"jolting" poems
*Sometime you board the wrong train
And you reach a destination, not in the itinerary
Unfamiliar passenger, whom you thought you, knew
But slowly, as the journey begins, you get lost
In the language, you usually do not speak
Unable to decipher, the inner feelings, you feel alien
Sometimes the parallel tracks look familiar
Maybe, they will lead you to your preferred destination
You so wish for the parallel journey
Willing to board the train on that track
Wishing to talk to the driver, about your feelings
If he could just bring the train to a halt
The train coming to a jolting stop
You may have to get off midway and board another train
Your train of thoughts has led you to the train
This will take you to the destination you have dreamt
With the right passenger the journey will be a breeze*
© Amitav (Radiance)
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 4:54 AM UTC
buzzzzzzz
The bus engine idles
Intensifying the hammering of little gnomes
On my skull
Their tin mallets **** dinking* incessantly
Throbbing
Painful numb as waves crash to escape
The confines of my head
A small clownfish throwing his tiny body
Against the walls again
And again
And again
ba-dump ba-dump ba-dump
The bus hits three large bumps in a row
Jostling and jolting me into excruciating confusion
So tired and so alert
Drifting off to consciousness
I have got to escape this headache...
Nov 1, 2012
Nov 1, 2012 at 3:02 PM UTC
We’re reeling, thundering, flying.
We’re racing down the hill.
We’re sweeping along the pavement.
I will carry you; I’ll take you where ever you want.
We’re wobbling, swaying, tilting.
We’re blown and knocked; uneasy.
We’re pushing into the wind.
I’ll try to be steady; try my hardest to never let you fall.
We’re bumping, pounding, jolting.
We’re kicking up leaves.
We’re skidding along the track.
I’ll weave between every tree, don’t worry, my love.
We’re gliding, sprinting, whizzing.
We’re brushing by the hedge.
We’re crunching along the stones.
I shall trundle with you, gently down the towpath.
We’re moseying, wandering, meandering.
We’re stopping, choosing some lunch.
We’re pacing through the lanes.
I’ll wait when you’re gone, wait to take you home.
Mar 7, 2012
Mar 7, 2012 at 9:42 AM UTC
My mother enters the kitchen, says that her hands
are dripping, begs my father to finish his work
at the sink. I observe, for a moment, the expression
upon her face which seems conflicted between
a desire to laugh and a need
to feel clean.
I interject that clearly her fate is to have
dog placenta on her hands for all eternity.
Her disgust and amusement seem equally to rise.
After she has washed herself, she speaks of
Ponyo's last intermission between long
intervals of birthing to nap three fleeting minutes;
another contraction gave way to a wriggling
new mole who squeaked and groaned with
bizarre endearment, seizing my heart and causing
its mother's head, after jolting awake,
to go limp.
Mom says it's sad-but-sweet. Dear dog
has spent herself six times already in increments
which, as they increase, draw her spirit still closer
to a totally inevitable chasm of fled energy;
as soon as she falls asleep, yet a new indignant mass
of living parts swaddled in loose skin and wet fur
shoves its way outward, forward, world-ward.
Ponyo is not selfish. Immediately after birth seven,
she begins to lick her offspring clean and nudge it
towards her belly, where it may feed itself.
"Only just got a break, and already she's
back to work."
I'm one of five children my mother has carried
and raised--and for a human, five are many!
I'm afraid to give birth even once, despite
that a greater want of mine is to hold
my own child someday. I wonder if that
is motherhood: discomfort and indecision
concerning the worth of the effort in labor,
in birth, in the weak moments thereafter--
stroking one's child's downy, collapsible head
and feeling a need to protect her, to nurture her,
that is more pressing even than the so-
alluring whispers which Sleep may breathe--
and even beyond these moments, when I have said
to my mother that I hate her (because
to me, it was obvious that I did not,
and was too callous, obtuse, and insensitive
to think that she might just believe it)
and then missed church the next day to stay
with her when she felt ill and tired--if this
is motherhood, I wonder. It must be more even
than I could ever have thought like wanting
to laugh and to wring one's hands
(and even just to go to sleep)
all at once.
Apr 14, 2012
Apr 14, 2012 at 11:05 PM UTC
On a vehicle bed I voyage, wearing
headphones which lead the way.
Repelling neighbors screams, these jolting sounds travel through my body, breaking locks and knots.
Unraveling the fabric across time and space.
Is there anybody out there that feels the music flow sensitively ?
I enter myself more deeply, I lose myself to the voices and words of chemistry.
I lay in ecstasy frequencies.
Becoming one with musical melodies.
Mar 7, 2014
Mar 7, 2014 at 3:45 PM UTC
Words,
Like lightning, ripping its way through my heart, jolting me violently as I struggle to compose myself.
"They're just words."
The trembling earth parts to reveal a smile, weak, fake, hiding the needle like pain the words you say cause me.
"No, it doesn't bother me."
I bite my lip, white bricks indenting into a plush garden, as the ocean threatens to overtake the beach with only my eyelashes to hold back the waves.
"Yeah, it is funny isn't it?"
You laugh about my imperfections, and I laugh with you,
hard, forced, hot air exhaling from my lungs as I blink and my mind scrambles to find ways to better myself.
"Totally, stretch marks are so gross."
Pink vines of ivy run their way across my body, and I wonder if I can find a way to hide the lighting on my thighs, my *******
"But you're still pretty though."
Your words force the air out of my lungs and I nod reassuringly, because I'm still pretty, despite all the things you say are wrong with me. Things that make me who I am, but to you are marks against me as a person, but its ok, because I'm still pretty.
They're just words, but they can make you choke, and cry, and want to change yourself, just so someone can tell you that you're still pretty.
But pretty is just a word, and I'm so much more than your definition of what makes me worthy in your eyes.
Words.
Lava building up inside me and finally getting the courage to force its way to the top, to pour out of me and cover my body in molten rock, encasing me in protection in the form of letters and confidence.
"I know."
Oct 20, 2015
Oct 20, 2015 at 2:15 PM UTC
Grown beneath the sun,
Holding the occasional rain drop,
Surrounded on all sides by companions.
Snip!
Cut off forever from nourishment,
Collected with a few companions,
No clue what the future will hold.
Moving swiftly through the air,
Higher than ever dreamed, but
Fearful of sky diving without a parachute.
Misted occasionally,
Attempting to maintain appearances,
Despite being starved of food.
Enduring more body-jolting aerial swoops,
Drowned in a swift waterfall,
Losing companions that did not maintain their appearance as deftly.
Chop, chop, chop!
Sliced into innumerable bits,
Wondering if life is over,
Now that one’s shape is forever lost.
Perfuming the air with a distinctive aroma,
Blending it with those already in the air,
From other small bits of greenery.
Fears realized at last:
Falling from a great height to the ground,
But falling on a soft cushion.
Smothered with white strings,
Rolled up tightly in the soft cushion,
No escape route possible.
Dying in the heat,
Spreading into the gooey whiteness,
Wondering what the point of it all was.
Eventually cooling down,
Being exposed to air once again,
And hearing (if it were only possible):
This is the best herb cheddar bread I’ve ever had!
Was the result worthy of the chives and Italian parsley’s sacrifice?
All who partook of the savoury goodness certainly believed it was!
Nov 24, 2018
Nov 24, 2018 at 12:26 PM UTC
Once upon a sunlight, there was a kid,
He played in sun but lived in shade,
In silence, his art and heart were hid,
But all he loved were the few friends he made.
He liked to draw and color and build,
Things of fantasy and lore, of a world beyond
His friends would love him and the things he did,
But he never got out of his dreamy pond
Some would say, you should not be here,
There is a place for you in wonderland,
Where you can play and grow in peace without fear,
But he was slipping away like the desert sand
A spirit then came into his life of dream,
Dream within a dream, oh it was so clear,
The spirit shone a light of holy gleam,
And he felt a power, drawing him near
Energy trickled down his spine,
A shock of ecstasy, a jolting heartbeat,
He could feel the presence of something divine,
And transform he did from head to feet
He raised his hand into the air,
The air burned from the electric storm,
His purpose, now clear, his mind, without fear,
Behold, a Superhero is born.
Sep 10, 2011
Sep 10, 2011 at 2:35 PM UTC
There's a light on my front porch
that comes on when I open the door at night.
I step outside to light a cigarette and
stand there under the bulb
watching the bushes move
with the wind and the scurrying of
little lizards.
But if I stand really still,
the light goes off and
for a few moments, I can disappear.
I can still hear the crickets and
a few cars in the distance, but
it's disembodied sound.
It's quiet. Dark. Far removed from
the reality illuminated by the sun
during the day and the sensor light
on the front porch at night.
I focus all my energy on
keeping my movements small, controlled.
The slight rise and fall of my chest as
I breathe. The modest shuffle of my
feet as I shift my weight from one
side to the other.
My thoughts are completely occupied
with making sure I stay invisible.
Reality exists only in the glow
of that wretched porch light.
But eventually, I feel the heat between my
fingers, jolting me back to an existence
where I have worries greater than
making sure I stay absolutely still.
Sep 8, 2012
Sep 8, 2012 at 11:30 PM UTC
Your body
clamps to mine
like a magnet
or an electric eel.
Feel the jolting
current bounce
and flow and
jerking take
hold of you.
Particles dance
us tighter
together
like fleshly
puppets.
See how we
clutch and
writhe and
grind, hum
like overloaded
lines.
No escape
once you
touch the
live wire.
And anyway:
nowhere else
you want
but here;
nothing else
you want
to be,
but a jello mold
of...
Quantum,
Quivering,
Lust.
- mce
Oct 8, 2015
Oct 8, 2015 at 9:29 PM UTC
Settle into darkness, naturally, and take your cue from unoiled gears jolting forward only to lure you into false stability and lose velocity, stop suddenly, merge the definitions of stopping and falling by balancing the cart on the back of the tongue as sherbet dip dab’s your gums in 3…2…swallow down it drops FLASH past the oesophagus there’s your photo op show us some teeth show us some skin darlin’ begin to dissolve in stomach acid bile’s vile hold it down we will use force if necessary like handcuffs to a headboard excuse me sir may I see your ticket? Right you can’t sit here, you’re 3,4-methylenedioxymethamphphetamine, that’s upstairs you need to swing a left then straight up to the top floor not a bad view, you can’t miss it it’s got a hundred golden bulbs flashing hypothalamus, no we’re not really bothered about our environment take the lift elevate heart rate
C-C-C-CRANK IT UP
to the cerebral cortex’s House of Mirrors home of distortion. What can we do for you sir? We like to pride ourselves in our ability to mess around with the wiring and stimulate receptors, all part of the Deluxe Mega Deal complete with moving walls, disco ball skin and a talking butterfly the size of a car crash for a limited time only whilst serotonin stocks last they fall as fast as the lubricated log flume SPLASH. Please remain seated until the end of the ride. Thrown out into the gift shop. £30 for a 12 hour come down. Come again soon.
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 9:12 AM UTC
Hips hunkered, rise to dapple-blue-toned dusty seat
Flush arch cheeky blush, excitement
Droll eye-glazing blue pupil toned in sleepy drug haze
Wind whipping wild air rushing through tempered glass
Wubing whoosh of wheeled blacktop pavement
Colored in eerie sunshade yellow
Lined, darting-flash gold white boundary crossing
Tight knuckles, two hand hold
Blinking brown doe-eyed drowsy heavy lidded
Lolling head knocked back, head bash rested caressing faux blue
Ploom of dust
Dry-mouth open to catching fly’s
Or what’s left of dank-infused air
Quiet stillness
Blond hair crawling in busy wind,
Equally as gone
Thumping, jolting-momentum
White line boundary lost, wheels ended grass
Ditching down, dirt slid slide
Floating weightless suspended-nightmare phase
Snapping,
Awake! Awake!
Screaming slotted terrified,
Panic! Painful-heart-wrecking rob breath
Nose dive, mounded metal drive inching closer
Hairs-breath away
Afraid, screaming ****** ****** inside sealed lips
Brown eyes; lid white
Hands upon steering slack, loose light
Asleep, peaceful in calamity
Unnatural shake and tumble
Nail dug bleeding ache
Skidding gravel, tree lined doom
A god not believed in a prayer ensued
Shaking, the calm unglued
“Baby, wake I beg you!”
Brown quick electric wide
Screaming, Screaming
“Oh my God! Why!”
Swerve snake skin peelout
Black lane orange in night
An almost death.
Sep 21, 2012
Sep 21, 2012 at 4:08 PM UTC
Ashley,
Your blues inspire me, insipid triangles, walking cold, sweating more and wetting the bed your lips the sizes of gods that I married through hidden video cameras, I caught bias in bliss, racism in slow disasters, tornado sirens and just sirens, and justice on the horizon. My eyelids the sizes of your little ******* the party of tomorrow, the starting sounds of scarred and stripped *** sounds. Caught in a drift, my bottom lip stuffed with lift-lust and jolting up and down your porcelain rift. Messed up and round the back to the buttons, the clasp too heavy to drop your ego down, the cold too swift to catch me as I fell. The heavens too burdened to beat me with your god. I just wanted to me smacked in the face with your flaws. Hips the sizes of doorknobs, hurdles that I caught one weekend sipping slow gin with granddad and papa and Tootsie, your evils carnivorous, your mess much more than your message. Your koo-koo voodoo and big bad red frock. Tuesday's made me the man I am today. The Slayer made me the hate I stuffed into my **** jock-strap to puff out my chest and make prisms in kitten litters and furrow the night clauses to match stick the pumped-up bypass of hazmat and heroism, I was won and didn't know it, you were one and now you're all one.
She,
came to me in French class holding straws. I picked swiftly and came, all staled and stiff, lock-jaw and threesomes one moonlit night the fourth of July.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 3:09 PM UTC
Only one little
silly tiny
movement
can create ripples
of effects
and tonight
as I reached for the
garlic or salt
or whatever
the hell it was---
something harsh was set
I brushed your shoulder
or was too much in your space
somehow jolting your ego
from its permanent, fragile place
You chose to take that
and make a fight
from dust
and this in turn led
to splitting hearts
spitting corrupted trust
passive aggressive silt
swept out
from under rugs
emotional bluntness of punches
instead of the realness of hugs
Where have we reached
what have we done
All I know
is my heart's on
the run
These little ***** triggers
can open
Pandora's sick, dark box
unlocking old resentments
from behind rusty locks
"You will never be forgiven"
are words
that destroy
they suffocate and choke
turn real gold to alloy
and Man, this gold is melting down
running in streams
painting false this town
in shades of hurt
in shades of pain
just lay me down
in this thick desert sun
to bear this unbearable
splintered strain
Let me pour this liquid burden
into the salt of the cracks
of the earth
Let me be replenished
with crystal water coolness
as I, head held up in tears,
remember
my golden worth
Aug 8, 2016
Aug 8, 2016 at 3:02 AM UTC
Pages that will be full of ideas
Yet also included will be some fears
A writer jolting down his life in what took place
There was a time in the Writer’s near Death
But time was on the Writer’s side
He can continue to write and reside
However, it will be the thoughts he will provide
Life is worth living
It’s the revolving time being the recordkeeping
A writer who was inspired by the night
It was also the moon and stars in plain sight
Now the Writer’s ideas that will shed some light
The time when the writer was attacked by a Bear
The attack wasn’t your average compare
The Writer who was caught by surprise, but didn’t even realize
The writer was attacked all covered in blood
The blood was pouring as if it was a flood
The writer was walking on the trail of the forest
Scare as the writer was, he managed to survive
The writer was so wounded to retreat
Medical attention is what got him on his feet
Thank God I am alive
The situation I will never forget
The writer’s notebook full of details, but being a full correspondent in giving what happened on the trail.
Feb 14, 2017
Feb 14, 2017 at 4:44 PM UTC
To be taken silently with violence
Not to utter a salutation
Just the cracking of a door hinge
And a look that indicates that stopping your desires would be laughable
An absurdity
not to be pondered!
The jolting sound of head cracking against metal
And wrist yearning to be ground to the bone
After hours of furtive clutching
The kind on nail bending fervor that just takes the taste right from bread
Grabbed into a cranium synthesis
Im am forever enslaved in the darkest corridor of your existence
I doubt I will ever be able to leave this lighting wasteland
The eagerness pounding through the point were skin meets weapon
I am infiltrated like a shanty filled village
A real slum filled valley
Hopeless against tracking systems and torture methods
You plunder my underdeveloped hospitality
Like Jesus to a farm boy
As I scream **** you Mongoloid
I am gasping into your filth
A sacrificial lamb
Bliss by the slaughter wells
Mouthfuls of disgust
As your knees jab deep into skid row
Grinding the forgotten and the deserted
Until they are flattened corpses
****** dry of the water holding them together
You are pleased
The phantom has been fed and to ask for seconds would only tease the lamb
As I lay gushing organs with a smirk
Broken bent and emaciated
I feel alive and it is wondrous.
Nov 30, 2010
Nov 30, 2010 at 9:02 AM UTC
The green combusts, the cherry sclerotized mask dances above
the invisible paper carapace.
Stuffed full with Rotten skunk innards and burning,
tongues of heat sweat away its crystalline hairs.
Aren is hunched and crooked, all teeth and lungs,
under the mixed halogens of suburban porchlight,
being bathed in bluescale waves from the
strobe of the neighbor's telescreen.
Ropes of smog pour from the slats between his picket fence ivories and get frayed.
I drink the filth, choking down the viscera of the vermin.
It doesn't seem to get easier.
Stumbling inside, my feet detach and I throw myself on the door
until I've locked out the sickly tide pool light of dawn,
and I'm rolling toward his bedroom.
Jolting and sputtering, and
grasping at the hands of the clock,
listening for the steady metronome to
count me through.
And then numbness.
I know the feeling, and next come the
pins, digging into my
fingertips and the pads of my
toes, and then I'm all body and silent prayers.
And I'm whispering sick thoughts to Aren -
*"Those adrenaline demons
will do me in,
and if only I could relax,
and my dear mother
used to have a stalker,
and I almost got run down
by a car on the highway when I was five,
and asthmatics are five times as likely to have a
generalized anxiety disorder."*
The adrenaline demons gather my tendons in pincushion palms,
tugging at the strings,
panicked arthritis and my fingers are
twitching and curling backwards
while I glare on with shallow breaths and cataracts.
The organs moan in the cavern of my body,
with thick wet air pouring from the opening.
I'm standing now,
a fetishized devil doll,
shaking out the pins
and the needles
and the sick splinters of glass
and the long holy skewers
and I'm breathing again
and I sit and
I breathe.
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 3:05 PM UTC
Weird.
Funny.
Stupid.
Crazy.
The words attached to you by other people.
And the saddest thing is that you believe them
And you lower yourself
And hate yourself
To entertain the masses.
Quiet.
Thoughtful.
Witty.
Loving.
That is who you are to me.
And as you rest your weary head
While we hide away from sight,
You whisper calm intellect
That make my thoughts just stop.
Awkward.
Cute.
Nervous.
Bubbly.
Some of what I feel
When I think of you.
And it's like a beautiful electricity
One that invigorates and illuminates my soul,
And in that moment I love you.
Uncomfortable.
Strained.
Jolting.
Cold.
It's not what we should be.
But while you hide away
My favourite facets of your glittering self,
That will be what you receive from me.
Your reflection.
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 9:41 AM UTC
Round and round and round I whirl
I exist to pirouette, to twirl.
A sea of jewels at my feet shimmer,
They twinkle, glisten, shine and glimmer.
A rich array of cherished treasure,
Of value far too great to measure.
I hear the music as I turn…
The only tune I’ll ever learn.
My pose is ever full of grace,
A smile is fixed upon my face.
My hair is twisted into a perfect pleat
My ballet points laced on my feet.
My pink tutu stands out starched and straight,
As I mechanically revolve, rotate.
My spinning trajectory gently slows
My jolting pivot draws to a close.
And I’ll stand stock still until rewound
To again start swirling round and round.
Apr 8, 2018
Apr 8, 2018 at 12:18 PM UTC
I can judge time passed,
by the chips in my nail polish.
It collects in the corners of eyes,
at the edges of mouths it lies.
Sometimes I look for it on my hand,
each scar like a grain of sand.
Other times it remains unseen,
hiding behind a laugh or scream.
I glimpse it in a backward glance,
but it stabs with pain as if a lance.
The jolting sensation to look at change,
to see how life does rearrange.
Then I go back staring at the ground,
Ignore it though my heart does pound.
And pretend the only sign of time passed,
are the chips in my nail polish.
Sep 27, 2016
Sep 27, 2016 at 10:26 AM UTC
in our rocky mountain vistas
and certain landscape
paintings
our imaginings are captured
sometimes clear and ordered
in others stormy patterns
hiding then revealing
dark and jagged forms
almost hearing the hawk's
invisible circling call
imagining ourselves on
precipitous mountain paths
blown by shifting icy winds
vertigo and dark crevices
fearsome obstacles foreshadowing
impending loss then
most suddenly we return
to our observation places
warmth safety comfort
as before
our imagined landscape fears
now engulfed transformed
within a joyous
pervading light
a jolting new experience
mysteriously named by some
as the sublime
the word a gentle quiet
merging
of beauty and twin terrors
fear and loss
might we then find
in this our landscape viewing
a rehearsal
for life's dark confrontations
and on a promising day
enfold transmute and
with ecstatic labor
discover true beginnings
new births
reaching this time
a friend
we know and name
our sublime
Apr 30, 2012
Apr 30, 2012 at 11:51 AM UTC
I'm all she would like to be,
this fuels her blazing envy.
I'm all she can never be,
prolonged hatred & enmity.
So the obscurus ignoreth me,
casting seeds of blatant partiality.
Mental turmoil, choking humanity,
jealousy jolting the remnants of sanity.
Beware of the truth in entirety,
"Peculiar beasts exist in reality."
Dec 24, 2022
Dec 24, 2022 at 2:38 AM UTC
Ships like phantoms
lost at sea.
Waves are crashing,
tumbling free.
Lightning striking, dazzling,
bolting.
Thunder rumbling, growling,
jolting.
The clouds slowly drift away
at ease.
A rainbow appears with a
feeling of peace.
The ship was rocking, now
sways gently close to shore.
The lighthouse beams its light
once more.
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 5:27 AM UTC
If you've ever broke out into hives, you would understand what it would feel like to be one.
If anxiety has ever stripped your veins,
If inspiration has ever lacked the blood leaking from the depths of you that explode like title waves against rocks, you would know what it would feel like to be stung.
I've realized I haven’t been aware of transfixed rage and clenched hands trying too hard to hold on to something that loosened its grip a match and a half ago.
The fluid in my liter told me it was never really meant for cigarettes; all they ever do is deteriorate.
There is blood covering my sheets and evidence to cover up my gruesomely blank eyes.
Everything is coming back to me and it makes me wonder why I've ever given up.
They say that words sting and if bumblebees killed themselves after hurting someone else they’d be a lot more like me.
This is ripped and crumbled paper in the form of a mental breakdown.
You have composed me of jolting pupils and false accusations.
I’d rather be writing in my journal.
I’d rather be scratching down illegible ink marks than doing what I’m doing right now.
If you can hear that, it’s the sound of windows breaking.
It’s the sound of your heart forcing itself to shatter
It’s the sound you make when all you want to do is become a drone to vivid darkness and a loss of senses.
I would be a lot more like bees if their venom could actually put the living in their suitable graves.
I am substituting pain for pleasure even when I feel nothing at all.
I don’t want to be a bumblebee anymore.
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 9:42 PM UTC
I am dying
The thought occurs to me every now and then
Jolting my psyche like a bucket of cold water on a sleeping drunk
I just turned 32 this year
I can already feel the cold tendrils of deaths advance
Some days I can even smell its putrid breath on the back of my neck
I’m not dying of anything immediate
No nothing as glamorous as a drug overdose or a gunshot wound
My death more than likely won’t make national news
I am dying
It is a slow and pitiful death
Caused by a lethal mix of age, apathy and neglect
Every day I poison myself a little more
Complex carbohydrates and processed sugars in every meal
Caffeine carcinogens and aspartame to wash the poison down
I can feel my muscle waste away
As I sit 10 hours a day answering the same inane questions
Over and over again to earn the right to what’s left of my meager existence
I am dying
This must be the case because I am certainly not living
At best I am merely surviving, simply continuing to exist
Maybe tomorrow or maybe in 20 years
Even if I quit my job and start an organic vegan diet
Even if I exercise, meditate and confess my sins
I am dying
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 12:43 PM UTC