"plungers" poems
They came in like a gun blazing
Death and rage in their eyes , gazing
They aimed to **** , **** them all
They don't mind , school or mall
Ending lives, satisfy their deathly hungers
Idolising their holy religious plungers
We name them terrorist , ****** killers
They spill blood just for the thrillers
Success is counted with the lives they ****
Human blood not unlike their own, they spill
Destroying families , the world they stitch
Life is Life and Karma's a *****
Jan 11, 2015
Jan 11, 2015 at 11:35 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
WHAT can we say of the night?
The fog night, the moon night, the fog moon night last night?
There swept out of the sea a song.
There swept out of the sea-torn white plungers.
There came on the coast wind drive
In the spit of a driven spray,
On the boom of foam and rollers,
The cry of midnight to morning:
Hoi-a-loa.
Hoi-a-loa.
Hoi-a-loa.
Who has loved the night more than I have?
Who has loved the fog moon night last night more than I have?
Out of the sea that song
-can I ever forget it?
Out of the sea those plungers
-can I remember anything else?
Out of the midnight morning cry: Hoi-a-loa:
-how can I hunt any other songs now?
2k
strapped to the darkest horse
on a hell-bound carousel
here where colors envelop each other
reds devouring greens in a maelstrom of artificial light
until
inexplicably
time crawls to the beat of a hibernating heart
and she can locate her bearings
strewn amongst the dust of the cottonmouthed ground
and regain them.
she trips
stumbles
into a cloud of mushrooms
as their caps unscrew
and come loose
red-tipped pills scatter like rats
each with a tinny metal voice
shrieking a harsh cacophony
of swallow me
while the roses
with thorns of syringes bristling down their backs
pull out their plungers
and wait.
she bolts from fright and pressure
into the badly beaten path
into the fender of the massive carriage
into the beams of the heart-shaped headlights
cutting cards through her porcelain flesh
a royal flush
an imperceptible gasp—
a small white rabbit
wide-eyed in the dirt
twitching
to the rhythm
of the hands
of his smashed and derelict
pocketwatch.
Jun 23, 2012
Jun 23, 2012 at 11:41 AM UTC
Who would have known that such a strong friendship could start with a pile of books and a pair of crutches?
Strangers at first but sisters next
When sadness strikes my feeble heart she's there to patch it right up
We have had many adventures together which include but are not limited too
Breaking plungers, making forts, watching anime, bothering people, TREPCHMM (one of the many inside jokes), and most importantly failing at life together
A girl who can create the most beautiful things and cure the saddest of hearts
She'll stun you with her beauty and her immense knowledge
The only sad part about our friendship is
She refuses to read this
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 10:56 PM UTC
two tens, and seven, the square root of 729
no matter how the numbers collude in air, they are there
just as I drift off, before I catch myself thinking
of other numbers, like the age at which Jesus
died
twenty seven,
my four syllabled mantra, for that is the age
you got the needle
I was not a witness, but your attorney was
how he did not weep, I will never understand
he knew they put you in a diaper before you took
the final stroll
twenty seven, and during those final steps,
your sins yet dragged behind you, like ball and chain, not severed
by the axe of repentance, the chisel of remorse
where did the gods fail, taking you so fast from
the dim lights of the b-ball courts and your dreams
of being Michael or Magic to the dead afternoon when
you strode up the cracked walk to that crack house
and put two thirty-two rounds in the eye
of your second cousin who came in first
on your short list
all because of a hundred dollar slight
and a spoonful of powder the world could mistake
for simple sugar
you didn't fight when they strapped you in
and your final testament to an uneven world,
an insolent audience, was, "it is what it is."
did you feel the tug on your ***** from the raiment wrapped
to hide your seeping shame, did it take you back a quarter century,
when a manic mama pampered you in pampers
and kissed your tiny tummy more times
than numbers could count, though
not enough
did you, like I, in the moments between light and dark,
between this world and one where you must sleep alone
see twenty and seven flash before your eyes
and disappear before you could realize
what the plaintive plungers
and naked needle meant
Oct 10, 2015
Oct 10, 2015 at 4:40 AM UTC
when I first met you,
you didn't talk
and I liked that
because I wouldn't shut up.
we were too young
and pumped with too much serotonin
and wasted naps that we could have taken
but didn't think we needed to.
we never felt our hearts
because we had hardly known they were there
before,
a muscle that has never been cramped
(and oh, how we wish now that
we knew the quickest way to assuage
an internal ache we cannot ice)
your nails were black and shiny,
like your eyes,
and you told me you were a wolf
and I believed you
because you left your paw prints everywhere
but not your voice.
over the years,
we found plungers and tried to stick them
all over us,
trying to **** the glowing skin off our bones.
now,
we try and drown the butterflies and knots
with beer and stomach acid
at two in the morning,
playing video games
donned in our lace ******* pearls, and stilettos
and crying.
now that your blackness has been ripped from the walls to reveal a hidden art piece,
you radiate amber.
your laughter drips like honey from your teeth
and it has not yet expired
in my dusty, overcrowded pantry.
I want to cover myself in the smell of your skin,
oranges and forest fires, vanilla flowers and ennui,
like the soft blankets
we so often hide under.
I will never forget how small your hands are,
reminding me that I have been in love before
and I am in love with you now,
in simplicity, purity, and clemency,
and I just pray to god that lasts.
so let's keep sorting pennies into words
and communicating with each other through soup cans
and let's be good enough for each other
because when you really love someone
only their opinion matters.
and who needs anybody else?
because really,
those people that say that all good things must come to an end,
they're ******
let's keep proving them wrong.
here's to you.
Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 1:39 AM UTC
Your so dead, your killing me, incessant worry and placated misery. Why cant you let your light burn out, do us all a favor and breath your last breath of life in and out. It's a plungers job in a toilet to let the **** flow why must you insist on clogging up the drains and not letting that **** go. Die, die, die a thousand deaths, suffer indescribably and claw wretchedly until there is nothing left.
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 6:33 AM UTC
All I find are worn out lines
Like the ones on your arm
The ones where you shot the most
I am just the same
Only mine are in my head
A blown out track
Where everything goes wrong
Yet we still try
To find some peace
On that empty, broken path
We'll push our plungers
Hoping for something new
Where this time, it will work out
Mar 28, 2016
Mar 28, 2016 at 6:02 PM UTC