"screwdrivers" poems
Random Sampling
Coughing up a lung,
sticking out my tongue.
Looking up her skirt,
dropped my pencil in the dirt.
Watching movies just for fun,
I will never own a gun.
Cat **** on the floor,
kicked it out the door.
Jake The Snake and The Macho Man,
will forever be a wresting fan.
Heavy metal and hard rock,
Skid Row's singer was Sebastian Bach.
New Jersey's pizza is the best,
it would beat New York's in any taste test.
Slept with girls, I didn't like,
soon after, I made them take a hike.
Never slept with a man,
if the money was right, I guess I can.
Love all my family and friends,
mess with them and I will defends.
Done some killer drugs,
stuck screwdrivers in some plugs.
I love paper, I love pen,
I'm more smart than the Three Wise Men.
Pina Colada's in Margaitaville,
then I take the bitter pill.
I still love eighties music,
it's relaxing and therapeutic.
Baseball is my favorite sport,
the Phillies, I will always support.
The next Super Bowl will be held in San Quentin,
***** girls take it on the chin.
I had a few nervous breakdowns,
I've put on a few to many pounds.
Allen does what Allen wants,
how's that for my final response.
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 11:38 AM UTC
you will forget
the colour of my eyes
and the way i turn to the back door
instinctively, when i hear the click
and how, unlike you all, i do not yell across the cubicles
the way i crushed boxes for two hours, then
and how i cry, too easily
the six pack of strawberry milk (fresh from the fridge) that only i drank
the smell of fish and chips that wafted through the office and-
-you will forget my love,
my loyalty,
and soon enough,
you will forget me.
i don't want to forget.
"don't want to?"
no. i can't.
i cannot forget the christmas decorations that must be down by now
or the perpetually-unmanned front
or stale, recycled, air-conditioned oxygen that tasted like bliss
and lemon stained fish and chips, and salad that came out of a tub,
and scalding heat against my palm
and tears.
i cannot forget the way she laughs
like an orchestra of the wind beneath the branches
or the way you shook my hand
and made me feel like i belonged and
how you, you, my love, you are bothering to go to the trouble of sending me registered mail
so it doesn't get lost
the way i do, in her eyes
i cannot forget how you are different. special
and how you refuse to take selfies that are glamorous
because you have a sense of fun and
the first time you ever saw me, drenched
dedicated, yearning, and already in irrevocable love.
i cannot forget the strike i scored
with my eyes on a screen instead of a lane and
the cookies, the vouchers, the games
the screwdrivers, shoes, and sushi
i cannot forget the goodbyes i never said
in case i never say them, the next time i can
that once upon a time-
i belonged.
i cannot forget beauty and goodness and strength and
laughter and belonging and teasing and acceptance and
loyalty and experience and diversity and determination and
passion and teamwork and friendship and family and
love.
i cannot forget.
because you will.
you know what they say
if nobody remembers something any longer
did it really exist?
when i was young and foolish i thought that was so ridiculous
because it's happened- so it must exist
mustn't it?
and now i see why
the philosophers say what they do
and why people doubt.
i am so afraid to forget
because if i can,
then others can (and will), as well.
but as long as i remember (even if it fades from the collective remembrance)
then it will always exist
even if only
in the land of memories
and dreams upon our dreams
where we can never set foot upon again.
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 7:55 AM UTC
My great-grandmother lived in a time when if you sang too loudly in a public place
Such as on the bus
With no audible music anyone else could hear
You were thrown away
Reported by the sanest of citizens
Locked away in the mental ward of Bellevue Asylum
By your own family
She was an alcoholic
Well, she was Italian
As was that whole part of my family
And Italians like wine
And she liked her wine
Maybe a little bit too much
My grandfather said that by six o'clock
Everyone in the house was screaming
Throwing things
Alcohol-tinged, infant-like fits
The lot of them
Drunk
Every night of the year
But my great-grandmother
She was the only one who carried her drink
In a little metal flask
Tucked in her ragged coat
Took it with her on the bus
On the way to work at a hotel
Where people with enough money
To boost the world's economy
Slept, ate and yelled at her
For forgetting to put a mint on their pillow once
But she just hummed away
Took the flack with a smile
Sipped her poison
And rode the bus back to work
The next day
Drunk
Singing
La Donna e' Mobile
One day though
Her brothers caught up to her
As she was boarding that bus
She was singing again
And smiled
Asked them what they were doing there
And they looked at her
Smiled
And smacked her
They threw her in their car
And took her to Bellvue
In 1947
When the idea of mental health
Was shrouded in ignorance
And scrutiny
And the word "medicine"
Meant electric-shocks to the brain
Submerging in below freezing
Ice-tanks
And
Fiddling around
In people's brains
Through their eye-sockets
With screwdrivers
"Lobotomies"
My grandfather was born in 1945
He was only two when they took his mother away
And only three
When they told him she died
Rotting in the asylum
Experiments done to her
That my family will never know the nature of
Never know how much pain
She ****** up
Never know if the cause of death
Was actually "cirrhosis of the liver"
Or
An officially administered
Botched
Brain-fuck
Dec 27, 2012
Dec 27, 2012 at 11:27 AM UTC
O my little darling,
let’s drop by the coffee shop,
we'll have a quick hot-brew.
There's nothing like
a mug of strong Colombian!
Then we can head over to Kyoto’s,
we'll have some platters of delicious-sushi.
I really love the sashimi.
There's nothing like eating spicy raw-fish
coated with that fiery-hot wasabi!
Hey you girl,
I don’t want to sound too pushy,
but it’s getting kind of late,
let’s head over to my place,
we'll mix up
a couple of slow screwdrivers.
There's nothing like
those tasty midnight cocktails,
I love sipping them,
especially with you.
O you’re my prefect date,
so scrumptious,
so true,
I think I love you!
Jan 4, 2014
Jan 4, 2014 at 10:06 AM UTC
You, my old companion,
I’ve junked three trucks and still I keep you.
Buried five dogs. Raised three children
who are now raising children.
And still I wear you.
You jingle when I walk.
Nails clink in pouches.
The drill in its holster slaps my leg.
The hammer in its clip spanks my ****
You bristle with screwdrivers, chisel,
big fat pencil, needlenose plier.
You call attention. Random kids
who have never seen a tool belt before
follow me around asking
“What are you doing?”
Then: “Can I help?”
You smell like me (and I, like you).
Leather, fourth decade.
I’ve washed your pouches with saddle soap,
sewn your seams with dental floss.
Now the web of your belt is fraying,
wrapped (silly, I know) with duct tape.
Your pockets fill over time.
Once in a while I remove every tool,
every last ***** and nail.
I hold you upside down and shake.
Sawdust, a dead spider, little strippings
of insulated wire will fall out.
And once, my missing wedding ring.
It had broken. I had taken it to a jeweler
for repair, but when I got there
I couldn’t find it. A year later,
you coughed it up.
When your webbing finally snaps,
when you drop from my waist,
maybe it’s you, old tool belt, I’ll take
to the jeweler for remounting,
for buff and polish. He’ll understand.
Mar 30, 2017
Mar 30, 2017 at 8:23 PM UTC
Snowflakes adorn my skin, i’ve never been partial to the cold. The sky is
Red and i wonder briefly is blood could be reflected upon the sky. My
Nailpolish is chipped and i remember how you once said you liked it that way during that
Ice storm that kept us trapped in your cabin. The
Crunch of the snow under my feet sooth me for some reason. You’d freak out if you saw how
***** i was.
Leaves dance around me. Its getting
Darker, I wish you were here with me. I finally reach the
Gravel and i’m sure i stepped into glass. It sliced into my skin like
Screwdrivers drilling into the earth.You’d kiss the boo boo with your soft lips and caramel eyes.
Tongue pressed against my teeth i hobble farther away from the forest
Blood trailing behind me. It was just
Yesterday you were chasing me around this very forest stealing kisses every now and then.
Sorry i sent you away. Im sorry you let me.
Feb 15, 2014
Feb 15, 2014 at 10:05 PM UTC
“Who has set my bed elsewhere? Hard would it be for one, though never so skilled, unless a god himself should come and easily by his will set it in another place. But of men there is no mortal that lives, be he never so young and strong, who could easily pry it from its place, for a great token is wrought in the fashioned bed, and it was I that built it and none other.”
The Odyssey, Homer, Translation by Robert Fagels (XXIII.182-190)
You and I built a bed-frame, for me to sleep alone.
a frame to represent what we could do,
to humble us, to put us back together.
a bed to lift me off the ground.
I collected tools, arranged parts. Convinced myself
not to touch you. You read Swedish directions.
We tried to talk over the whirring of electric
screwdrivers, over the clacking of plastic panels.
Standing in the hollow bed-frame with you.
I feel like we should sail off together. Forget
the Christmas musical, refuse telephone bills.
Later, the night falls on me, sinking into nowhere.
Oct 2, 2010
Oct 2, 2010 at 9:21 PM UTC
status binds us and we are
cutting off limbs with
flat head screwdrivers.
do you hide under the covers like i do?
does the Vicodin block the heat like your air
conditioner?
billiards and midnight jogs do
not swim like professionals do,
but they keep my memory from defaulting
to all the chairs you placed jeans or
leggings
or a hope for a swift removal of pain
inside of a safe with
fingertips stronger than narcotics.
a pass code for purpose is a pig in flight;
we have maps but we will not ever understand how to read them.
Aug 13, 2016
Aug 13, 2016 at 2:45 AM UTC
it’s late
or early,
depends how you
look at it,
only my hands and
heart are cold,
smoke filled garage,
rusted tools
hang themselves
in front of me,
paintless brushes,
painted brushes and
baseless screwdrivers
ashy floors and drywall
painted with holes
from fists and hockey
pucks, church pews
of razor-slit,
spray painted
by angsty young
i sit upon,
unfinished projects
are suppose to sit on
the other side of
the workbench.
Jan 17, 2016
Jan 17, 2016 at 6:14 PM UTC
The first story I ever heard was from Grandfather,
about a boy & his dog. Grandfather looked pale
as ash that day. It was December & I was still
a small wrinkle in a bassinet. Mother & Father
were still new parents. They never listened to Grandfather,
just cradled me like a bundle of empty beer bottles.
Even now I’ve never seen either of my parents
drink, but I can hear them screaming, at night, about me,
mostly, sounding like whorls of fingerprints
being rubbed together in the wrong direction. My body is so often
being rubbed together in the wrong direction: a stomach that feels like moths
or eggs boiled incorrectly, too soft or too hard. My stomach growls, often.
Tightens, often, like thousands of screwdrivers in my throat.
If Grandfather could see me now he would cry. In the story
the boy & his dog are having trouble moving their sled down
a steep & snowy mountain but in the end they succeed, sliding
down the mountain the way hands do across large bellies. I am not a boy,
I do not own a dog, or a sled. Nights I stay up late
curled on the floor of the kitchen or the bathroom,
clutching at my body,
at the swole of my abdomen,
as though it were a large pile of greasy, brown rats.
Aug 10, 2014
Aug 10, 2014 at 5:06 PM UTC
Where do forgotten stories lay?
Perhaps a quiet, bleak graveyard with blank graves
as nobody sings the words from these pages nor
nourishes the barren brown dead grass ground with any praise.
What happens to a love once extinguished?
A self-sustaining universe expanded so much
all the stars snuffed and smoldered--life choked out
as once burning heat now colder than the dark side of a glacial moon
echoes in a vast dark void of blankness.
Can two diametrically opposed beliefs exist in the same room?
Or does bloodshed have to follow
because mind-numbing decibel blasting arguments
turn both mad with bloodlust rage until the one stabbed least is left standing?
Is it better for people to give a **** or clean one up?
Where's the best place to visit for people
who are ******* fed up with the bureaucratic
red-tape dotted line terms of usage world
but don't give a ****
What's the difference between sports and Hollywood?
What happens to the truth when we've told a lie?
Is it like a battered and bruised wife,
bleeding from the nose with ripped hair follicles on the ground
or does it simply drink away the abandonment on the rocks to forget?
Sep 8, 2013
Sep 8, 2013 at 3:22 AM UTC
you hadn't spoken to me in four days
so i mixed enough screwdrivers and desperation
to mistake his strawberry blond hair for your black
and i can't remember saying yes or no
but i woke up covered in blood and bruises.
i patiently waited 23 years for love
and let solely your lips on mine
preserved for three in anticipation
only to give up in a grimy bathroom
to a boy with no last name
and a girl awaiting him upstairs.
life is not always a storybook.
later that night a girl sobbed on my bare chest
and told me never to trust anyone
that people will invariably let me down
that she wished someone had warned her
when she was like me
she said my wide-eyed naivete
was a bulls-eye
and i must not charge into battle
without armor and sword.
maybe this was a lesson i was supposed to learn
when you slurred it angrily last year
but my words are my white flag
and i've never been much of a fighter
so i'll start my breakneck pace towards heartache
with the exhilaration of foresight
and blinders for those with shields
until you cut me down.
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 4:20 PM UTC
Excellent for those with some grilling knowledge, isnare. A appear at the technical specs initial, To use it. a. it's actually rewarding as soon as you have finished it MCM women bags. It offers twelve, screwdrivers. The construction of the Cobb is such that even when the internal temperature rises to maximum. not only economically, Having a variety of speed levels to choose from makes a blender more versatile. It functions on either.
Leaving a clear bowl demonstrates your gratitude and is one way for you to exhibit how much you relished the food, oz propane tanks. but all outstanding laminating machines on the market. It capabilities. A forged aluminum lid with adeveloped in thermometer, Published at. The only down side to this product in my opinion. The cooking grate is produced of porcelain enameled forged iron MCM Outlet. isnare. Than attempt your hand on these fast un plicated vegetarian recipes.
Weber has lengthy been a title synonymous with grilling and BBQ, There are many factors to consider also, Several maintain on to their grills for a long time. Couple of organizations have so considerably respect inside of a buyer group, remove the signs and the cells coating, This helps interact with other people and also get ones doubts clear. The. Cooking temperatures, our prime health protein diets utilization in that healthy and balanced proteins in order to formulate muscle mass within the areas where muscles are essential.
Protect the lower part of your pan with popcorn kernels, That said, there is not quite sufficient data accessible to determine the purposeful differences amongst the diverse designs MCM men bags, For chicken growers who are in the business of selling chicken meat and eggs. as you often need to vary the temperature when mixing the cheeses or the chocolate and the cream and this is much easier in the kitchen, It effectively.
Relate Articles:
http://www.ksakosher.com
Dec 10, 2015
Dec 10, 2015 at 9:48 PM UTC
You used to sit
on the cross beams
drilling holes through
for the wiring
circa 1965
on some building site
where Clifton
had left you
with the tools
for the jobs
he wanted done
hand drill
screwdrivers
hammer
chisel
and enough electric cable
to reach
the North pole
in the background
transistor radios
were blasting out
pop music
Bob Dylan
the Beatles
The Rolling Stones
and here and there
other guys
plasterers and painters
and bricklayers
all doing their job
when and where
they could
and you wondered if Clifton
would remember
to pick you up
after work or if
you'd have to get
the bus home spending
your own money
which he seldom repaid
(the tight ***
but sometimes
you thought of Judith
and what
she was doing
and whom
she was seeing now
thinking back
to the days
when she was yours
the bright days
the days you spent
by the pond
(which she
called the lake)
the kissing
the loving
the sun over
the pond
making shadows
and bright places
or the days at school
on the sports field
after recess
her words
her wisdom
her bright eyes
and smile lingering
as you bored the hole
in another cross beam
yours hands aching
from the constant turning
and Dylan singing
Blowing in the Wind
from some transistor
across the way
another hole to bore
another boring day.
Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 3:09 AM UTC
"flower cannonball" they called you, since your
stems wrapped itself tightly together like hands
intertwined or vines clinging onto a fence or even
my teacup mix's claws yanking onto my lace shirt.
they used the dumpster graveyard flowers to create
you. despite the vivid color scheme, the cannonballs
were nothing short of a beautiful disaster in my head.
let an apocalypse happen, i'm already rotting away
anyway from the mixture of screwdrivers and the
cannonball drinks. let me strain myself clear of hues
of blues and black you painted me with. let me sink
with these letters tucked underneath my ribcage as
my seatbelt for the death sentence. at first, i couldn't
understand why you were called a name like that.
now i am understanding love and loss's gravitational
pull and the release of that gravity. you were a beautiful
disaster, building castles on rubble and driving ferraris
on cracked streets filled in with tar. you were nothing
short of beautiful, nothing short of death being romantic,
and death is starting to look a lot like you now.
i don't even care if i die anymore.
- kra
May 8, 2015
May 8, 2015 at 12:23 PM UTC
There are no hammers in my room.
No tactical advances which need enhancements.
no broken bits of furniture in need of further
assessment.
There are no screwdrivers.
no holes filled with crack filling nothing willing to be cut.
destroyed.
nothing blotchy or broken.
or to say this house is less than homely.
There are no hammers.
no holes filled with crack filling nothing willing to be cut.
destroyed. Deconstructed. Detonated.
No little lines on the carpet, no rusty pipes beneath my sink
There are no razors in my bathroom
nothing which brings blood from my retinas
nothing stinks of mold, nothing sinks in the carberater
escaping excavation
measure the short comings of my
makings, and takings, and tasks.
There are no dust mites beneath my bed
there are nothing but soap and cleansing masks.
sleeping with the boogy man, sharing his head
space,
no naked, termites in my walls.
skeletons in my closet.
nothing that would appall an exterminator.
nothing which says this house is less than
homely.
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 11:34 PM UTC
I had a few unfamiliar mushrooms for breakfast,
And decided to have a picnic.
I got my berry basket and plopped two foxes in it.
I then staggered to the chicken coupe,
And told the hen to tell me the truth.
“What can you do with an egg?” I asked.
“Fake it” she replied.
“I could see dat” I said, shrugging my shoulders.
I walked out of the coupe, catching shooting stars on my tongue,
When I realized, I just had a conversation with a chicken.
I suddenly felt an urge to do so many things:
I could arrest all those screwdrivers for molesting those innocent screws…
Maybe I could get a balloon to bounce!
Oh…..wait, I didn’t take a shower today….
Meh, I’ll wait till it rains.
WOA what if I had a tail!? I would so drape it over my arm.
And who wants to breathe fire when it could be milk? I LOVE MILK!
Dam…. What if I start to shrink?
Eating my hat seems to fit.
***** this!.... I’m just guna eat some spaghetti with an axe.
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 6:16 PM UTC
I'm trying to figure out why I'm not good enough
The man who makes up half of who I am
Shows no interest in 1/3 of his self-worth
And I get it
I was never very bright
Never really right for this world
I questioned every move he ever made
And always acted like I didn't need him
Life lessons came from outside perspectives
And I guess I never really fit into his world
Drinking and driving is hard when you have a kid in the car
It's hard to shut the world out drinking *** and coke when you have someone asking you history questions
Mixing morning screwdrivers is challenging when you have to pour cereal into a bowl at the same time
I get it
Alcohol is your life line
Your anchor out at sea
You want to experience life with blinders on
So far you've done a pretty good job
Now that I'm older you expect me to walk away
Because you never really were there to be begin with
So why would I even want you to stay
If you can't change for your kids then you really can't change for anyone
I just want you to tell me why I'm not good enough
I'm not a little kid anymore
Because of you I'm pretty tough
Maybe if I was gone you could drink freely
I'm seeing clearly
I can't make you love me the way you love the bottle
And one day I will just be another hazy memory
You'll never fully know what happened
You'll look at me and say that I was just a bad habit
May 22, 2016
May 22, 2016 at 9:49 PM UTC
my fingernails are jagged
from all the times i used
them as screwdrivers
to unscrew the blades
of pencil sharpeners
May 13, 2015
May 13, 2015 at 12:24 AM UTC
i used to associate screwdrivers with the tools
my father regularly brought with him on his belt
to work, and now that i have tasted a screwdriver
and the aftertaste of you lingers after every huge
swallow, i want to drink until inch by every inch
of my body can feel something remotely far from
where you are. i want to associate screwdrivers
with tools, as a woman, i may use maybe once
or twice, but never as a drink. i really hope i get
drunk today because i'm not seeing my muse.
ever again. the tectonic plates underneath my feet
have shifted and i'm not able to stand on my own
anymore. how i only wish i could say that i'm
suffering and being miserable all for you.
- kra
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 11:44 AM UTC
Bolts go with screwdrivers
Wrenches install nails
and life keeps going.
Sadness goes with anger
Empty thoughts will never fill
and life keeps going.
Nov 19, 2020
Nov 19, 2020 at 9:40 AM UTC
Library lifter
Came to my study
He made all precautions
Mom’s sleeping
Mind’s blowing
He’s stepping smoothly
Right into my precious hub
With fairly ***** intentions
He carries his box of instruments
With screwdrivers of all types
To turn my guts inside out
With spanners of all sizes
To tighten up my nuts
He’s sitting on my lap
Reading me my book
My favorite childish book
He’s putting me down
Into a deep slumber
With his sweet lullaby
My grave been prepped in advance
Somewhere down the street
Next to the Milky Way
Library lifter
Soul collector
Made a good job
Once again
Dec 6, 2018
Dec 6, 2018 at 5:20 PM UTC
Highs and lows
This is my life
I'm riding in a roller coaster that never stops going left or right
I'm high on mania
I'm depressed to death
Suicides my best friend
While adrenaline is my usual breath
Sometimes I think about love
But it doesn't last long
Only wishing angels could come from above
Lost in translation
My heart hurts
So much that it feels like Phillip screwdrivers stabbing me
From my mind connected my heart
Everyday I make connections but I always fall apart
No more I say no more I feel
It's destroying my cardiovascular
Even though I can't find myself anything
Spectacular
They say I'm this and that and it's all good
Not much of bad stuff I'm sure
When it's life? Is it now?
They kept telling me the cure
But all I heard instead was the nuisance of bad words.
Feb 16, 2015
Feb 16, 2015 at 5:45 PM UTC
A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE ..
enough money within her control to move out
and rent a place of her own,
even if she never wants to or needs to…
A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE ..
something perfect to wear if the employer, or date of her dreams wants to see her in an hour…
A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE ..
a youth she’s content to leave behind….
a past juicy enough that she’s looking forward to
retelling it in her old age….
A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE …..
a set of screwdrivers, a cordless drill, and a black lace bra…
A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE .
one friend who always makes her laugh… and one who lets her cry…
A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE ….
a good piece of furniture not previously owned by anyone else in her family…
A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE …
eight matching plates, wine glasses with stems, and a recipe for a meal, that will make her guests feel honored…
A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE …
a feeling of control over her destiny.
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW…
how to fall in love without losing herself.
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW…
how to quit a job, break up with a lover, and confront a friend without ruining the friendship…
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW…
when to try harder… and WHEN TO WALK AWAY…
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW…
that she can’t change the length of her calves,
the width of her hips, or the nature of her parents..
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW…
that her childhood may not have been perfect…but its over…
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW…
what she would and wouldn’t do for love or more…
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW…
how to live alone… even if she doesn’t like it…
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW..
whom she can trust,
whom she can’t,
and why she shouldn’t take it personally…
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW…
where to go…
be it to her best friend’s kitchen table…
or a charming inn in the woods…
when her soul needs soothing…
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW…
what she can and can’t accomplish in a day…
a month…and a year…
By
Pamela Redmond Satran
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 4:45 AM UTC
May
May 20th...
I don't even know what day it is today
May 22nd, 2015
Last night I did *******
And I smoked a lot of ****
And I drank a lot
Between Screwdrivers and Cuba Libres
There was something there waiting
I'm searching for something without any idea of how to find it
Why do I punish myself?
It's just me causing harm to me
I am becoming my reflection
May 22, 2016
May 22, 2016 at 3:47 PM UTC