"electrics" poems
Mind of mine, you alien child.
I spoon-fed you for many years.
I pretended it was a plane in some cases
and the things you spat out
I fed to you again.
Mind of mine, you shadow of a melody.
Homeless drifter on the A41
with a 5 stringed guitar and no common sense.
Begging for a shoelace to tie on
whilst you go hungry.
Mind of mine, you nervous gun clip.
You know you’re unloaded
so your barrel droops like a snowdrop.
No hippie can put a flower in you.
and your shakes are breaking my wrist.
Mind of mine, you scar butterfly-collector.
Snatching red admirals with a chameleon tongue
and when you stitch them in
their red eyes close on dusty wings.
I know you’re lying when you can’t feel a thing.
Mind of mine, You’re a ****** full of love
and a belly full of drugs.
Positive negative flip, as love is in electrics
and you’re still such a bad liar
to tell me it’s anything else.
Mind of mine,
I can be such a bad parent to you
and an even worse child.
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 6:42 PM UTC
Electrics shafts cuts
The bubbling shade shakes
Fiddling all islands
Jan 17, 2016
Jan 17, 2016 at 5:32 AM UTC
If I could do anything
I would be controlling clocks
And go right back to that mouldy box
With the broken locks
And the electrics off
Those days when I would sold me socks for cake and drops
Whist cooking rocks
***** this K detox
I feel like a baby fox
Thats I been ***** by all 3 bears and goldilocks
But day by day with my tool box and theese building blocks
I'll build my very own fort knox
Il see the light shine when I stike the fire from my matchbox
Listening to my old jukebox
Nov 19, 2018
Nov 19, 2018 at 9:27 AM UTC
sometimes i can't trust myself not
to buckle under the weight of
your near enough's and almost
words you can't quite force out from
between my teeth. like the accusatory
cutlery your eyes never fail to
reflect this would look better with
the lights off and between sheets but
then again i always have had trouble
with the twin tormentors dark
and sleeping. sometimes i feel as
though red is the only colour i know
and you insist on inhabiting it you have
ruined sunsets and arsenal and jelly
for me. like i was not made to walk
through fire just as well as ocean i have
merely forgotten the way spoon fed
on ashes and bad pennies glinting
off the electrics i refuse to give you
my spectrum. sometimes my
ribcage admirably lives up to its
name and i find myself choking
on thoughts i'd sworn not to
inhale. like non newtonian fluid
i have inherited your sudden cusps
and contradictions lit up momentarily
only to be put out when i am around you
i find myself craving cigarettes.
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 4:41 PM UTC
My thoughts scare me
I understand me barely
And in my stomach you pain me
My deep interest in you is vaguely
you pass my mind daily
You run laps in my thoughts
Your so chill
I wanna explore you
The idea of you I have fought
The wrestling got me ill
I wanna explore you
The weird feeling in my stomach
Am scared to call it butterflies
And am scared to look in your eyes
Cause you give my body electrics
I wanna explore you
I'd do anything for you
I wanna explore you
Just stay near you
I wanna explore you
Why are you such a mystery
Exploring you is the only way to me out of misery
May 18, 2013
May 18, 2013 at 10:08 AM UTC
meeting
in the chapel,
house to pray on
small birds, charcoal
drifts. in air, in words.
symbols of poetry,
cut and pasted.
literally.
naturally .
the talk
came back to electrics
and ironing, side effect of
the tabernacle machynlleth.
drawing.
sbm.
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 12:25 AM UTC
My grandfather is the reason for my interest in guitar. I once strummed the strings of one of his many collector acoustics and electrics, even a dobro, and loved every moment. Grandpa Al taught me the G chord, and from then on I was hooked. He signed me up for classes with a bluegrass instructor in my early teens, and I went to a few sessions, but I had rock n roll at heart.
I stole my grandfather’s 12-string acoustic guitar in my mid-teens, on a journey to Seattle to be rebellious and to get drunk freely and spare for change on the side of the road. It was a big mistake. I broke several strings of the guitar on the hitchhiking part of the expedition. In a small suburb just outside of Seattle, a man walked up to me, and asked me if I could play. I tried my best with what I had, and he took me into the guitar shop across the street to spend fifty dollars on refurbishing my grandfather’s guitar.
I played the guitar on the streets of Seattle for drug and alcohol money. I was offered a record deal with some people I met on the street and I was too ****** up to play. They passed me up. I slept near the harbor one night, and made a terrible mistake. I smashed the guitar and left it on the top of a trash can downtown the following morning. That day, I hitched back to Olympia.
When I got back to my home town, I snuck over to my grandmother’s house and crept into the guest room door in the courtyard. I had been gone for just short of a week. She heard me come in and came knocking on the door angrily, which I had locked. She became afraid and called the cops. Knowing this, I tried to jet out of there and ran into a nearby police vehicle that immediately pulled me over, arrested and booked me. I got out several days later, and never told my grandparents the truth about what happened to the guitar. They asked several times.
May 16, 2016
May 16, 2016 at 12:14 AM UTC
Everything you do-
Turn it into poem food
See the world anew
Spiky cables hanging from the wall
Disappear beneath the floor
Let me try to figure out
What they all are for
Eventually we connect the lot
Turn on the power and hear-
A pop
Of course the colours have all changed
From red and black
To brown and blue
Then the blue turned back (to black)
In an effort to confuse
After lunch I see my mistake
Just take this off and use this one
Flick the switch, and oh be joyful
All the lights come on
Feb 9, 2013
Feb 9, 2013 at 8:50 AM UTC
Death is like a vulture
that sits just far enough away,
that I can see it scrabbling closer
through my pain confused eyes.
My pain is like a schoolyard punk
who, with relentless pokes and jeers,
and the deep need to run away,
tortures me.
How can i run away from myself?
Long, long days and days with fractured sleep
leave me brittle and hallucinating.
What is there to fear beyond the pain?
The clanging gong of pain..
The shooting electrics of pain...
The pull and drag of pain...
The tremendous weighted ache of pain?
And if I love you, I will love you
with all my pain.
that's all that's left.
Mar 29, 2012
Mar 29, 2012 at 2:46 PM UTC
So this is what its come to, a barm cake and a bun or two, a poor man who can't afford the 'flu and sits in heavy coat and sweater to get a little heat,it gets better,
A candle burns under my bed,the blanket's on but the electrics gone and its getting ****** cold,the candle light takes hold and flames appear,which is the only flaming light in here and the gas is going too,no porridge tomorrow unless I can borrow a couple of quid.
If only I could rid myself of poverty and be like those other folks I see who live in financial security,
and what's the use it'll never happen to me.
I'll be poor of that I'm sure until the day I die and then I'll be poor a little more when they put me six foot underfloor
but at least I'll be warm with all my friends who congregate where this life ends and have a jar or two,sod the cold and sod the 'flu and sod the ****** rich folk too.
I will pull through to the other side
I will find a star and hitch a ride or climb up the ladder and slide down a snake,either way the choices that I make are mine and mine alone and if I have no home,no candle light or mobile phone,you'll find me in the park,in the dark
talking to myself.
Sep 15, 2013
Sep 15, 2013 at 8:46 PM UTC
Whatever might a performance tea
be?
Whatever are electrolytes to you
and me?
No antioxidants will ruin our night
all right?
And hydration is itself a fright
Quite!
Blowing sleet rattles against the window pane
And the electrics have again winked adieu
But light the gas and brew up, black and plain
We’ll drink our tea by candles, with a biscuit
or two
In nice China cups, or a mason jar
Because
The best tea of all is a cuppa char
(Upon reading a ‘vert for specialty teas)
Sep 6, 2018
Sep 6, 2018 at 3:25 PM UTC
High in the sky two lights flickered on and off
drawing my attention.
Clear and dark not a sound could I hear
fixed on watching.
This display to fast for planes yet controlled
what was about to unfold?
The silence of the night near the stone circle
in a small Wiltshire village.
Driving away that sense of being followed
just wouldn't leave me.
A few miles on the car came to a gentle rest
on a hillside crest!
Two lights coming directly at my vision
the cars electrics failed!
It was as if this was an aliens flight path
would I be abducted?
Prepared for the worst shutting my eyes
then looking clear skies!
No sign of any lights except for the stars
greeted my starring gaze.
The car started and lit up scared I went home
arriving calmly got out!
Heard countless stories of what many had seen
belief where doubt had been!
There is more going on than we are told!
The Foureyed Poet.
Mar 11, 2012
Mar 11, 2012 at 10:46 PM UTC
I love the feel of a dusty parcan without a bulb,
or electrics, or anything at all except an empty shell,
In another life I lived alone, and kept lamps as pets.
Birdies flying around my head, and cantatas doing what they do,
barndoors wagging, or shutters fluttering off to sleep in the moonlight,
with a single 50 degree spot to scare away the rats and mice.
Nov 22, 2015
Nov 22, 2015 at 5:14 PM UTC
Body just a reminder of our physical existence
Our mind a creation of simple electrics
Bodies become a barrier for mental fortification
Escape it and we’ll achieve God as a creation not imagination
If we stay locked we will become ghosts in shells
Surpass that and you won’t experience mundanity hell
Crossing wire connects our minds not bodies
It’s time to reevaluate our conception of what is humanity.
© Sofia Villagrana 2018
Apr 3, 2018
Apr 3, 2018 at 11:50 AM UTC
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Ice Storm: Darwin Needs to Re-Think His Errors
The electrics flicker off then on, all night long
Which wakes me, and my wake then wakes the dogs
Who protest and blanket-burrow even deeper
While angry sleet rattles the window panes
When the weather is foul and the power fails
We are left with a flashlight and a book
Staticky noises from the radio
A bottle of cold coffee, and our thoughts
When the night is cold and the wind is strong
One comes to understand that Darwin was wrong
Feb 17, 2021
Feb 17, 2021 at 10:14 AM UTC
As it's different, when you're weaned
on the stinging foam on chins and hair
Hearing the sighs of the sea when
you fall and no-one's there
as if to say, I'm here, but I won't help!
You dash stones in rage
that she simply swallows
and thanks you for with a
particularly ungrateful wave.
Spiders in bright buckets,
***** in between toes in rock pools
a dog-shit buried in the sand.
Worst, are the bat-eyed gulls
swooping on candy you
guarded from bigger kids
but no-one hides from gulls
and sweeping swallow a bag whole
one gulp, unremorseful,
one eye, always watching
stoney, black.
So now, I am older and
we are sun-bathing,
or rather, you are stretched out glossy
and smiling like a good haul
where I pick sand from my belly button
and shade my iPad from the sun.
I see two gulls, eyeing up your Pimms
cocking their heads in angular decision,
I offer them some Smoked Salmon,
they ****** you shout which
spooks the birds who fly
away, yet together, gliding parallel.
You storm away, stamping sand in
drinks and electrics alike
but I am anchored here
watching the gulls flying duo
tied from their throats
and then their stomachs.
The more they want to pull away,
their bodies pull them closer
May 8, 2018
May 8, 2018 at 5:20 AM UTC
I am the words on a tomb
Escaping my end
I am a crack in the room
That I won’t leave again
I’m a mistake in the womb
Afraid to repent
I am delaying the inevitable
I am the salt in the wound
That messed with your head
I am the already doomed
Who won’t go to bed
I am the coal consumed
To dispose of the dead
I am delaying the inevitable
And I don’t know why I’m clinging on
So hard that my fingers are raw and bleeding
And I don’t know how I’m keeping on
Going when my life signs are no longer reading
But I’m desperate to ruin the rest of my life
That’s already rubble and dust
So I’m oiling my electrics and recharging my joints
So the short-circuits can run through the rust
I will keep going long after I’m dead
I will keep coming back after the memories are gone from my head
So visit grave and you’ll hear my laugh
‘Cause under the dirt I’m alive
Sep 1, 2016
Sep 1, 2016 at 6:17 PM UTC
Walking along her muddy waters,
near the greenish stream lacking followers.
Alone walking endlessly,
I found an old TV.
Picture the electronic device,
laying there helpless.
No upgrades or features,
nope not even electrics.
Looking back at it now,
I see a pun.
Laid out for the few to see,
only in my dreams.
Jan 16, 2017
Jan 16, 2017 at 6:09 PM UTC
"YES DEAR YES!"
She kissed her husband.
And - he kissed her back.
Which was
unusual
as he had never kissed her back
when he was alive.
Now that he was dead
they were getting on so much better.
He was more real to her
now he was no longer there.
She wished he had been more like this
when he was alive.
He usually spoke to her
from another room
so that she never saw him as such
only aware of his presence.
And the voice
all over the house.
She disliked the term ghost.
Shied away from the word "DEAD."
Couldn't stand the label
"figment of the imagination."
But tonight in the dark
she felt his lips on hers
and cried and cried
letting the loss leak away into this bliss.
She didn't know how to be
a widow.
Wore it like a role
or a set of chosen clothes.
Curious.
Him being dead
was a lot better than
him being not dead.
She could now fashion
him in her own image.
Soften him...make him do
whatever she wanted for once.
Sometimes his voice
came out of the telly
or on the radio or
an answering machine
or the microwave or
the toaster.
he seemed to have got entangled in
the house electrics.
And now here he was on the record player
all scratchy and gathering dust.
She always answered him
as she had done all her life.
"Yes dear...yes!" she said.
"Yes dear. Yes!"
Mar 8, 2019
Mar 8, 2019 at 6:20 PM UTC
some things fade with time,
with sun and washings.
this one remained bright,
even glaring, a free sample
some years back.
others we get from the pound
shop, mostly costing one pound,
a waste if we get the wrong fitting.
they pop regularly, it is to do
with the electrics they say.
we put them in bottles and
jars.
sbm.
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 12:53 AM UTC