil
within my scalp
the erratic lunacy
playing
with my aging brain
using the untangled strings
to jump rope
and play
sorrowful tunes
for the weeping
to harmonize
i want you
to stick your hands
in my heavy head
as you would
in a flower ***
freshly filled with soil
dig into the moist compound
with your pliable fingers
amend
the corruptive leakage
that toils
within my own deceit
i want you
to avidly turn
the soft claying matter
how ever you please
as you would
turn into roads
that lead you
running
straight to me
i want you
to breathe
igniting hope
born from the fumes
of cigarettes
you smoked insensibly
into the seeds
you wish to discard
in this potted cavity
i want you
to pour oceans
of poetic sentiments
tainted with gentle kindness
from those isolated tears
held back in the sockets
of your eyes
to water
my wilting corpse
so it may flourish
from your light reflecting gift
of life (you resurrect me)
i want you
to trust
in your
captivating presence
to make me
unintentionally smile
from your caress
will selflessly sprout
inflorescent buds
of rich purplish-blue flowers
with conspicuous green calyxes
and even though their coloring
is rather insignificant
and they can be easily overlooked
i want you
to know
that only you
hold the key
to this secret pasture
that
without you
there would not be
such garden
for us to hide
Mar 2, 2014
Mar 2, 2014 at 7:40 AM UTC
when I disclaim that
there be no poem today
I suggest you
put me in the dock,
hit the chess clock,
to time the length
tween my lies
sit me down in
the witness stand,
to better see
the holes in me,
from which word seepage,
grey matter leakage,
blackened white slush mush,
covers my face and hands,
and with fingers splayed
in the V
of a Spock like Cohenic blessing,
I make
my beginning and ending
Commencement Speech,
a recitation of incantations,
an eye on the pyramid inspiration
of cockeyed cantorial hymnations
Like this:
there is only one Godhead
that the spirits that allow me
breathing space in this world
and the one yet to come,
demand of me, worship -
It would be at the altar
of momentary fears
that clarify the whole,
the unifying principle,
that my blinded eyes,
my Pharaoh hardened heart,
my closed and deafened ears
see, soften and hear and believe!
I am slave to the
Gods of Poetry,
their truth, my lies,
stirred in one ***
and as I live and breathe
I am rewired
with a new poem every day,
an addict who cannot obey,
who cannot afford to pay
the judicial costs
of the cease and desist order
of his own common sense
Jan 2, 2011 10:05 AM
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 12:45 AM UTC
Snort repticalc and mashed up altoid
Have fun with some friends in God’s portwine stained forehead wrinkle
Imaginary time and poison thumb I like
Natalie rips some Earth nuts from soil
Ripping out the toxins and crackin it open with your her teeth
Clapping laughing and crackin nuts and cookin crumbs in pressure cooker
Bad dreams in your frozen water bed
Damp in the ceiling drip and trickle onto papas
bald spots, plastic mickey mouse cup collecting
ceiling leakage
peanuts and marmite froze over lickin frost
***** wrist grunk trash youre rubbing frolicly on the placid table
I cant believe the glass aint clean
Looking not out a window
But a piece of glass reflecting the city behind me
And my band fall out of place
When the old man sneezes
I get pushed aside because the marching band needs me to move and
Im only so talented
dead Chihuahua smell coming from the basement
a parallel universe where there’s one extra atom
with lana del rey on repeat
and jesus was a comic book character too
knuckles breathing fight stance
contraposto counter position backwards and
upside down rubber band army march
a thin breathing kettle with 0 durability
and a plastic bent tight so it’s white, pink, spotted
palamino dress and champagne skin
the damp gets to me
again again again
fingerless gloves for fingerless tom
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 3:50 PM UTC
Dear Darling, I have been haunted too many nights
By the cries and screams of those
That closely resemble myself.
Their pitch pulls at my fibers,
Slices my arteries, and beats on my ear drums.
I wake up in a cold sweat, with the fear of God in me every night.
Dear Darling,
These scars are leakage of my fears.
My blood is poisoned with the idea of regret.
Sadness encompasses and clouds my thoughts,
Creating a pessimistic view on positive situations.
Numbness pains my core, and spreads through my veins
As a cold slush.
Dear Darling,
I have not slept a full night’s sleep in over 8 years.
I am not scared of no beast,
Nor animal,
Nor man.
Dear Darling,
These monsters inhabit my mind,
and plagues my eyes with sights ungodly even for the wicked.
They close my throat,
And guide the blade to my arms.
Dear Darling,
They have stolen my sanity,
And I am in fear of what they may soon accomplish.
I don’t remember how these scars have gotten here,
But they cause my hands to shake,
and my knees to collapse
as I guide my finger tips over the scars.
Dear Darling,
Save me.
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 1:07 AM UTC
One reason I knew we'd never last is even after a year in juxtaposition, our sentences never began to resemble one another. I could never get lost in the cadence of your vocabulary, because it all sounded dissonant to me. The way the words **** and **** couldn't flow from your lips as easily as they could from mine caused discomfort in the succession of my words. It was if a dam was holding back the waterfall of words and ideas kept in my head, and leakage or splinters in this dam caused an outburst of lividity or tears that couldn't be stopped by words or kisses. When two people are apart, the only thing they have between them is words, so the lack of freedom of speech is the biggest defect.
Dec 27, 2013
Dec 27, 2013 at 6:01 PM UTC
my heart doesn't work
this isn't an angsty teenage metaphor
it leaks
and there is a depression in my heartbeat
my veins are weak
my heart has four chambers like four quarters of my lineage
and one half is made of shame
my grandfather unknowingly instilled in me
with the pain
carried in her pelvis
my weak veins are built of his DNA
so much of my body is made up of shame
I wonder if he'd even known her name
my heart doesn't work
this isn't an angsty teenage metaphor
I feel more than anyone I've met before
my core aches with a pain that isn't even mine
I carry shame
throw it like pebbles out to sea
so it'll skip over my son
when he looks up at me
his heartbeat will be lively and carry our name
there will be no leakage in his veins
and when I hold him
we will not know any shame
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 11:17 PM UTC
Do you know what it's like?
To be imprisoned
In the past?
I am
Locked up in a cell
Of unforgiving memories
And mental stains I tried to hide
And blood underneath
My fingernails
And I just can't
Scrub it all away
I just want it all to end
This ********
Nonexistent road of endless
Turmoil and boiling hatred
And emotional leakage
I am so
****** off lately
And I just don't give a ****
About the things
I used to give a **** about
Have you ever just
Not cared
Awakened by hostility
And sedated with
"It'll be alright"
No, **** you
It won't be alright, okay
Because it's not worth my time of day
To pretend
Like the little things don't matter
Because they do
They really do
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 3:37 AM UTC
I lost my heart,
have you seen it?
I set it down so often it got easier to leave it.
If you find it,
would you keep it?
It's a hardy little ***** despite the minor leakage.
A bit of thread,
perhaps a needle?
Really I think a little love is all that's needed.
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 12:16 AM UTC
So which Mother do you blame?
She who endowed you with charcoal skin
Burnt by the searing torch of her womb?
She who first nourished your frantic hands & bluish lips,
Diseasing your defenseless blood,
Predisposing you to crave a leakage of acid
Trickling down, down
Your throat burning
Holes into your
Heart
Lungs
& Esophagus?
Or
She who pried open your eyes,
Sewn shut by black-singed needles,
Crossed by death’s most avid gaze?
She who placed her wrinkled hands beneath your tiny chin,
Pardoning you as your naked eyes gleamed bright,
While the masked men in all-white stood silent,
Lamenting Earth’s injustice?
While you cultivate your answer, love,
I beg of you, remember
That this fire ripping through your muscles,
These millions of molecules playing ping-
pong
In your brain,
That bitter taste that relieves
Your starved tongue --
They cannot save you,
They cannot reclaim you,
They do not know you
As I do
Every single night I beg of them,
Release you
Dec 23, 2012
Dec 23, 2012 at 4:01 PM UTC
**You were talking in your sleep again.
Finally admitted your mistakes but it's too late.
I'm awake laying in bed, the waters rising, my pillows wet.
Where did all this water come from?
You spoke late night diatribes, sweet nothings and the waters up to my ears.
I can't hear **** the waters rising again.
I'm staring at the ceiling and it took form of scarlet, vanillas skies.
I'm almost underwater now, my lips, and the tip of my nose are touching the surface.
My visions a blur, I'm drowning alive.
I finally figured out the origin of the artificial forming body of water in my room.
All this water is coming from you, from the leakage in your mouth, truth saliva.
Your somniloquy song usually last thirty seconds.
I guess, the only time you can speak honesty, is when you're sleep talking.**
Jan 17, 2016
Jan 17, 2016 at 5:33 AM UTC