"sewerage" poems
Moments like these racing through me:
Looking out the bus window,
stacks of lights
in square, blinded blocks of cement.
Golden trees
turning brown and barren.
But moments like these,
I'm miles away, I'm someplace else.
Moments like these passing me by:
As I wonder through streets,
alleyways wafting in dark sewerage;
Seafood bistros glaring at me.
My hips sway, my feet sink
into exotic sand, sunshine warm.
Floating effortlessly along the dead concrete,
opening my tiny door; this nutshell abode.
And I can’t breathe here
without moments like these.
They are the broken pieces
of my longing heart.
Slowly keeping me together
in these moments’ reality.
Moments like these, slipping, speeding away:
Like endless traffic in angry madness,
in cities that awaken in darkening hours.
The tranquil silence in my heart
guides me to your faces.
One by one I dream for each;
For all the things we want, the good things we need;
For happiness, love, success.
Each thought embedded, embroidered
into moments like these:
Sitting on a bed, millions of miles away,
a cold, rainy day –
A heart beating for moments not these.
(c) Mel D. Ltd. 2010
Nov 12, 2010
Nov 12, 2010 at 9:46 PM UTC
Kafka and his Giant Insect
Which Might Be a Cockroach
But Maybe Not
We Could go to Das Schloss and ask Mr. K
An insect woke up one morning and realized
He had been transformed into Gregor Samsa
From a life focused on eating hair and grease
Glue, soup, bread, paper, leather
Sewerage, butter, meat (fresh and decayed)
Makeup, cookies, sugar, toothbrush bristles
Cookies, pizza, flour, tacos, apple pie
Dead bodies, feces, and his own species
He now had to deal with the confusion
The sorrow of being Gregor Samsa
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 4:28 PM UTC
Just watch them get out of any situation
watch those slugs and worms slip through all
lies of the so called people we should trust
with their super sensitive slime politics
I don't think any are corruption free
just look at those sycophants
anything they say about power
do they just come in their pants
Predictive masters of lies
**** poor excuses for human beings
just ****** of shallow promises
all in the name of their success
Worms in sewerage works make better
then the laws by their letters
watch those slugs try to justify it
in salt, with their super sensitive slime
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Dec 28, 2014
Dec 28, 2014 at 4:22 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
**** you.
I thought you had my back, but you’re just another ******* *** on a pole.
My (now ex) boyfriend's pole more specifically.
Don’t get me wrong, he’s a disgusting, slimy, broken cunting pathetic dirtrag if there ever existed, but you?
**** you Gabi.
I hate you. You’re the reason he left me in hopeful scatters down my never-ending driveway. You’re the reason I cry myself to sleep at 3 in the morning. You’re the reason I wake up shaking so ferociously I spew what little I could eat on the bed where we made love.
Fitting isn’t it?
**** you Gabi.
Even your name makes my bones wants to explode into pieces that fill you with holes where your whore's blood is washed away like sewerage.
**** you Gabi.
And the fact that you have something I don’t.
**** you Gabi.
I hope your children die before you get to hold them.
**** you Gabi.
I hope your heart gets ripped out your chest and **** on.
**** you Gabi...
**** you Ga...
**** you...
****
Fu...
P.S. Enjoy my leftovers *****
Jun 22, 2019
Jun 22, 2019 at 9:19 PM UTC
transcendent it was the first time
when it was of faint memory to touch
but voluminously told, exacting itself
like the pretense of the heaviest pages
the curve of your face the entry of light
through momentary indulgence
nerves their city buoys and the pedestrians
salt of skin in intense heat begging for details,
ways to sewerage of mind and previous blunders
and the purest landscapes of feeling,
the underpasses of eyelids where glances hit
first, stalk swiftly – to wait underneath their
shade in the fleeting Maytime sun
coming back with renewed fervor, remembering
that from there, waiting in that margin,
there are things that may only strike a potential
but never learned, memorized, collapsed into
the absolute, and that lostness is imperative
to the finding –
the river of eyes where pilgrims are in transit,
well-constructed like the mausoleum that
keeps its secret of hills and cathedrals
kept unmarred in the silence of your refusal,
pulled out to be nailed taut into origin
the blankness of your face taken as mechanism
of marvel – to whoever god drew lines on your face
and to whoever foolish wanderer would dare traverse
your collapsible bridges, the sonorous depth
of your being when back against the dash
of beating back to senseless origins,
your name similar to the prepared countenance
of Manila, passers-by in awe of your slow Moon
unraveling behind curtains for showerheads,
humming behind, a conversant tune
where not one being ignored and it was true
to the form of first whispers
this whole new world mapped out
made naked to the twisted augur of shadow
reared by light through innocence,
a whole city I know but cannot touch.
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 1:18 AM UTC
Dry Well
A Gift from Fort Apache Energy, Inc.
“We will be drilling with a fresh water mud system
which has no environmental impact.”
- Allan P. Bloxsom III, President
As woodland creatures shy until the dark
Drift as a silent blessing through the trees
At dusk some sad folk gather ‘round the wounds
Gored geometrically into the ground
A palisade of wood and water and earth
Now guarding nothing but pale desolation:
A pond of death whose hydrocarbon sheen
In corpselike stillness entertains no life
A sewerage ditch bedecked with human turds
A dumpster skip piled high with promises
Piles of unidentified white powder
An unattended garbage fire, a shirt
Some bolts, planks, screws, sandwich wraps, cigarette butts
A cargo cult of curiosities
Liturgically in statio around The Hole
That venerable new hole, that hole of hope
That fabled argosy laden with dreams
That fell into the depths, and never returned
At dawn a tower stood, adorned with lights
By dusk it was folded, and stolen away
Like the long-storied tents of Araby
Or a Roman camp in the Teutoburg
Abandoned among the darkening woods
For the curious primitives to poke
And **** about, chattering in their tongue
About the marvels of a superior race
Who make no environmental impact.
Oct 27, 2017
Oct 27, 2017 at 3:21 PM UTC
I struggle to breath
Want to sleep but not tired
I want to talk but nothing in mind
I strain myself to be present
Spacing out my favourite thing
If im not present i cannot hurt
The source unclear
No one understand
Foreign language i have become
My silence unreadable
I crawl through the sewerage pipes of my mind
Desperatly trying to find the source
All this turmoil need a source
I wish you could hold me forever
Squeeze so tight my pieces fit
But when you let go
I fall
Brake and shatter
When you hold me i feel safe
I feel anew for the fight
But you always leave
You leave to rejoin your happy life
I realise the empty my life is
I hate my life
Oct 2, 2017
Oct 2, 2017 at 5:12 AM UTC
i hate you
you concrete jungle
broken and jagged roads
that bear their rusted metal rods like ribs
the smells of sewerage always beneath your steps
smog and absurd dreams circulate through the veins
of infants who smoke clove cigarettes and ask with neutral stares
why are you afraid to die?
why can't you just live?
I will die asking why I love this city so much!!!
I will ask that my dead body be unceremoniously laid under the red Indonesian clay where countless unknowns were laid before me
bury me in Jakarta.
tell the single mom with the face I've always wanted to kiss
that I was only trying to feel loved for the very first time
Apr 25, 2020
Apr 25, 2020 at 11:57 AM UTC
Big Bellies,Big Cars.
These are our leaders.
Sunken Eyes,Starving stomachs
Those are your neighbors.
Dysfunctional systems and it's not so important.
Hospital shelves have no drugs and the beds are rusty.
There is no food in the basket
But the main economic activity for the country is agriculture
Bribery is now part of culture.
The doctor will decline to offer you his assistance if you don't avail him with 'a little something'.
Part of our taxes go to personal accounts some abroad.
On Some days some people in the City,I Have seen some,sell their blood through donation drives in hopes for the free biscuit and soda and this is lunch.
And some go on for some days without any food not even little to their mouth
And not because of leisure or for their pleasure.
On the days when they get what to offer to the impatiently waiting intestines,it's a pleasure.
Some of our young girls are introduced to adulthood because of the conditions in the families they come from.
Chips and chicken,KFC,maybe Cafe Javas,have fun together and definitely bed later.
Some have 'achieved' more than this,like small cars say Vitz,Raum and Spacio but their lives have not changed for the better.
Some offer their Prized bodies to these predators for petty items like phones,clothes and leisure.
The dignity lost in doing this has a measure.
All this because for some of their needs and wants,some even so small,Their parents can't cater.
Potholes in the roads can even be a topic to joke about
Harming our cars that we toiled so much to acquire,we are not so bothered,since the people in charge,will soon work on them(We hope)
Sewerage spews all over our streets and roads sometimes and still we are hopeful for the better.
Maybe not now,maybe later.
Big bellies,Big Cars.
Those are our leaders.
Sunken eyes,Starving stomachs
Those are your Neighbors
Dec 28, 2019
Dec 28, 2019 at 8:01 AM UTC
Sunset over dark waters
the dings of metal quarters
sounds of splash and the whip
of water touching upon a lip.
Water was everywhere
from here, to over there,
for drinking, swimming and fun
or even to aid the burning sun.
However not all get the privilege
of water nor proper sewerage
so weep not for fun lost
but weep for the cost
for some, fun was never had.
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 12:07 PM UTC
Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.
The Several Olympic Committees
Sewerage, filth, top-scum, toxins, debris
Deadly bacteria, openly-floating poo
The pollution of the ages flowing free –
(They say the River Seine’s in bad shape too)
Aug 2, 2024
Aug 2, 2024 at 10:43 AM UTC