"plumbers" poems
To end up alone
in a tomb of a room
without cigarettes
or wine--
just a lightbulb
and a potbelly,
grayhaired,
and glad to have
the room.
...in the morning
they're out there
making money:
judges, carpenters,
plumbers, doctors,
newsboys, policemen,
barbers, carwashers,
dentists, florists,
waitresses, cooks,
cabdrivers...
and you turn over
to your left side
to get the sun
on your back
and out
of your eyes.
from "All's Normal Here" - 1985
32.7k
Plaid slacks
Feather cap
Argyle socks
Flip phone
Mullet hair
Greasy hands
Crusted fingernails
White belt
Sketchy beard
Members only
Casio watch
Deck shoes
Muscle shirt
Tribal tattoo
Chest hair
Plumbers crack
You look great, Mom!
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 7:28 PM UTC
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
i live in a ******** so boring tractors roam the streets in the usual
traffic,
but i found that you can wizen up to a title of wizard
by finding inanimate things entertaining and thought provoking,
because the internet will not become
the next scapegoat of goldfish memory - not the next
box of entertainment - it will be what god’s green earth indented.
out here, where you’re far from trafalgar sq. you
get crows circling back to the origin of the woods with odin on the lyre
venting out against too much pigeon **** coo coo of the attired men and women marking karma with the no. 13 and being ******* on from on high,
you get seagulls, even, seagulls so far into dry land... imagine!
and you get the autistic zoning in of the cat’s eye,
those cats are very autistic, their eyes tell the sad sad story
of encapsulated solipsism - snap your fingers or meow
and they look at you passing you looking at some randomised
point of entering their sleeping pattern - very autistic those cats,
they look at you almost cross-eyed when you try to snap them out of it -
out of it being: ****** off at being awake.
very autistic those cats, those cats are very autistic, they look
at you looking past you, looking almost cross-eyed -
don’t blame me for the zigzag or the w!
so as i said, it’s so boring where i live you see tractors and crows,
and the only solidification of your presence is either provided for
by an addiction to television eager for the flicker -
or drinking... watching bricks, thinking bits and bobs out
for the torrent of slavic plumbers building the great ****** of london.
lo... upon the yonder... there it blooms *******
i like places where trees tower over man's handing man brick on brick -
makes the sky a bit bigger and less asthmatic.
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 10:29 AM UTC
So This... “ Cancel Culture “...
Now Seems To Be Structured...
To... RESTRICT Numbers...
And Now Be The CONDUCTOR... !!!
of What Folks Say And What Gets Played...
Via TV Or Stage And WHO Gets Paid...
As If THEY Are Some SPECIAL Class...
Who Know How Far Free Speech Should Go... !?!
But It Seems As Though They’re A Little LATE... !!!
Where EXACTLY Were They When The... KKK...
Used To ****** Slaves Just Because of Their Race... !!!
Oh, Because These Days,
Things Have REALLY Changed...
Are These People INSANE...
And NOT Using Their Brains... ?!?
Because We STILL Have SLAVES... !!!
And Heads Who CLEARLY Want To DICTATE...
Are They Cancelling THEM...
Or Doing What THEY SAY... !?!
Or Just Causing PROBLEMS...
Over Gender And Race... ?!?
Well Some It Now Seems...
Who’ve Made BIG MONEY... !!!
Are UNCOMFORTABLE With...
Them... CANCELLING... !!!
When It Comes To Free Speech...
And Indeed The Arts Because of Policies...
That Seem To STINK Like FARTS... !!!
Have They Cancelled BOMBS...
Or RACIST... Sitcoms...
Oh Yes NOW They Have... !!!
AFTER These Shows Have...
Made PLENTY of CASH...
And Been Shown Across Lands...
... INTERNATIONALLY... !!!
On TV’s AND Indeed BIG SCREENS... !!!
REPEATEDLY For The World To See...
So Where Have They Been... ?!?
BEFORE Gender Themes...
And... INEQUALITIES...
Became The Very Fabric of SOCIETIES... ?!?
Where APPARENTLY...
... EVERYBODY Was FREE...
To Be Who They Wanna Be...
Well That’s A FALLACY...
That’s NOT REALITY... !!!
Just Like PIPE DREAMS... !!!
Oh But SUDDENLY... !!!
These New CANCEL POLICE...
Are CANCELLING...
And Now DAMAGING... !!!
The Careers of Those...
Who WON’T Be Controlled... !!!
Like Those Who Speak...
What They Want... FREELY... !!!
So They Can CANCEL ME... !!!
Cos That’s How I NOW BE... !!!
NOT Some HUMAN SHEEP...
For Them To Shepherd And Keep...
In Some PENITENTIARY...
Just Because of Free Speech...
That DOESN’T Tread... “ Lightly “...
Cos’ I ALREADY KNOW...
How... CANCELLING Goes... !!!
Because It’s Really Not New...
It’s What Censors Do... !!!
But Here’s Some TRUTH...
To UPSET Their Crews... !!!
It’s One Rule For THEM...
But NOT The Same For You... !!!
If You’re NOT ONE...
Who’ll Keep Your Mouth SHUT...
To APPEASE These Teams...
Who Now Want TOTAL CONTROL... !!!
That’s Just The Way That The Story Now Goes...
NO Bambi Or THUMPER To Be Some Foot Drummer... !!!
Just A Breed of Vultures...
Now Willing To PUNCTURE...
Careers Like BAD Plumbers... !!!
Whose Force Has A Cause...
Now Trying To ENFORCE..
What Should Be Put ASUNDER...
This... TRULY RIDICULOUS... !!!
..... “ Cancel Culture “..... !!!
Oct 19, 2020
Oct 19, 2020 at 2:41 AM UTC
Plumbing
screaming in pain
cleaning her drain
it was very clogged
I am very logged
loved my plumbers crack
she gave my *** a smack
faucet beginning to leak
from the point of the peak
ended up in bed
she gives good head
wanted bill to be free
told me during my morning ***
I said you lost your mind
so I poked her from behind
how about half price
she said sorry no dice
please free she would beg
as she played with my third leg
running wild was my imagination
you could feel my frustration
after the plumbing was all done
it turned out she was a nun
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 9:13 AM UTC
Oh, to be a tortoise
and never need a house.
No realtors, no mortgage,
never a call for
roofers, plumbers...
or ever to build a shelf!
Mar 3, 2012
Mar 3, 2012 at 12:01 PM UTC
Smack
Smack my *** in a car,
smack my *** in a bar.
Smack my *** here or there,
I don't believe in any underwear.
I love a good *** smack,
right below the plumbers crack.
If I'm naked or wearing clothes,
smacking my *** is what I propose.
Smack my *** in the bed,
smack my *** after I'm dead.
Smack my *** up or down,
smack my *** in any town.
Smack my *** cause I said so,
smack my *** before you go.
It doesn't matter where or how,
smack my *** please right now.
Smack it good, smack it hard,
give my *** it's best regard.
You know you want to smack my ***
just please no more broken glass.
Smack my *** in the shower,
whack it good, with all your power.
Smack my *** in the street,
my *** deserves a good beat.
Smack my *** and never stop,
maybe this boil will someday pop.
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 1:39 AM UTC
Florrie stands at the garden gate,
How much longer must she wait?
The Postman was due ages ago
What will he bring today for Flo
Junk mail or a pile of bills
Or a letter from her daughter Jill
Maybe a seed catalogue
Or a letter requesting she sponsor a dog
An offer of a new bank card
Or book-club offers of works by the Bard
Or a parcel from her sister Sally
Now living in the Rhonda Valley
A letter about changing her energy supplier
They promise her a cheaper deal
Then the bills are higher
A spring catalogue from Ann Summers
Or a free sheet advertising plumbers
Oh postman, what is keeping you?
Florrie has better things to do
Than wait and wait and wait and wait
Shivering at the garden gate
Jan 28, 2017
Jan 28, 2017 at 3:24 PM UTC
I don't have a problem with
hipsters, goths, jocks,
skaters, rockers, preps,
farmers, plumbers, executives,
Blacks, Hispanics, Asians, Caucasians,
gays, furries, bronies,
foodies, junkies, abstainers,
republicans, democrats,
atheists, monotheists, polytheists,
etc.
People are people.
So, why begrudge them that?
I do, however, have a problem with mean, hateful people
who's greatest joy comes in a form of shadenfreude.
Be who you are,
but don't impose your self-image onto others;
impose others onto your Self with a healthy dose of salt.
You may learn a thing or two.
Live and let live.
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 10:19 AM UTC
Live life to live
shape the world and cultivate
away fears of shadows and hate.
Grower's thumbs often build
greener tomorrows, tokes to give
to brothers and sisters of today
always searching for more questions.
What clarity can bring to one
not you, but for someone
who holds the rotten cape
held together by rough black tape
to the bewildered open fields
of opiates and grapes
waiting just enough time
to bend around the vine
that holds together what they are feeling.
Let the world keep spinning
wobble from time to time
stumble off our feet
no chance to meet or greet
the war is on our street
bringing lust greed and pride
for all of us to abide
but all things can be forgiven.
Feel the sunny heat
of the smiles of those you just beat
for all the people are here
lovers, plumbers, drummers,
and this goes on, we run again
on and on we run again
on and on again
we go on.
May 31, 2012
May 31, 2012 at 9:56 PM UTC
I remember when we were small, and you were just a bat and ball,
on the TV,
just a blip and a blot, bouncing around, while I crawled in my cot,
and we both grew, in volume and vision,
to blast into space on our own secret mission -
aliens fled when we were in session.
I remember one Christmas when I was just eight, pretending to sleep,
but staying up late,
my fingers crossed tight, trying to resist the pull of the night,
hoping that Santa would see me alright, with your arrival,
in a spectrum of light.
I couldn’t believe that your new form took tapes! That your games had more
than just plumbers and apes! I’d heard you could draw more than 10,000 shapes!
It’s a wonder I slept, while your envoy escaped.
I remember with fondness the pull of arcades, destroying the Deathstar and rescuing maids,
the scramble for change as you begged to be played, we were lost in the moment,
a moment which stayed.
I recall the freedom you offered at will, a doorway to dreams that’s cast ajar still,
and despite being an adult, I still feel that thrill, at the theme tune to Sonic,
all manic and shrill.
I know that I’m older, and soon thirty-five, and that there’s no cheat code for bills,
or for wives,
but I still hope that somehow our friendship survives,
I’ll remember you gave me those infinite lives.
Mar 21, 2012
Mar 21, 2012 at 9:29 AM UTC
Some of the ***** sink
And some of the **** floats
But when one plunges sinkers
They squish, smear, and combine
And the plunger comes out
Pretty gross
Feb 9, 2016
Feb 9, 2016 at 5:46 AM UTC
i'll let you on a little secret... spaniards are gigolos to the slavs... cheap-shit, chinese rolex beauties, which is why the english are prone to vacate there: oiling up to get a quicker suntan than an essex lass turning orange-brown in the space of a weekend's session at a u.v. parlour.
westerners define western slav as cleaner material,
if not simply the plumbers and electricians,
got a blocked toilet? get a pole
to unblock it. but you see... the thing is...
the slavs see the spaniards as
euro-trash... cheap-shit-cancerous-suntan...
spaniards are cheap **** to the slavs...
western european nations (excluding
the germans) invokes a sense of self-worth
that, like a tapeworm feeds of the slavs migrating
without colonising... when the western
powers migrated and colonised,
never really preparing themselves for jihadis,
st. john the decapitating tyrant spoke to st. george's
dragon with a cockney accent:
oi bruv bruv up up mate! score us an eight's worth
of 20 quid!
so while the high tier of europe speaking deutsche anglican
rather than deutsche swiss keep time and
penny flip: carnal heterosexual or just plain ****
the slavs mock the same tier with a choice
of holiday resorts exploited... next to the fake suntan...
because spaniards are like albanians for the slavs...
oiled up cheap-shit material for even cheaper literature
of the handsome, blue eyed, dark haired (well oiled)
stranger... selling pomegranates... that a fair maiden
might succumb to... selling her virginity the fiftieth time.
Feb 9, 2016
Feb 9, 2016 at 12:25 PM UTC
Like an upside-down stage curtain, steam rises
over a half-empty cup of ginger tea,
obscuring the dreary view of yet another rainy day.
The woman leans closer to the window
(she’s certain there’ll be an oily stain where her nose
makes contact with the icy glass).
Raindrops are mutating over cracks in the window,
their shadows filling in the blank
blotches in her eyes, camouflaging the liver spots
(themselves otherworldly mutants)
over her hands— sewerage on plumbers’ gloves.
She drinks her tea and whimpers his name.
Scalpel-blade shivers creep over her back,
over the folds in her pantyhose;
chalk marks on the road become visible—
she remembers it like yesterday
when she cradled his broken body in her arms:
police car and ambulance sirens
conjured a dust devil that reeked of young death;
it clung to her designer clothes,
and complemented the purple stench of brake fluid,
petrol, and the god-awful breaths
of bystanders who’d gathered like a swarm of flies,
the soft susurrus of their conversations
intensifying till pencil-lipped, beast-like groans,
ready to feed on the hole in her soul,
salivating to take a bite of grief, and replace it with remorse;
she recalls the sound of her car keys
on the hot tar, which took a chomp out of her left knee,
and warm blood seeping into her every fibre.
Steam and chalk marks fade away into the past.
In front of the refrigerator,
on the grimy vinyl kitchen flooring, a ginger meows;
the woman ignores its pleas,
and reaches for the upside-down picture on the window sill.
A liver spot sprouts from her neck.
Feb 9, 2011
Feb 9, 2011 at 7:45 PM UTC
do the dance taboo boo
shake your hips for bongo
move your **** feet
eat you like a taco
shake that pretty ***
**** all over the place
im crying for it baby
put them in my face
do the chooka booka
ill eat you on the rag
lick your little ***
im your ***** stag
can you do the rumba
to the pelvic beat
drown me in your *****
i *** on lovely feet
oh your *** is candy
hair like wild fire
my **** does the cha cha
to your mouth it does aspire
owwie i lick your ****
your **** starts to squirt
i catch it on my lips
***** is so pert
do the dance taboo boo
there is no death like ***
spread wide your wings my angel
dissolve in butter ****
kiss my big *****
lick up all you can
better then a plumbers plunger
you love your big cocked man
i didn't mean to start a blaze
the house is embers burning
well you danced the taboo boo
and now your always yearning
Aug 1, 2016
Aug 1, 2016 at 11:30 AM UTC
marketing work stalls imagination,
the benefits of the internet are
that you can bypass all that marketing
and become fudge stuck cancerous
in a spider-web of your own choosing
debated as either giving or
marketing... but given this is a century
later, marketing stalls work...
i'd hate to be an allen ginsberg with
only one poem associated with my
creative output... how it's "necessary"
to congregate and carve out
a one-hit-wonder...
if plumbers and roofers and electricians
were treated like that...
we'd have one drainage pipe,
one roof, one light-bulb used by
a population the size of new york...
oh yeah, that would really work!
one toilet for a bully like napoleon
and about 10,000 soldiers ******** their pants;
indeed the modern concept of sharing
original work is like the old concept
of marketing... although in this new concept
no one earns anything of value
that can be readily exchanged -
time isn't readily exchanged, space is
inevitably exchanged, but time isn't -
an hour of psychoanalysis at £100, e.g.,
a free poem, no poet at a party drunk with recitation...
win win!
what's that game... a ping pong table
with cups filled with alcohol lined up like
bowling-alley pins, throwing ping-pong *****
into the opponent's bowling-pin arrangements...
jägermeister o'clock... chug chug chug!
well done; go puke in the toilet...
i'm going to walk home and have a sing-along alone.
Apr 2, 2016
Apr 2, 2016 at 8:48 PM UTC
stick it up your *** *****
Kwabena Itri Dibra keeps
the room warm, I get the
watch fixed. she always
used to say "キャロルはこ
とがない" which translates
to Carol has never waited
for Treva's reply. What
an asshole.Those plumbers
grant him his wish, Reggae
******* shouted last night
**** off didn't cook next to
the police station. i need
reggae. reggae is a life style
This is kim's large dish.
This isn't my analy *******
cock's mediocre pencil.
please, pass the spiff mon
Nov 28, 2014
Nov 28, 2014 at 11:57 AM UTC
Blood drips slowly through the tubes of my heart, like a lazy plumbers mistake,
I wonder as I listen to the gentle drops is it maybe for my own sake?
Do we all feel love's pain as a stab to the heart, or is that where we normally start?
I hear voices in the night, some cry and others sing
I hear bells in the morning, some dull and others ring.
Everything is a sign of something else, rolling in our head,
maybe we wonder the difference...alive or maybe dead.
Throbbing souls create a drumbeat in harmony and doubt,
those of us so used and done are feeling sadly left out.
The parade will march right by us and leave us at the curb,
like a statue old and worn that we should never ever disturb.
Feb 20, 2014
Feb 20, 2014 at 1:07 AM UTC
i met a mongol once in amsterdam, we exchanged a tearful stare and said a melancholic hello, as if we were to be brother in cement or sandstone of what the sun rememebred and man forgot but nonetheless carved for enshadowed suave of the shadowing hand on hand upon handed down remnant of the handless kanji... the motherless thus tongueless river of sight utilising hand and hand as sophistication of spying thanks to the hands’ shadows: thus no shadow tongue unless that shadow be thought or the abstract off thought: pre-meditation and the subsequent minded courtsey as requested of the blank page or the buddha’s slitted eyes faking intoxication by western standards of that green plant the mongols despise: and western societies fare to tax and thus exploit.
and it would be easiest to withhold making talks
with the slavs
by compensation of the northern-most mosque
being established
as true progression...
but then having insulated the slavs
who are "primarily" plumbers and electricians
to make any dent in the politics of the other monotheists...
where the european excludes the european from europe
there you will see war as encouraging the asian
or the arab...
there you will see war, should a
european exclude european from europe
there you will see war
caucausian againts the rooster against the morn!
TAR TAR! TAR TAR! TAR! TAR!
(in japanese tora tora tora!)
because you did not cherish our shared values
thus become devalued therefore value your integral anti-economic
evaluations that have no place in my land
but concern of keeping brown in the noun and not in the verb
of racism and sun;
i've become a barabbas among you, you messiahs,
you messiah selfies and messiah implants,
what gave you the jews scorned has given
me you as the "jews" scorned in your disorientation
of the fathomed atom bomb already spoken of in
the book of the apocalypse....
but a man ejecting an european from europe
to fantacise a non-invoked colonialism will halve in carving
this world in half for multi-cultarism!
no pole ever spoke of colonialism to see you speak
of post-colonial re-colonialisation of remote areas so ardently cared for:
conquer... and subsequently fall: your sons the additive bullets:
я и pоссия demand: the caucaucus tribes to
fake unity with the danube fools of erected bohemia.
Dec 2, 2015
Dec 2, 2015 at 11:35 PM UTC
Violence sells, *** sells,
but why?
WHY?
Do we have a greed as a society,
greedy need to feed insatiability?,
from East to West and North to South,
Watch carefully what spills from my mouth.
I can not digest what I divest to the dishevelled remains of my day.
I know they are not supposed to end or begin this way,
with tears instead of raindrops falling on my face, rolling down to...
to my paper covered desk, absorbed and lost drying the instant they were
spilled. Have you had your fill with what the world ills your way?
Take time to exhibit patient poise, in all that you face,
you are not alone in your lonely place, some say feel it,
I say try to pray and seal it! Away, oh Lord, away! Take me.
All this which is not the world's best will target you as a test, not the same
day or the same time, but sometimes, it will seem so as it comes all down the funnel
cloud of darkness of heavy woe and the gravity of your circumstances; pulls
at your hair on your head, plucks your nerves till your limbs feel heavy and dead
as your heart pumps red liquid poorly through the frozen pipes that circulate
oxygen with red tincture flowing that could be spilled like the tears and cover
the ground sorrowfully, bleeding ......
heartfelt loss
embarrassed as it is emptied,
from your vessel, with more cracks and
holes, pass me the plumbers' putty please!
Seal it and pray, each crack, each hole, each day,
C'mon!
It is not about how low down and into despair you go.
It is about him, Him! You might not agree, you might not
see, you may not believe, but He believed in you and me,
FIRST, so if things get bad or go worse,
look up from a position of pain, move to a place of
strength, to the rock, to the cleft, to the shadow of
an eagles' wings and then see what His mercy brings.....
Take what His mercy brings hold it close by your heart,
in your face.............your scars......the ugly...... will one
day BE gone........may my hollow sounding words tremble
like a tree-trunk under the weight of many birds that take flight
with your plight, your harsh existence, be carried away in flight
on the echo of "no more tears, no more tears" sends the winged
prayers to flights of spoken freedom........ heard higher and higher.
Apr 10, 2013
Apr 10, 2013 at 7:22 PM UTC
The child was reluctant, obstructive, rudely derogated the rules of night-time. In return, the mothers smile crusted over; her anticipating face raged with love, with tenderness, with necessity.
Hold back desperation: “Shall I read you a story?” Yes, a boring story, a story to bore your little eyes closed and your little head droopy and your little snores out.
All children learn to say no and this one was a champion already. Still gentle and formless it was not quite male, not quite female. It was androgynous, sexless, precocious with the possibilities of a gender unslated -- as if pigeon-holes could be sated at a later date. A choice depending on pointing out a celebrity from a picture in a magazine, and saying: ‘that one’.
“I don’t want to be in bed.”
This was said from bed, defiant, huddled and muddled within the pastry of the sheets and wriggling like a still-living filling. Four-and-twenty blackbirds, all singing.
Isn’t this a pretty dish thought mother.
“But bed is good,” she reasoned, “bed is a fine fine thing to be in.” She eyed it herself, covetously, the crispness of the linen holding the warm buttered biscuit smell of a child’s hair.
“Bed isn’t good. It’s lonely.”
Yes, lonely, sang the mother to herself, alone to be with myself only. Swaying with sleeplessness, mother’s voice burst with secrets.
“Bed is good. It is. It is where you were made.”
And you, child, are a good thing. Making you was good. Therefore beds are good.
Mother blinked dreamily, lies rushing unbidden to fill the gap between a child's world and the truth; the question came immediately.
“Have you ever seen someone making a *** out of clay?” she asked in response. Her arms raised in front of the child’s face. “Have you ever seen the clay sculpted, squeezed?” Then she lowered them. “And this was the oven. This is where you were baked.”
She wondered what kind of dreams these lies would bring, dreams of whispered fertility, Freudian dreams of plumbers removing bottoms and widdlers. Dreams of children baked out of clay and, rocked from the cradle; falling, smashing.
Apr 14, 2013
Apr 14, 2013 at 11:07 AM UTC
work they say
when I'm at
work
writing poems
when I should
hush
please don't tell anyone
except everyone
accept everyone
poets florists carpenters painters plumbers clowns kings
the exiled
breath their warm woes waiting
the day the sun rises on their shoulders.
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 11:53 AM UTC
I learned
The basic art of healing from
The Medical School
The Health Centers
More during observership
Time with
The Carpenters
The Plumbers
The Electricians
The Bricklayer
The Cobblers
The Potters
The Singers
The Peace Keepers
The Ecosystem
People like them
Make us believe in solutions
Transcending any problem
They all fix
What needs to be
In alignment
Jan 23, 2021
Jan 23, 2021 at 6:57 AM UTC