Sentences with phrase «poisonous materials in»

Poisonous materials in the home must be closely guarded, and children must be monitored at all times when near them.

How safe are your children from hazardous and poisonous materials in your home?

Not exact matches

In our country the situation has become dire because of the abuse of our water bodies through the dumping of non-degradable waste like plastics, metals, chemicals and other poisonous material.

The former President said a report in the media that Ghana stood the risk of importing water by 2021 was a reality created by the abuse of our water bodies through the dumping of non-degradable waste such as plastics, metals, chemicals and other poisonous material.

Cloaked in a red blood cell sheath, more than 3,000 of these toxin - hungry nanosponges can slide through the bloodstream on the prowl for poisonous material.

Chemical engineers have figured out how to synthesize many of these molecules in bulk, but the intricate reactions require expensive materials and often produce poisonous byproducts.

Mendes has always been an assured visual stylist even when his material feels wholly bogus — see Road To Perdition — and in Jarhead's second half the desert begins to look like something out of a dystopian sci - fi movie: Pools of oil spilling everywhere blot out the sun and the only illumination is provided by poisonous oil well infernos.

• Store all poisonous and dangerous materials in tightly closed containers and store away • Toilet lid to be kept down — kitten could fall in • Plastic bags stored in a drawer where they can not get to them — cause choking or suffocation • Household items — needles, strings, rubber bands etc put away in a draw or tightly closed container — easily swallowed • Electrical cords secured to the wall or wound up — prevent kitten being shocked • Blind and curtain cords out of reach — can cause strangulation

, you are lying on the floor of your place looking up, a small draft runs through the room, between the door and the window, and all things seem perfectly still, wind only disturbs concrete in imperceptible ways, or it may take millions of years to be noticed and, as the air runs through the space, all your plants move and all is animated and all is alive somehow, and here are the thoughts of all men in all ages and lands, they are not original with me, and that wind upon your plants is the common air that bathes the globe, and we have no ambitions of universalism, and I'm glad we don't, but the particles of air bring traces of pollen and are charged with electricity, desert sand, maybe sea water, and these particles were somewhere else before they were dragged here, and their route will not end by the door of this house, and if we tell each other stories, one can imagine that they might have been bathed by this same air, regrouped and recombined, recharged as a vehicle for sound, swirling as it moves, bringing the sound of a drum, like that Kabuki story where a fox recognizes the voice of its parents as a girl plays a drum made out of their skin, or any other event, and yet I always felt your work never tells stories, I tend to think that narrative implies a past tense, even if that past was just five seconds ago, one second ago was already the past, and human memory is irrelevant in geological time, plants and fish know not what tomorrow will bring, neither rocks nor metal do, but we all live here now, and we all need visions and we all need dreams, and as long as your metal sculptures vibrate they are always in the Present, and their past is a material truth alien to narrative, but well, maybe narrative does not imply a past tense at all and they are writing their own story while they gently move and breathe, and maybe nothing was really still before the wind came in, passing through the window as if through an irrational portal to make those plants dance, but everything was already moving and breathing in near complete silence, and if you're focused enough you can feel the pulse of a concrete wall and you can feel the tectonic movements of the earth, and you can hear the magma flowing under our feet and our bones crackling like a wild fire, and you can see the light of fireflies reflected in polished metal, and there is nothing magical about that, it is just the way things are, and sometimes we have to raise our voice because the music is too loud and let your clothes move to a powerful bass, sound waves and bright lights, powerful like the sun, blinding us if we stare for too long, but isn't it the biggest sign of love, like singing to a corn field, and all acts of kindness that are not pitiful nor utilitarian, that are truly horizontal as everything around us is impregnated with the deadliest violence, vertical and systemic, poisonous, and sometimes you just want to feel the sun burning your skin and look for life in all things declared dead, a kind of vitality that operates like corrosion, strong as the wind near the sea, transforming all things,

Similarly diverse in material choices is Austen Shumway's November 28, 1994, an armchair seating three dangerous - looking wooden spikes as well as fabric, fox pelts, and poisonous foxgloves.