"manhole" poems
Stick a lolipop
into the mouth of moments
your life is a child
and somewhere in there
you give a flying ****
about the moon
and no it's not cheese.
That mouth knows what dirt tastes like
but that wont stop me from pouring caramel
and cigarettes over it.
I need a fix
of candied dirt
and addiction.
I'm not afraid of the eclipse
because I'm already hooked on the dark.
So lock the door
&
draw the curtains
&
be content.
The tide wont be knocking
no matter how much you
want it to fill the room
or how big is your sweet tooth
because
hunger
is BIGGER
and eventually
anything will do.
So thank the moon we were wearing seat belts.
Otherwise we might be vegetables
eating only exhaust
like Hiroshima
force fed the sun
because
you only make war on an empty stomach
or with an insatiable hunger.
Be content
for the civilians and their children
who only know the taste of war.
Idiot flavored idiots with a hint of
dead mothers
that will bore a cavity so big
it'll put holes in the head
of kindergardens everywhere.
Who write their valentines on bombs.
Who's love murders buildings,
topples families,
plowing through bodies on city streets all to reach
nobody.
Be content
for the people
who aren't
you because when parents ******* in a box
you call a country means
you don't care
you put genocide on the menu
and there are some things that just wont do.
As I grow weary of rivaling chefs pointing fingers
in circles forever
becoming a porthole to the ****** business
becoming the unsuspecting manhole for
the human animal's existence
in crossing.
Mothers may find safe shelter in the sewers
but it reeks of prepackaged liberty
express delivery
to
every where.
Be content.
Because to start a revolution means living it
and what better way,
to ******* a reckless pace
that finishes first in hunger,
starting fist fights with other people's lives
and forgets even sooner,
than
to
be
content.
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 5:08 PM UTC
~
*Mermaid in a manhole
suffering hibernation sickness
she drinks in every sob like wine
her oceanic call reverberates
whilst speaking dead languages
into the receiver
but slipping off melancholy
and blown a wish
by hide-and-seek lips
she chooses an unfamiliar light
****** with scissors
throbs of undamaged energy
from her vernal equinox
but in love with a bad idea
and beyond the minimum safe distance
she no longer plays at fragile volumes
and careful times
hands playing butterfly
pinch nippled skin
she chooses an unfamiliar light*
~
Jan 30, 2023
Jan 30, 2023 at 10:58 AM UTC
Seldom doth man stop and stare
At the caste iron manhole cover there,
Seldom doth he analyze
The majesty, which beneath it lies.
The pipe work systems vast and long
Dark catacombs so precise and strong,
Buried deep beneath our feet
Extending forth from street to street,
Out across the breadth of town
Those secret fluids trickle down.
Laser levels carve the pathway
Through the walls of solid stone,
Shovels scrape and dig with effort
Forging hard trajectories home.
Digging, digging metal mountains
Sweat cascades upon the brow,
We lay the pipes in straight formation
Precision's satisfaction now.
An Artisan's great work is hidden
Lost beneath the earth's grey stone,
Appreciation camouflaged in that,
The cast iron manhole stands alone.
Magnificence unrealized
For deep beneath your feet,
A subterranean Michelangelo's
Sisteen Chapel, lays discreet.
Unsuspected rivers
Flowing darkly to the sea
In caverns of unwanted waste
Quite unbeknown to thee.
Vaulting brickwork chambers
Which are ancient works of art,
Carry oceans of excretement
Far from where their journey's start.
With thunder's crash and lightning flash
And torrents of cold rain,
The road's awash and gutters flow
Through roadside grates to drain.
Gushing torrents cascade down
In waves of flowing might
To the storm water system
Which promptly swallows it from sight.
Magic, you say ?
Nay, nay I say unto you
That the drain layers artistry
Is unappreciated, that's true !
That the Herculean effort wrought
In winning his great fights
Is largely lost to all and sundry
Who avoid construction sites.
They miss the planning and the layout
And meticulousness too
And the rubber seals which stop the leaks
Which really bother you.
The massive holes and danger
Of being buried in collapse
And the wondrous satisfaction
Of achieving downhill flows... Perhaps!
Marshalg
Apprentice drain layer
MHX Beachcroft site and Eastport
19 September 2009
Jan 22, 2010
Jan 22, 2010 at 3:08 PM UTC
death is laced with colours no eye can see
i saw it yesterday
resting on a twig
on a cold manhole cover
against which it looked so alive
-- it seemed to be comforted
brown wings pulled close, tips almost touching,
against the tiny white shell of its chest,
speckled with black
a tiny beak welcoming the chance to grab
at an interminable silence
--neither ugly nor morbid
but gently pretty,
the presence of death
affirming life.
- Vijayalakshmi Harish
06.07.2013
Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
Jul 6, 2013
Jul 6, 2013 at 2:51 AM UTC
There is this idea, this feeling you say:
A revelation of profound compassion
Riddled with crippling paramount tribulation
Dribbling with drops of pontification.
Thoughtfully and yet aimlessly kicking
Unctuously vacuous presumptions. Promising,
Eventually, to unveil brick by brick
This facade someday and assure me
The imprisoning edifice, with which you keep
Under lock and key, will be effaced
And naked, soon, someday in front of me.
Yet, here another day passes.
From curbside to manhole, up sidewalks and across gravel grit.
Then a squib toward onlookers window shopping
Glaring down at me as both they and you listen
To my dissonant and hollow caterwaul.
CLING, CLANG, BANG! Look at me I'm just a can!
Crumpled and malleable, a thin sheet of five cent aluminum;
Recyclable, reusable, just a means to a mans end.
Ah! But I am not what you think I am:
Within, a bountiful boisterous bloom, unravels
The arid breath of lies and procrastination you exhume.
Your insipid words fall vapidly in my mind like corroded rust
Gently drifting onto a lapping lake.
They are an erroneous ear infection boring my wits
And dulling my thoughts, a waste of time.
All of it bottled, canned, and manufactured
From within your ******** emporium.
Keep your bricks and mortar, think they retain your unctuous pride
While this time, for once, I kick the can curbside.
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 9:27 AM UTC
Adrift on her very first voyage
With the sea coursing in through her bow
Lay the cruise ship, the S.S. Lumbago
There was scarcely a chance for her now
But Ahoy! On the western horizon
In a flurry of yellow and green
That ender of blight and a damsel’s delight
And he’s always on cue for his scene
It’s Sir Patrick Stewart!
And his Luxury Budgerigar!
It’s got seating for seventy people
And the service is well above par
There’s an adequate medical unit
And a modest but elegant bar
What more could a man ever dream of
In a Luxury Budgerigar?
Well…
The forests of England were burning
So the foxes escaped to the city
The badgers had taken to looting
And the squirrels had formed a committee
But who should arise from a manhole
With a confident gleam in his eye?
That destroyer of woes with a spring in his toes
And he’s quick with a witty reply…
Sir Patrick Stewart!
And his Luxury Budgerigar!
With adjustable hose pipe attachment
It’s got wheels like a feathery car
The forests were dowsed and the fauna re-housed
With a three day retreat at a spa
It’s a thing to admire and surely acquire
The Luxury Budgerigar!
But…
Susan was stricken with sorrow
Twas her darkest, most fearful hour
A spider had wrestled her out of her bath
And set up his home in the shower
But who should jump out of the wardrobe
With an innocent look on his face?
That singer of shanties, remover of *******
And first in an obstacle race
Sir Patrick Stewart!
And his Luxury Budgerigar
With a sucker for spiders and beetles
That deposits them into a jar
There’s a tiny wee restaurant to feed them
It was given a Michelin star
A remarkable thing with retractable wings
Is a Luxury Budgerigar
So if you should be in a pet shop
And you see just the critter for you
Please heed this advice: make a note of the price
Then proceed to the back of the queue
When you ask for your preference of creature
Should it whistle, slither or waddle
Do as Sir Patrick Stewart did
And opt for the Luxury model
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 4:51 PM UTC
At a time where it seems so very hard, for me just to feel alive.
all I wanted then, was to drive
As ridiculous as it seems
it was the stuff of my dreams
all I needed was my car and vacant 4am roads.
Going through the gears, as if they were my final years
piston tatted-ring finger; hand firmly wrapped around the wheel
braking late into the corner
locking up the alloy steel wheels on my automobile
the tires squeal
waltzing them back into rotation as I find the threshold
clutch in
twist of the leg at the hip, I blip the throttle with my heel
down into second
one swift movement
un-burnt fuel erupts in the pipes.
blitzing through the off ramp
keeping it tight, clipping the manhole cover in the apex
pedal flat coming out, bounce the tach' as its not worth the upshift
pitch the car into the long sweeping overpass bend
the back end kicks out on decel'
counter steer and slam the accelerator back into the bare metal floor
front wheels clawing in the direction that I please
keys slapping my knees
straighten out and I ease her back home.
reverse down into the narrow; dimly lit garage
as I climb out, I can feel the heat radiating from the machine I built
hot oil ticking as it finds its way back to the pan
I stand and watch my car slowly disappear behind the garage door
it is but another night survived
for both of us.
Sep 18, 2017
Sep 18, 2017 at 1:47 AM UTC
Do we remember John?
He was what we'd call a Simpleton,
Back when we were young.
He stood in his brown cloth coat,
Carried a notepad and a pen,
We suspected he had half a tongue,
Making notes on roadside lawns,
Near every manhole.
John was busy inside his head,
We never got a word he said.
Who was John before John was dead?
Did you know Stanley?
We didn't see him much.
He'd appear in the hood on holidays.
Probably went to New Hope School,
Where he was kept.
Stanley swore a lot,
He threw snot, drooled and spit at us.
We poked fun, and provoked,
Felt blameless,
For Stanley's condition was kept from us.
Segregated,
And not because of colour.
Nov 21, 2016
Nov 21, 2016 at 9:34 AM UTC
Eggnog for a festive season
A special holiday celebration being the reason
Yet my head is spinning all over the place
I feel like I am in a race
That eggnog my mind will never erase
Mother always said don’t waste
But some how the alcohol was added
I am sure this eggnog I will never ever forget
Later on I might have some regret
Can someone point me in the direction of the North Pole?
Right now Santa is stuck in some manhole
Well he is actually smashed
He can’t even tell the reindeers to dash
I don’t believe this I see Rudolf and the reindeer team
But why are they floating down a stream?
Well this slogan fits, “Santa with no sleigh tonight, how will you fly into the night?”
It has now become a plight
Cheers everyone and good night.
Dec 10, 2015
Dec 10, 2015 at 6:45 PM UTC
He is said to have been the last Red man
In Acton. And the Miller is said to have laughed—
If you like to call such a sound a laugh.
But he gave no one else a laugher’s license.
For he turned suddenly grave as if to say,
“Whose business,—if I take it on myself,
Whose business—but why talk round the barn?—
When it’s just that I hold with getting a thing done with.”
You can’t get back and see it as he saw it.
It’s too long a story to go into now.
You’d have to have been there and lived it.
They you wouldn’t have looked on it as just a matter
Of who began it between the two races.
Some guttural exclamation of surprise
The Red man gave in poking about the mill
Over the great big thumping shuffling millstone
Disgusted the Miller physically as coming
From one who had no right to be heard from.
“Come, John,” he said, “you want to see the wheel-pint?”
He took him down below a cramping rafter,
And showed him, through a manhole in the floor,
The water in desperate straits like frantic fish,
Salmon and sturgeon, lashing with their tails.
The he shut down the trap door with a ring in it
That jangled even above the general noise,
And came upstairs alone—and gave that laugh,
And said something to a man with a meal-sack
That the man with the meal-sack didn’t catch—then.
Oh, yes, he showed John the wheel-pit all right.
1.5k
You hide your hair in the
space above your tucked-away thoughts;
waterfall wor
d
s
that
run
into
strea
m
s
of consciousness
out of red dam lips
and through airy pipes
to my manhole ears,
stepped on and discarded by feet and prams
for century's years.
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 8:13 AM UTC
This *****
Artificially awake
Lydia
apples 20 years have passed
oranges i want a do over
manhole cover coins
savage glares across the 4 wheeled property lines
young moms not giving a **** that's alright
kiss of sun hidden from
anxious from blue oak , it's ridges pluming in the dappled twist
and floundering wave, wiggling wave of oak leaves green as frogs.
ponytail suzy, *** from galaxy sci-fi
i brought up a cup while it was empty there,
but so distracted by my own trembling effort,
every hair a furry hood, every fatty fixture of my face a rebounding basset hound
tennis shoes up to my neck, dumb naked in my greenery,
already old somehow, the window closing,
the permanency of parks, like a stilletto in a limosine,
green fixture of my white blinded attempt to see tomorrow,
tourist .
thoughts of Sylvia
, my gaping awe at the feminine,
and its green garden.
-cbrander
Jun 26, 2022
Jun 26, 2022 at 12:26 PM UTC
My hands have had it, I look at them now,
Holding a pencil, is like strangling a cow.
My thumb and forefinger, seize like a vice,
The other digits join in, they don't need to ask twice.
The scar on my palm was from Ninety-Four,
Club Hammer versus Chisel, lets call it a draw.
The **** on my thigh, shaped like an "M" for Mother,
From when I stepped through, a rusty manhole cover
Thirty stitches later, "Och, keep still Hen . . . . "
I never drank Whiskey on that Site again.
The pain in the elbows, from pushing a wheelbarrow,
Up Bostal Hill, Steyning, that was three foot too narrow,
To get a Dumper through, so we shifted it by hand,
Eight cubic metres of concrete, to the promised land.
The copper complexion, the grey in the hair,
Every crease, every wrinkle, shows the way that we wear.
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 6:41 AM UTC
In the haze of
Cerebral hemispheres
Counting the seconds between
Lightning and thunder
Returning fire
With the same manic glee
As eating ice cream
Right from the carton
Two Minutes Hate
I'm bleeding out like
Notes from underground
That contain secrets
Of the wounded sky
I feel a provoked heaviness like
Manhole covers
Razing cane over
The shoddy infrastructure
Two Minutes Hate
"The horrible thing about the Two Minutes Hate was not that one was obliged to act a part, but that it was impossible to avoid joining in." - George Orwell, from the novel 'Nineteen Eighty-Four'
~
Nov 2, 2020
Nov 2, 2020 at 7:55 AM UTC
Yet another in my "Barry Hodges" series
O what a beautiful city is baroque and unspoiled Vilnius,
A veritable rose in the greyness of Eastern Europe,
And a centre of fierce Lithuanian pride and nationalism
Where loathing of Russia comes as part of the national tapestry,
Woven into the heart and soul of each true descendant of Gediminas:
"Tik geras rusų yra miręs rusų!"[note 1] my Litvak lady love would cry out
In moments of extreme and poetic ******** excitement,
As she farted tunefully through purple quilted haemorrhoids.
O dearest delightful Vilnius, where my obsessive adoration
Of this rather plump but still juicy middle-aged lady
Went unrequited when she was sober, despite the perpetual onslaught
Of my tenderly whispered syllables of love and lust,
Even when my mispronounced tirade of affirmations of desire
Rose to a pointless crescendo, wasted on the midnight hour,
As she shrieked: "Lietuvių valytojoms yra geriausias pasaulyje!" [note 2],
In a desperate attempt to retain her composure post-climax.
O how can I ever forget her egregiously insatiable ****** appetite or
Her immense cantilevered ***** whose glorious silhouette
I can still recall in the silvery moonlight shining through
The toilet window, as I peeped at her through the keyhole,
Watching her wipe between her gorgeous silken arse-cheeks,
With an improvised corner of the unfurled bathroom curtain,
Mysteriously muttering "Jei nėra silkių nereikia valgyti!" [note 3]
As she reviewed the remains of half-digested Cepelinai [note 4]
O woe! All is now finished and dear overweight Valerija is lost to me,
Having fallen drunkenly down an open manhole on Pilies one evening,
And I am left alone to wetly kiss the cryptic letter she left for me,
Staring sadly at the tear-stained smudged ink of her illiterate scrawls.
Yea, mate, her last words of warning and patriotic exhultation were:
"Jei jūsų kūdikis turi imbiero plaukus, mesti jį į upę!" [note 5]
Followed by "Valio už Lietuvos Vermachto karo didvyrių!" [note 6]
And I think they were probably the sanest things she ever said.
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 1:45 PM UTC
Ugh. **** this, man. I’m going outside.
The ragged scrape of rusted nails on gypsum. Footsteps like a mad zombie.
Oh Christ. C’mon, James. It’s dark. There are things out there now.
The footsteps stop. The rustle of an emaciated shoulder inside nylon.
I told you to stop doing that.
Hh-what? What?
The ****** blasphemy. You’re laughing at me.
*No. No I’m not. Listen, you think I care anymore about your ******* religion? You think I give any kind of **** about what you believe in? I’m too…* (okay fine you’ve made your point) I care too much about what’s going on inside my own head. I don’t dream good dreams, ma- (okay i’m sorry jesus) I dream about losing my hands. I dream about you losing your hands. You know **** man, you’re freaking out, calm the) *you know what? I don’t think I even saw the bloodstain. I don’t even think the manhole was crusted up with anybody's ******* brains. I don’t think I saw the imbecile trying to eat smoke. I think it’s all in my **** head. I’m juh-hust –*
His voice cracks. Guttural gasping sobs.
I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
A sigh. Rustle of clothes and the heavy thud of muscle against gypsum.
‘S alright.
Sobs that sound like laughter.
It’s alright. Look, see? I won’t go outside. Are there even things out there?
No. I d-don’t think there’s anything.
Okay. Okay.
Choking sigh.
James?
Hm?
We’re not going to Clifftown, are we?
No. No, we’re not.
Aug 7, 2012
Aug 7, 2012 at 5:56 PM UTC
I was on the streets
Alone and dying, looking for someone.
Then, You came along.
You had a heart for me
So You picked me up and put me on Your back.
Carrying me home, You told me You loved me ever since.
For in that moment,
You introduced me to the feeling of living.
I didn’t want that feeling to end.
*“No wind
No traffic lights
No one
Could ever stop me from loving You back.”*
Said my soul.
But
My heart and mind
Oh why oh why should I go back
To those lonely streets?
I want to be with You and You only.
But I keep
Failing.
You gave everything to me.
My friends
My family
My life
Your heart
But I didn’t care.
I only cared for myself.
Every time.
I always fall in the same manhole.
And yet, You still reach down to me with your hand and tell me
*“It’s all right.
I love you.”*
Every time.
I am sorry.
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 5:27 AM UTC
The proverbial
Better jump down a manhole light yourself a candle
Plays away at sensory deprivation
As soon as shadows dance around the wall
Well, a modern day cave
Such as the ones prophets receive their callings from God in
I suppose it only means
Truth lurks in the subterranean
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 11:31 AM UTC
and here's what i want from you.
I want you coming to me and running
away as fast as i can.
at the intersection of Denver and Archer,
the purple glow of lights and the steam
billowing from manhole covers
reminds me of you.
the striped sheets I'm in now
once wrapped you up.
while you held yourself up on my chest and stained wood,
my eyes danced over your skin
making the journey new again.
hot coffee at 10 am leaves me running in place--
never getting anywhere.
Aug 9, 2012
Aug 9, 2012 at 8:50 PM UTC
I stood on
the pavement feeling
drunk with the awareness
of too many hours
the manhole cover
cold and soaking through
my feet into
tiny
bird bones I
bruised as a child
running down
steps too fast.
and I was standing so
slowly, in my
memory the world
spun around me
with the trees, the
yellow early morning
light, green traffic
signs and all
silent on the street
another world
another year
and no way
to go back
and see it
again.
Oct 1, 2010
Oct 1, 2010 at 11:30 PM UTC
im afraid to shave
im afraid to shower
im afraid to be clean
i guess im a coward
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 10:13 AM UTC
The upward curve of your lips
Framed in a bristled haze of
Eternal stubble. Long fingered
Beautiful hands. Sure and gentle
Buttoning those stiff collared shirts
With the stripes you always wear
Except to bed. How do I say how I
Love your thick hair and your scent?
Can I express how good it feels to lay
In your arms and feel those gorgeous fingers
Splayed on my back. Or how eagerly you wake me
In the morning, when its still grey outside.
And how you make fun of me when I throw
Flat rocks. Spending all my time finding the perfect one
When you can skip any stone you pick up,
And count the skips just so you can
Say that you’ve thrown more.
Holding my hand and running through the woods
Those manhole covers
Were too heavy to take home.
And you became home. For four days.
I saw your smile
And noticed it was crooked and loved it all the more.
Nov 27, 2011
Nov 27, 2011 at 3:50 PM UTC
High heels clicking down the avenue-, women check their reflection in shop windows ....Men comb their hair in the rear view mirror ....Traffic lights reflect off wet city streets ..Traffic cop directing cars with whistle chirps . Occasional car horn , big rigs releasing air brakes ...Orderly metronomic movement .. The quiet morning migration of human beings moving with a precision .. Suburbia emptied into the big city like clockwork , by subway and bus , truck , automobile ...Shop owners tidy up their piece of America this cool October morning , sweeping sidewalks , yawning , coffee in one hand , feather duster in the other , looking over swollen streets , engine exhaust , steam from manhole covers rising into a partly cloudy morning sky...Autumn in the big city , replays itself throughout Mother Columbia this a.m. !
Oct 13, 2015
Oct 13, 2015 at 8:07 AM UTC
This early winter has already slipped from the macadam,
Bloats the creek I see
From the perch of rusted manhole covers
Their tunnels rush with concrete.
It falls over the v-shaped Two-Log dam,
It whispers to me
I’ve come close to
Nothing, to nothing, to nothingness,
I’ve heard the babbling, the incomprehensible echo
Of my own voice
In the abyss of being, that, if I spoke
It taunted back, in a voice
Rife
With truth.
Redemption of solidity has me now,
This is where I grew up:
Along the same creek, along the flow and course of man
Crossing the winter’s water has proven
Test, trial, and victory
Every time. I never noticed it.
Apathy is a vague blur in the saccade of the last few years,
Self-destructed by the fault of feeling.
I am more human now, returning to the shores of limitation,
Of the piercing history
Still young, but wizened, hard, a court
At which I stood and begged for my head.
I have but my name now, and nothing to return to
But the temporary homes with temporary people.
If I said I don’t care, I was wrong. They were my temple,
But the god of me, the god of them, the god of sheer youthful joy
Has been overtaken by grapevines, by ivy
And I still proclaim victory, still proclaim
I won the fight of isolation.
From the frozen bed of silt and winter
I pull concrete chips from the bridge
They destroyed ten years prior, where once I stood
And added my sorrows to the ebon stream, carrying it
To the end of it, where end met end,
And continued on end-to-end.
But I have seen nothing and no end it quite like it,
For every shore has its mirror,
And beyond it is my voice, I cast out,
Calling back,
As it was.
Nov 27, 2014
Nov 27, 2014 at 7:47 PM UTC
A stiff breeze coincides with a passing jet
As I sit on my stoop watching dead leaves
Dance around the manhole in the street.
It's 15 degrees outside,
Yet I persist with this disgustingly pleasurable vice
That's sure to **** me... eventually.
Fingertips numb as carcinogens fill my lungs
To shake hands and broker death deals with my alveoli.
I ponder...
The previous chapter in my life has come to a close.
Awareness of the changes setting in
Allows for a free hand to grasp the wheel,
If only with few fingers...
It's a start.
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 10:03 AM UTC