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what's there to write about
a floor scrubber?

in the sun on my shoulder
its light plastic touch
polythene wrapper
gaily fluttering in the wind
breathing its last light of freedom
before consigned to lifelong prison
standing damp dreaming to dry
but for that fleeting time
it rests on my shoulder
comforted on flesh and bone
on the brief journey
from the shop to a nook
enjoying the glances of passerby
curious my carrying it
a hint of boast in my gait
flaunting as if a magic wand
the floor scrubber transient yet eternal
a glorious poem material
a poem name
and a man's declaration

there's no shame
doing your work
your way
.
David W Clare Jan 2015
Asian toilet scrubber girl

I love her
She all brown tan and smelly
I will be happy to kiss on her belly
Nasty thing with hunger in her tummy
I will feed her all I have
She don't know where ugly Beverly hill is
Her ****** is my friend
Soft wet and wild
Child of Asia farm
What a charming doll
Scrubs toilet bowl for a bowl of rice
How nice
Ellen Stewert Apr 2014
It's the same all the time:
You go to the table you pick up the glasses and trash
You throw away the garbage and dump out the ***** glasses
You push the glasses on the scrubber and twist them and turn them until there is no dirt
You rinse off the soap and then you put them in the scalding hot blue chemical water and stack them in twos

You start again but this time you do two at a time and you scrub
You push two on the scrubber you twist and you turn them and get all their stains off
you rinse away the cleaner and drown them in sanitizer and stack them next to glasses the same

You finally reach that last glass with cream and grime to the brim
You go to scrub this glass and push it onto the scrubber

As you scrub the water is turning milky white and brown
you keep scrubbing but it won't get clean
maybe it needs a rinse
you hurridly put it in the second bath of water but that only gets it *****
maybe if you sanitize it, it may finally be clean
you put the crusted glass in the blue water and your hands burn and bleed
you turn away to nurse your hands but there's one problem.




*the glass isn't clean
it won't be cleaned
it's broken now because I tried to fix it
She's tall and gaunt, and in her hard, sad face
With flashes of the old fun's animation
There lowers the fixed and peevish resignation
Bred of a past where troubles came apace.
She tells me that her husband, ere he died,
Saw seven of their children pass away,
And never knew the little lass at play
Out on the green, in whom he's deified.
Her kin dispersed, her friends forgot and gone,
All simple faith her honest Irish mind,
Scolding her spoiled young saint, she labours on:
Telling her dreams, taking her patients' part,
Trailing her coat sometimes:  and you shall find
No rougher, quainter speech, nor kinder heart.
Michael W Noland May 2013
The dread set in upon opening my eyes, as i swing my legs to the right side of the bed and stand. Slightly stumbling i make my way to the bathroom while adjusting to a waking state. I flip on the light, wincing my eyes in a sharp electric freeze from the back of my head, and while recovering, i pull the shower curtain away from the showers pull ***. Pulling the *** out slowly twisting it to ninety degrees as the water turns on, i am reminded to feed my plants before leaving the condo for the day. I step into the shower dipping my head under the warm stream of steaming water while resting my hands against the wall, as images of all the women i had saw the night prior begin shuffling through my head and a partial ******* forms. I imagine their eyes filled with tears, as i shove them down to my ****, and finally the Rolodex of faces stops on a Starbucks girl with piercings all over her pouty face that i had encountered on a lunch break a few days ago, and i begin stroking my **** with my right hand whispering "you ***** ****" over and over, as her eyes look up at me innocently, Mascara running down her face, until suddenly i hear my phone vibrate atop a pile of pocket change in the bedroom which promptly kills the moment in my wonder of the importance of a 5:00 AM jingle, which slowly fades, while i proceed to apply Ax shower gel to my Ax body scrubber that i had received as a gift in a Holiday work raffle three months prior.  Vidal Sassoon extra volume shampoo plus conditioner, "All in one," proudly printed on the label, as i apply a handful to my shaved head in a smooth dripping lather, that i do not rinse until after applying a pink ****** scrub that's label has worn off, and i am unsure, and not concerned with its origin, as I squeeze a blob of Colgate paste onto my toothbrush from the rack overhead, and scrub in a slow circular motion, while i rinse off the shampoo, shower gel, and ****** scrub, and then reach for my Listerine mouth wash, and swish for 30 seconds before spitting the burning mixture into the drain, while putting the brush away. I tilt my head up, and open my mouth wide under the water, taking in a mouth full, which i gargle for 10 seconds then spit, and turn off the shower reaching for a tattered towel left over from a breakup four years prior.  I dry off while still standing in the shower, and gently lay the towel on the floor before stepping out onto it, and grabbing a stick of Degree antiperspirant from the counter.  I apply 3 long strokes to each armpit before capping it, and putting it down. Two sprays of coolwater cologne i apply from a 1 foot distance, misting my chest and lower neck, before i put it down beside the deodorant, and walk back into the bedroom, grabbing a pair of boxer shorts from a drawer not caring which pair i grab. I slip them on, and walk over to the mirrored closet where i flex a few times, point aggressively, and in an authoritative tone repeat "I don't give a ****.", three times before sliding the closet door open and grabbing a pair of Marc Echo blue jeans that i had purchased online two years prior with a gift card from a local pub that i may have frequented too much to have received.  Reaching for an Infliction black tee shirt with ghostly gray swirls cascading to its base, i become completely still, left arm clutching the shirt still on its hanger, i am paralyzed for two seconds before looking away, and saying  "I don't have any plants" inquisitively to myself, yanking the shirt from the closet, and walking over to my phone atop the dresser.

Picking up the phone almost eagerly, i click the screen on in a light squeeze, and swipe my finger from left to right across the display to unlock the device, to a missed call from an unknown number, a voicemail, and 3 missed text messages. I tap the voice mail icon, and enter my pass code upon the automated prompt, "1234." The voice mail immediately clicks a few times before hanging up which assures me of its automation, and i assume its the power companies robots attempting to collect the monthly charge again. I tap on the missed text message icon, disconnecting from voice mail, and see that all three are from a girl named Haedies i met through a roommate long ago that i have recently found over facebook. A "How are you!", "I MISS YOU!!!", and a picture message of her with a wax figure of a trollish cartoon character i cannot quite place, both looking very serious, and i look at her **** pressing out from her white tanktop, ******* clearly hard, and her neck, long and attractive, its definition, thins my blood, and her dark black medium length hair loosely dangles just above her shoulder, causing me to partially smile, as i close the message paying it no further thoughts, and slip on my tee shirt, as i head for the kitchen. I open the refrigerator and grab a plastic bottle of 5 Hour Energy, and twist it open, tip my head back, and take the whole drink down in one swallow, throwing the empty plastic shell back into the fridge, and swing the door shut with my bare left foot, before i head back to the room to put my socks and boots on. Once my black combat boots are fully laced up, i put my wallet, change, and keys into the appropriate jean pockets, and head for my jacket hung on a hook beside the door. A black leather windbreaker. My mini trench that allows for a high level of concealment, and pocket space made possible by Wilson Leather. I run my hand over my face satisfied with my slight stubble from not shaving today, and reach into my left inner pocket of my jacket and pull out Sony earbuds, and plug them into my phone. I select a Pandora station based on the black metal band "Burzum", and walk out the door, locking only the dead bolt behind me.  5:25AM
Kathryn Houghton Jul 2010
I voyaged through pink-bubble oceans
filled my nose with peppermint-sea air
spotted a sudsy blue whale

I fought through shampoo-froth rapids
with my trusty back-scrubber oar
spotted floundering soap-bottle salmon

I floated on spicy still-waters
wash-cloth water-weeds tickling feet
spotted a squawking rubber duck

I sat in chilly bath-water
scents long faded into nothing
spotted an old bobbing sponge.
Tom Spencer Dec 2018
dawn light
silhouettes the branches

dried leaves clatter
on the rooves and driveway

cardinal song
pierces the highway thrum

behind the rotting fence
a dog sniffs, whines and growls

the swimming pool scrubber
splashes and sinks with a shudder

one after the other descending planes
roar and then fade away

even in this labyrinth
of suburban sameness

everything is emerging
declaring itself

and then slipping away
like the feral cat

one moment
eyes locked on mine

next moment
disappearing behind the garage

Tom Spencer © 2018
O, the fun, the fun and frolic
That The Wind that Shakes the Barley
Scatters through a penny-whistle
Tickled with artistic fingers!

Kate the scrubber (forty summers,
Stout but sportive) treads a measure,
Grinning, in herself a ballet,
Fixed as fate upon her audience.

Stumps are shaking, crutch-supported;
Splinted fingers tap the rhythm;
And a head all helmed with plasters
Wags a measured approbation.

Of their mattress-life oblivious,
All the patients, brisk and cheerful,
Are encouraging the dancer,
And applauding the musician.

Dim the gas-lights in the output
Of so many ardent smokers,
Full of shadow lurch the corners,
And the doctor peeps and passes.

There are, maybe, some suspicions
Of an alcoholic presence . . .
'Tak' a sup of this, my wumman!' . . .
New Year comes but once a twelvemonth.
Poetoftheway May 2015
designated washer, scrubber,
some dirt, brown burnt fire marks,
impervious to edgy pads, now,
aged into the very being of our
cooking hardware

can only be removed
by human fingernail

as I scrape away residues of years gone by,
mine tears amalgamate in the soapy waters
beneath my bent head

for I cannot remiss/remove
the oldest, burnt,
bottom of the pan,
stains between us,
not with embraces,
nor with whimsy recollections,
certainly not with our
fingernails...
charmaine Oct 2016
those who like to clean and scrub,
are you really cleaning?
are you really scrubbing?

Did you find something worth scrubbing?
Was it a love letter, a ******, an incriminating photo, was it drugs? was it nothing to you but the world to someone else?
Did you clean the love letter by shredding it or throwing it in the trash? Did you save the ****** in a plastic bag?
Wonders of what you did with the photo
And the drugs, well we all know what that you smoked-- i mean cleaned

When you were finished, did you tell the person what you did? Or let them come home to a place where everything was rearranged and scrubbed.

Did you notice when they ignored you and didn't thank you for your cleaning services?

I wonder often what satisfies a scrubber. Is it the control you get from knowing all you can know about a person? Is it the feeling you get when you've finished scrubbing all the dirt off?
I wonder often what satisfies a cleaner. Is it the notion that you're bettering someones life when you've just erased the whole of them? Is it the thought that when you put them in new clothes, they shine.

Do you think you are making them the image of what you've scrubbed?

those who clean and scrub,
are you really cleaning and are you really scrubbing?
I think that you are.
off the top of my head.
M Clement May 2014
I finally got to reading today,
You know,
The "Big Book"
The one with the books, and the verses
And the words inspired

That one

And I read through James
Realized I need to clean my tongue with more than a tongue-scrubber

And I started reading Jeremiah;
I felt this overwhelming urge to write.

To just, spill a couple letters, here and there, on paper
I'm here now
I'm trying
I'm here now
And I see

I've been crumbling under bitterness
Anger, resentment
misanthropy
[oooh, big words]

And I've realized a couple of things
That I really need to work on, moving forward

Welcome to adulthood, son.
Your Father will see you now.
A slightly religious/God/inspirational piece. It's a solid reflection of where I've been, and where I hope to go. I just need more time.
kirk Aug 2017
There always seems to be plenty ladies of the night
Some of them are black girls and some of them are white
A few of them will kiss you a few of them may bite
There are ones that **** you those ones are quite alright
All of them will ******* their ***** are not that tight
A lot are quite good looking but lots look ******* *****

All have well used *****'s but that's just what you'd expect
But it doesn't really matter as long as your *****
You may be into **** their ***** you don't neglect
A request to use a rubber their wishes you respect.
Enough cash is needed both holes you can inject
But the price for extra services is higher I suspect

You have to be quite wary there are some well used pro's.
They've been around for years, ***** worn from lots of goes
Their naked body's have been seen in lots of pervy shows.
Just how many ***** they've ******, no one really knows.
So many fellows gobbled off ***** ****** and ***** blows
Some are old and past it but their just ***** hoes

There was one such lady back in my home town.
Her salty ****** was waiting beneath her smelly gown
The guys that she's been ******* had a disconcerting frown
This is why that ugly ***** was always ****** facedown.
Deep inside her crusty **** their ***** would surely drown.
Especially now her **** juices have turned to a dark brown

Why **** a **** that's manky with such a smelly pong.
It isn't good if that filthy stench smells so ****** strong
Stupid fellows ****** that hole using their desperate ****
But Surely ******* that ugly hag must have been so wrong.
I guess it was a testament for her being a ***** so long
And that's why all the locals are singing her this song

And...
Ten-Bob-Annie
Had a manky *****
But still the wankers paid
She was an ugly ***,
Should have just said no
So desperate to get laid.
She didn't charge much,
For her smelly crotch.
It was definitely decayed.
Never used a rubber,
Just a ***** scrubber.
If your willing to downgrade.
She lived down Abbey road
Smells like a commode
A wonder anybody stayed.
Just so that you know,
Her name is Audrey stowe
And she didn't make the grade

When her grandchildren went to school they got teased and ragged.
Because of all the ***** men that Audrey ****** and shagged.
***** got stuck with stickiness some got caught and snagged
That ***** smelly **** of hers should be bound and gagged.
The usage needs preventing it could be sealed and bagged
OR her disgusting antics monitored and electronically tagged

Ten-Bob-Annie was painted on the wall above of Audrey's door
I don't know why she got so upset because it attracted more.
Stupid guys just wanting *** at least there where three or four
Take my advice and steer clear of that worn out ******* *****.
Her daughter Debbie was the same they'll make your shaft so sore
Those two infested well used ***** are nothing to adore

Now Audrey's daughter Debbie she was just as bad.
She ****** just as many men as her ***** mother had.
They wasn't really bothered they would have any lad
Just a couple of fat slags they'd even **** your dad.
But they never got there hands on me of that I was so glad
If I had even gone there well I would have been quite mad
Barton D Smock Apr 2016
boy spotless, wrecker of the invisible home.  oh mother, scrubber of the radar’s blip.
Jay earnest May 2018
$$$
I don't know if it's laziness or lack of ambition,   but all my art is for free  now.

There is no value in it.  There's value in a toilet-scrubber   and  shoe-maker.

There's no value in these words---      it's valuable to me,


but when i put in all the effort to publish my ****, and compile it,  and promote it etc, and only get a sympathy $1
it feels like an insult.

If it matters   then they'll have to come to  me;

i'm not a merchant

I have nothing to sell.

I don't care .      my dog is an
artist

— The End —