"electroshock" poems
gurgle, gurgle,
groundcurrent unsettled,
moon unseen like stars
fever dreamed,
dissonance for the melody maker,
dissonance for the retired risk-taker,
dissonance for the hips of homewreckers.
civil, civil,
no minutes can afford the divide,
aside, to the crystal buildings and
the sky's sputtering cries,
compliments to your forehead's ****
compliments to your forefather's rash,
compliments to your aforementioned crash.
the current, the current
rides hot and merciless along thigh,
dribbles down chins and nightgowns,
dries--a permanent badge of scattered life,
electroshock seeps from self-made holes,
electroshock seeps from smoldering bowls,
electroshock seeps from typecast roles.
volcano, volcano,
grumble and moan.
volcano, volcano,
clear cord and stroke.
volcano, volcano,
grieve me in ash.
volcano, volcano,
I've been awful bad. I've been awful bad. I've been awful bad.
Feb 21, 2011
Feb 21, 2011 at 11:19 AM UTC
The funny farm is the place to be.
We have soft beds, prescription meds, and cable TV.
When we party, someone loses their job,
or they might lose a limb if we form a mob.
It's one of those places you want to find yourself.
Electroshock is fun if you bring pop and chips.
Careful being around us, we're bad for your health.
Best of all, we're about to set sail on our blanket ships.
To the unknown and out of room 213!
Quick, hand me the bleach, I want to feel clean!
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 8:17 PM UTC
Monsters all,
Are we not?
Some of which have lost the plot.
Confine them all,
Bolt and lock.
And pray that they will be forgot.
Corner them,
Bring in the S.W.A.T.
Hush the rest; disperse the shock.
Poke around,
Electroshock.
And hope that they will join the flock.
Social chains,
Block out a lot.
Our moral boats have been rocked.
Jul 27, 2015
Jul 27, 2015 at 3:02 AM UTC
FISHTHOUGHTBLOOD JON BOLDUC
When I was a boy,
Father taught me to ice-fish.
Here’s a memory;
Father drills a hole,
the auger bounces, vibrates, roars,
shaving ice– soon
the blade connects with winter water,
–the engine fades off.
I fish floating ice chunks from the hole with a skimmer
while
Father sets the trap, ties the sinker, and hooks the minnow
thru its side.
He lowers the line
gently into the fishhole; the bait plunges to the lakebed.
Father reels up the slack, pitches the three legged trap
above the exposed black water
and we wait for a trout, or a snarled toothed pickerel.
Father,
I have learned
to fish for thoughts
with an ice–trap. When the flag
springs up, I reel
slippery ideas up from deep darkness.
As they flop, I pull the hook out from their lips,
knock them in the head,
throw them in a pail; gut them, I spill fishthoughtblood on the white snow.
After the low sun sets,
My friends and I fry caught fishthoughts
in my dim cabin.
Hughes, Plath, Ginsberg, and Eliot
talk around the fireplace
as the pan sizzles, as the oil jumps. Soon
we feast on flakey poemfillets;
we talk about the dark english rain,
the crowded zoos, electroshock therapy, bald mediocrity.
After we have eaten
and finished the wine,
and all my friends have gone home
I look down at empty plates
and somehow,
“the page is printed.”
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 10:10 AM UTC
There was much in her madness to draw us in.
Poetry was payback, electroshock for readers,
collusion between self and the culture oppressing women.
Rebelling against the limitations of a woman's sphere,
seeking refuge in career, a feminist before it was chic,
writing poems as a poultice against death
lurking in the shadows of a conflicted mind.
Sylvia, what was the dialogue you had with Death?
He deceived you in the mirror,
made you tremble at the foot of the stairs,
hissed from the potatoes in the kitchen,
till you sought solace in the oven's jets.
You were an artist out of time.
It's safe to come in from the depression now.
Feb 10, 2013
Feb 10, 2013 at 12:56 AM UTC
City limit space expands,
it's threaded through with veins--
grey-black dendritic strands
span
across this moldy brain
of a city.
Our rotting nights spray hits around
the places players play.
The impulses will whitewash all complaints
'til the glaring day.
I wanna spit-shine every storm drain,
stain the cracked sidewalks in white,
take this town to Sunday morning Mass,
though she was born for Friday nights.
We're gonna trickle past addresses
now,
Electroshock through habit streets
these crosswalks sneer with snide expression.
Mildewed thoughts we'll hardly think.
A conversation you're repressing
I'm smoothing out my wrinkled brow
Another weekend's blurred out
blank confession
melts off the tips of tongues,
I can taste it now.
Circulation space expands,
we're threaded through with veins--
this bio-asphalt plan
spans
all through this molded frame
of a body.
But rotten thoughts, like ships aground,
teach sailors how to pray
when impulses have buried all complaints
'neath the foaming spray.
I wanna shade out every bruise now,
paint the dumpsters all in gold.
Missoula, listen: You're a lady.
I don't give a **** what you've been told.
A moldy brain dreams slattern makeup
for a prizefight town each night
so let's take up every artist's brush,
paint shadows on these barroom eyes.
We're gonna flow right through these boule-
vards.
Electroshock through habit streets.
These dim lit yards and spoiled thoughts
are hyphens placed between each week.
A conversation you're repressing,
I'm smoothing out my wrinkled brow.
Our city's made-up face is running
off the tips of winter and I taste it now.
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 1:19 PM UTC
Pits and pockmarks
flit and dart
across an infinite ceiling.
Random synchronicity
plays patter song
stupor and languidity
The orchestra conducting
purple and yellow
to a sparkling, a
crushing crescendo
falls like a wave on tastebuds, tempting.
She lingers like
fog on a pane of glass
A sharp signature
impaled on a pile
of dreaming dust.
Like a rushed column
updraft through a house
of leaves blank and staring.
A mark from the
back of your palms up.
Your fingers stuck signing
a language sang by the blind.
How did she stay so long
A force hidden in neuron canyons.
A Gypsy camp lodged
between cortexes
spinning silk into a
muffled gasp, a conspiratory shuffle.
She lingers like spines of glass
in nailbeds, planted sweetly,
with the best of care.
Laughter in an asylum
electroshock dreams soaked in sweat.
Grabbed my brain like a chemical symphony.
Painted pictures of pivotal seconds,
wrapped up and romanticized.
Dreamt about.
Your lilting language planted
little honeypots deep in my palms.
Sparked fire from entropy
lighting a city in my chest.
But now these buildings tower
like Goliath in David’s dreams.
I need to escape
I need to slide out of
this sleep you’ve monopolized.
******* dreams
like smokering fingerprints
left on the cleft of my conscience.
The old taqueria on Victory.
The Bourgeois Pig.
The bitter spice of winter
painted over the cracks
crumbling the walls.
These waking hallucinations
haunt my habits.
Still frequent the holeinthewall
dives in my heart.
Nov 14, 2011
Nov 14, 2011 at 8:33 AM UTC
I'm here. These texts these sacred carnivorous words
this verbal membrane
(read carefully I summon you read twice!) :
curtain meninx electroshock therapy
blanket straitjacket
bed-sheet ***** placenta
I praise this osmotic verbal membrane
I give you I get undressed I curse myself
Ah! my repressed whorish pathos:
I give you lucidly
Any poetic art is written in ink
(I calmly assure in public)
in fact
in these mortal neurons
Darkness and dust
These texts these words I've picked from books and streets
Only this ultimate membrane
(precious like the *****
fragile like soap bubbles)
still separates me
from the psychic space where you've pushed me
as towards the springs of the Nile
from the psychic place whence I try - cautiously
painfully - to pull out:
my hands my paws my brain my heart
What is beyond? darkness and dust
What is left? a poetic art this darkness this dust
these cracking neurons
Marta Petreu
translated by Liviu Bleoca
Nov 29, 2015
Nov 29, 2015 at 2:47 PM UTC
I saw Ada,
In New York. I hit her up,
and she wanted to meet up for breakfast.
The next morning:
She had on slate shorts, a ruffling, loose white t,
And chucks falling apart at the seams
in scythes of fabric.
Her hair bobbles
as she bounces over.
It's so frizzy and curly
as if it’s been through electroshock.
She gives me a hug and as she pulls away
her lips hit my cheek.
A grey pigeon lands in my sight behind her
and pushes a white **** out onto a starbucks lid.
The best thing
Is seeing exes that you haven’t
talked to or seen in awhile; and hearing
them talk about the great things they’ve done
In your time apart.
It’s almost as if I was right there with Ada
when she was experiencing
her new love of Brooklyn.
I am
A ghost in her life,
And in that piece of my heart
That misses her,
I like the feeling of being
as free as a spectre;
an unobtrusive observer.
Feb 27, 2012
Feb 27, 2012 at 2:02 PM UTC
Leaving my phone on the
morning strewn bed, the
bus courses by and drags
me along for the ride. Old
high school friends pulse
through my head and I
contemplate their distance.
Every unrecognized human
who seeps into view or
distance causes me to bury
into my phone and feign
distraction. Feign importance,
like someone is paying attention
to me. Until I realize my phone
is my hand and my real phone
is still fast asleep in Asia.
I feel like a ghost today.
Not one word shared between
others as real as me, I figure
I'd feel as lonely at the bottom
of the ocean as I would on
-stage in Madison Square
Garden. 4 hours of work
slithers by like an injured
snake. After exactly an
hour and 17 minutes on a
bus home, addiction knits
the phone into the palm of
my hand like resentful lovers
wishing they didn't need each
other. Only 1 text message
and it's my significant other
slipping me recognition. Old
high school friends pulse through
my head and I contemplate their
distance. I return recognition
to my lover and hear nothing
from her for hours to come.
None of these old high school
friends seem to acknowledge
what I thought was love between
us. I pretend not to care as the
world ignores me and fall back
into the confused trance of
'keeping busy.'
I feel like a ghost today.
What happened to the school
-yard friends? The late nights
spent with nowhere to be?
The happy conundrum of life
as a game? What happened
to freedom? What happened
to freedom? What happened
to freedom?
I hold a sliver of hope that one
day life will electroshock my
existence back into existence.
It's been a beautiful fight, but
lets hope the war is over by Christmas
*** momma, I'm coming home.
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 7:37 PM UTC
ElectroShock Therapy
Minor doses of,
electroshock therapy,
typing on a keyboard,
hysterically,
my fingers hurt,
numb could just fall off,
but I keep writing and writing and writing,
applause of,
the crowd,
passively observing,
as I twitch from the EMFs,
that hit in micro-doses that they’re serving,
constructing scripts,
at a pace that’s constant,
do what you feel is real,
because the rest is just nonsense,
on then,
on with the show,
tribal techno,
rapid slow mo,
ready or not here we go…
∆ Aaron La Lux ∆
Volume 1
The H Trilogy
I just published a new book.
If you could take a moment to check it out,
and even write a review it'd be most appreciated.
Profits go to preventing ****** assault against children.
So not only are you getting an epic book of poetry,
but you're also supporting a good cause.
Thank you SO much!
∆
Here are the links for my new book:
www.amazon.com/dp/B01I4621OE
Jul 9, 2016
Jul 9, 2016 at 5:41 PM UTC
I patiently wait
Beneath the Hospital cot
Holding onto Maitreya Buddha for
Release from death's
Hypnotic kaleidoscope
Eyetwitchings.
Afternoon light flows thru
The ivory curtain and
Winter's soft dress
Appears in lacklove phantoms,
Gayatri Mantra clanging like distant bells of Mont Saint Michel Pilgrimage
Toward Roseflower India!
Bringing me back to memories I never
First experienced.
This mind waltz calligraphy of
FLASHTHOUGHT
Scripture for dawn insanity!
Day opening her mouth and breathing
Cold vacuums of the universe,
Groggy dew of frontlawn grass in
November.
"Om bhur bhuvah svah
Tat savitur varenyam
Bhargo devasya dhimahi
Dhiyo yo nah pracodayat"
Samsara: the non-reality hornets nest,
DISTRACTING those in the garden!
Wirey battery powered
mammals,
Spring loaded elephant's
Cacophony weepings
That existence has become so
Ordinarily material and
!LackSpectacular!
Even the zoo animals realize this!
Butterflies lacking mental stimulation
Hovering Vancouver unknown to their own emptiness.
institutionalized populace (continental)
Voluntarily part of mass electroshock execution.
Soldierly blood is ink for the warpoets
Who will fight back with automatic language fired at the man behind the mask!
Till the last mad writer types
Their last mad verse.
Jul 30, 2015
Jul 30, 2015 at 6:04 AM UTC
My car has got it’s brain back through
A trick automotive lobotomy hack
It was acting a little manic, the whacked
Human Machine Interface Module part
The screen was seen as a scary
Kerouac consciousness stream
An obscenity screed; a
Muddled fuddled car scene
HMIM installed anew—
Electroshock therapy
Zzzzzzhhhxt-phsssszzxt!
Initiating … initiating … initiating …
“Welcome!
Destination?”
Oct 27, 2018
Oct 27, 2018 at 12:03 AM UTC
The first time he touched your fingertips, you felt electricity shoot through your veins and you wrote it off as static
But now, with him between your lips, staring up into his eyes which are staring down at your body, you realize that he is your electricity
With every ****** he surges you
With every command you feel your mind break
The first time you landed on your knees before him, you gazed dazily as your whole empire collapsed
Now the same fingertips that shocked yours slip inside of you, electrocuting you awake
He ***** as if he is a straight descendent from Zeuss sent to Earth to give you a taste of thunder
His lightning makes you tremble and you can't imagine what your body felt like before he made you scream
You live for his hands grazing over your hot skin as you squirm for his touch
His electrifying touch that makes you call for the gods
Even though you know that the only entity you could ever bow down to is the one who arches your back with every movement
You call to your God, he comes to you with every inch of his being
You feel him deep inside of you, breaking you free from your inhibitions
He holds you down by your throat as your body succumbs to him
His body engulfs yours
You burst from the deepest crevice of your soul
And as you lie there, weak
Feeling the after shocks of the best electroshock therapy of your life
Reminiscing on his fingertips
You realize the piece of you that was missing
Is whispering storms between your thighs as he shocks your heart to life
Feb 8, 2019
Feb 8, 2019 at 2:08 PM UTC
Strangers in the cold, maneuvering the night and its labyrinth of nostalgia traps,
The holy ground of memory,
I remember, I remember when everything was so,
Underwater,
I was somebody else’s ghost, crybaby angel of death, corner booth of the donut shop two minutes past the clock tick of the witching hour, I’m feeling the heat,
Electricity jumps from neon sign to stainless steel countertop to the back of my throat and I swallow premonition
after premonition,
until my hands tightrope walk over blacktop abyss of their own volition and the floor,
just drops out,
I’m spiraling again, getting ****** up on the collapse trip,
I’m afraid to desperation and I don’t have the drugs to sort it out,
I don’t know how to tell you what is wrong because I can’t even explain it to my dreams,
and sleep hangs heavy like the shadow of the gallows, my caged ****** blood sings to me of electroshock nooses and I’ve got this entire genealogy of disappearing and I know I have to run,
I have to run and keep running and only my body remembers why
Nov 9, 2018
Nov 9, 2018 at 1:51 AM UTC
Live too long and friends will become ghosts.
Corpses will fill your address book.
The ghosts show up in the crushing morning silence
and depart into your dreams after the twilight.
They never seem to have much to say.
I often ask them questions. What's it like being dead?
Is it cold? Are there animals. Is there anything to read?
Should I join you or hang out on earth a while yet?
The answers, when there are any, are not satisfactory.
And so I stick to earth for another bruising day.
In the Shack nothing happens and that is more than enough.
It is hard to fall asleep and truly hell to wake up.
I often feel like a road killed skunk that just had electroshock
or a successful suicide who just ****** a shotgun to ******
Between dawn and twilight exists a pointless purgatory.
Still, heaven remains a vague possibility.
But that is what is meant by life. I'm off to participate.
~mce
May 27, 2015
May 27, 2015 at 9:39 AM UTC
So my grandmother has had
Electroshock therapy
And I'm on the similar route
They ask me
"Why can't you be happy?"
You are manic depression,
I get it.
You need to live a normal life
Just please leave me alone.
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 4:27 PM UTC