"voltage" poems
My dog has died.
I buried him in the garden
next to a rusted old machine.
Some day I'll join him right there,
but now he's gone with his shaggy coat,
his bad manners and his cold nose,
and I, the materialist, who never believed
in any promised heaven in the sky
for any human being,
I believe in a heaven I'll never enter.
Yes, I believe in a heaven for all dogdom
where my dog waits for my arrival
waving his fan-like tail in friendship.
Ai, I'll not speak of sadness here on earth,
of having lost a companion
who was never servile.
His friendship for me, like that of a porcupine
withholding its authority,
was the friendship of a star, aloof,
with no more intimacy than was called for,
with no exaggerations:
he never climbed all over my clothes
filling me full of his hair or his mange,
he never rubbed up against my knee
like other dogs obsessed with ***
No, my dog used to gaze at me,
paying me the attention I need,
the attention required
to make a vain person like me understand
that, being a dog, he was wasting time,
but, with those eyes so much purer than mine,
he'd keep on gazing at me
with a look that reserved for me alone
all his sweet and shaggy life,
always near me, never troubling me,
and asking nothing.
Ai, how many times have I envied his tail
as we walked together on the shores of the sea
in the lonely winter of Isla Negra
where the wintering birds filled the sky
and my hairy dog was jumping about
full of the voltage of the sea's movement:
my wandering dog, sniffing away
with his golden tail held high,
face to face with the ocean's spray.
Joyful, joyful, joyful,
as only dogs know how to be happy
with only the autonomy
of their shameless spirit.
There are no good-byes for my dog who has died,
and we don't now and never did lie to each other.
So now he's gone and I buried him,
and that's all there is to it.
17.7k
Whatever happened to the moments
we lived for
the moments we lived from
electrifying lives
currents of passion
high voltage that knew no resistance
what do I have to do?
to feel the surge
to feel the spark
to feel alive again?
Is it in the tomes?
Is it in the songs?
Do the muses hold it in the walls?
Is it inside of me?
Searching for the switch
to send me back to passion
To make me feel charged again
to make me feel in charge again
Mar 13, 2015
Mar 13, 2015 at 11:03 PM UTC
I give love
love love
with the one look
of my eye
eye eye
I excite your lament ion
charge it
high up high
uuuuu
potentially ready
a ***** cation
I am your aesthetic
flaming electric
activate your kinetic
stop the resistence now
don’t drop voltage
difference I create is continually asymptotic
I am the variation in your magnetic
I am the field of your *** ethic
if you not behave
I become your inelastic scatter
geomagnetic storm
high potential
chemical desire
mechanical fire
radioactive disaster
through your interior
I roar blast break
silence the rocks
shake the lights
reverberate in your head
I give love
love love
with the one look
of my eye eye eye
I excite your lament ion
I am your voltaic lion
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 4:43 PM UTC
Ultra Violet magnetic field of high voltage adrenaline showers the streets like speeding sports cars.
It's a rare occurrence of unregulated foreign madness.
I felt my inner chambers open and through them I explored my city in a new fashion.
Pulsating skies and electronica vibes.
Golden halos fall all around and the people, all friendly faces, liberated from their steel rooms.
I can hear the cries in the air.
A step closer, a heart willing to beat louder. A flower courageous enough to grow within the industrial tombs of the living dead. A divine light is what is lighting their way out of miserable decay.
- C.Ek
Aug 2, 2015
Aug 2, 2015 at 8:17 PM UTC
V-is for vowing to never drink *****
While on our voluntary vacation.
We have voiced our verification
In a high voltage volcano
While playing volleyball
And checking our voicemail.
While in this void,
A terrifyingly vivid *****
Who was a model for vogue
In which she wore a V-neck dress,
And ate all her vitamins
Vocabulized with much volume,
Her vow
To always,
Drink *****
May 11, 2010
May 11, 2010 at 10:16 AM UTC
The swallow of summer, she toils all the summer,
A blue-dark knot of glittering voltage,
A whiplash swimmer, a fish of the air.
But the serpent of cars that crawls through the dust
In shimmering exhaust
Searching to slake
Its fever in ocean
Will play and be idle or else it will bust.
The swallow of summer, the barbed harpoon,
She flings from the furnace, a rainbow of purples,
Dips her glow in the pond and is perfect.
But the serpent of cars that collapsed on the beach
Disgorges its organs
A scamper of colours
Which roll like tomatoes
Nude as tomatoes
With sand in their creases
To cringe in the sparkle of rollers and screech.
The swallow of summer, the seamstress of summer,
She scissors the blue into shapes and she sews it,
She draws a long thread and she knots it at the corners.
But the holiday people
Are laid out like wounded
Flat as in ovens
Roasting and basting
With faces of torment as space burns them blue
Their heads are transistors
Their teeth grit on sand grains
Their lost kids are squalling
While man-eating flies
Jab electric shock needles but what can they do?
They can climb in their cars with raw bodies, raw faces
And start up the serpent
And headache it homeward
A car full of squabbles
And sobbing and stickiness
With sand in their crannies
Inhaling petroleum
That pours from the foxgloves
While the evening swallow
The swallow of summer, cartwheeling through crimson,
Touches the honey-slow river and turning
Returns to the hand stretched from under the eaves -
A boomerang of rejoicing shadow.
4.3k
Lips are not the only playground for liars
Their eyes are holding back storms
Like cauldrons brewing lightning
With such a high voltage
To shock you so suddenly
You will forget there ever was
A word named truth
Feb 19, 2019
Feb 19, 2019 at 11:15 PM UTC
Through the serendipity of a naive act,
A mere rumour of the bygone tale.
Perceived by a small offense,
Was the story of Riverdale.
A machine of parts and *****
Built for an arithmetical crusade,
Channeled with high voltage,
The tool for every complex barricade.
For science has toyed with his destiny,
For his life was a written code,
For his face was made of metal alloy,
For his troubles laid on the same road.
For his calculations were neat as heaven,
As his binary numbers were perfectly synch,
Like the sun rising on an early day,
Like the rain falling on the same clay.
But the story took a seismic turn,
His mind was on a number's high,
When like lightning came she,
A thunderstorm from a clear sky
A mermaid out of the blue sea,
She touched his metal face,
For she had seen none of like him.
But that touch created a little spark,
In the metal heart out of chances that slim.
As his codes discharged to form a conscious wave,
For the metal mind felt the aura,
For the metal body moved to dance,
For Riverdale loved that girl,
For she was his fading chance.
But do the humans understand love?
I doubt they do, for the metal heart,
Was driven out from the lands.
For his story never had a start.
The sin of emotion, the bliss of pain,
For his metal heart rusted in vain.
Over his kingdom of broken dreams,
Neither did she, nor a soul felt his reign.
As his metal body rusted away,
In the aura of an insane world,
Where love is a jewellery reserved,
For this misery has now unfurled,
He died a metal death with a humane heartbreak.
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 12:48 PM UTC
beautiful fair maiden
tending her mistress
revering in her muses .
long auburn tresses
come undone,
once a braid
embellished with ribbons
deep lavender color
as maiden’s eyes.
entering parlor
the comely chevalier
stunned by his presence.
voltage lightening sparkles
for time stopped.
remaining composed
casting downward
to make her leave,
empress needs tending affairs.
smitten she was
aghast a fool
she might've looked
her skin flushed
with reverence to behold.
unbeknownst to the privy
betrothal is in making
for he paid a pretty pence.
enchanted ever after
cinderella no more.~~copyrightlorilynn2011
Jun 16, 2011
Jun 16, 2011 at 8:18 PM UTC
The women conspiring
She meant no pain
Her life is shadowy
She grew in beauty
Naturally she put on a show
Well noticable
In depths where her gut meets her heart
high voltage force, igniting
She was privileged, leaving hell
She could've freed the flocks in captivity
She closed her eyelids
Casual steps in vein
A void, cutting her insides
A wonderment why her point of view remains
Pure apology exchanged
Sight darkened when her eyes are opened
Unexpected she prays
How do I change
All expectations she never needed
Opinion unraveling, she pleaded
"Where is forwards deliverance"
May 18, 2016
May 18, 2016 at 1:43 AM UTC
This is the ladder---your first steps into the height. There are no apples. There are no angels. There is only broken shadow and socket; a rounded house of milk and voltage. Now, as you unscrew the bulb with fingertips, listen for the sand. It is sand from ancestral beaches were all families of glass have been blown. A beach where dinosaurs are continually struck by lightning. Continue swiveling until the blown-out bulb is free from the ceiling. Come down, but do not look down. Use the eye in each shoe to find the lower rungs. Place the old bulb in with the dish of pears. The new carton of bulbs are close by, sleeping. Unwrap a fresh bulb from its onionskin pajamas and ascend the same ladder previous. Using your musical hand, insert the threaded end up into the unthreaded beginning. Turn gently in the direction of sunrise until snug. Pull the chain, for the light of God's echoing equation will now sing. Squint and descend.
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 8:13 PM UTC
They say that lightning strikes are one in a million.
Then how is it that every time
you hold my hand
or stare into my blushing face,
that a jolt,
of pure electricity
runs through our shared connection,
bound in tiny intricacies in our veins,
restless in our hearts,
our minds?
I would love to believe that,
that lightning only strikes at impossible odds-
but I can't,
not while I am touching you;
my own heart is a live wire and jumping into my throat
with the raw voltage
coursing through me-
terrifying,
exhilarating,
breathtaking-
and belies the science I know
will disagree with me.
It can never know
the passion of traveling at love's breakneck speed
believing in someone else,
trusting them to catch you when you burn up
or to push you up when you can't remember the light.
It could never know the terrible loss of energy
when the one you love hurts,
speared by insensitive sparks.
It could never know
life in all its tiny fractured facets,
believing that one answer is all that is needed-
that lightning is impossible to contain.
I laugh at the sheer ludicrousness though-
Me?
A human lightning strike?
ABSURD.
But you take my hand again,
promising so many good moments ahead,
so many beautiful ideas
and dreams together,
and my heart leaps-
flying and flipping in ecstasy-
and I know-
Lightning strikes are one in a million,
and I was lucky enough to be struck by yours.
Feb 3, 2013
Feb 3, 2013 at 6:54 PM UTC
Oxblood lips. A slit in the center. A distraught film. Shattered pieces that mimic her wounds. She cries for sorrow and weeps in the name of agony. Flashback. High voltage. Dawn's dew left a Seoul night in the hands of mischief. He watched her golden legs in his dingy shirt. She danced in a tunnel of head lights. His eyes. Oh, God, his realm of roses. A spectrum so broad- no force could obtain. 70s misfit. Shaggy rugs. A cheap bottle of Merlot. Kaleidoscope kisses. Craved like a hieroglyphic. He was her warrior. Plummeting grains of virtue into a dust oriented cushion...seven dollars and thirty one cents. I saw the light bulb touch the birch-wood floral. I could feel a thick metallic wind roar. Breaking the depths. A rugged man with a festive beard. His cheeks of stained silicone lipstick. He had shipped off his soul. He was a white man with a grip of steel. "Who put cookies in the watering bucket?" A naive response. "A wicked man with a lustful cavity." Erosion.Despair.Angst. Thin braids housed a blooming mind. Paint chips splattered the table top, plastering it. Morning.Good morning to luxury. What a splendid contrast. A lantern lit van took the highway by 65 miles. And all the while he never looked back.
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 9:13 AM UTC
Many of you don’t know this,
but I wear my sunglasses at night when I write,
and I know I am a poet,
and I’m supposed to be both understood and misunderstood at the same time,
but I can tell you exactly why I wear my sunglasses when I write,
without any misinterpretations whatsoever,
I wear my sunglasses when I write to block the EMFs,
that emit from the the screen on my electronic device,
and make their way to try and make a way into my eyes,
it’s as if every electronic device is alive,
and they want to take every thing from us including our vibe,
and I’m not sure for sure if this is true so just to be safe I protect my eyes,
by wearing my sunglasses at night when I write,
I want to stay pure,
pure enough at least for you,
because everything I write and do,
of course I do it for you,
as cliche as that might sound,
please know that every word of it is true,
and I’m trying not to rhyme to much so these words don’t sound corny,
but I’m a poet I can’t help it I rhyme without even trying *** else am I supposed to do,
and as far as cliches I’ve got another one coming your way hey, “I Love You.”
I love you,
and I’m trying to stay as pure as I can,
so that I can be clear when I see you,
if we ever have the pleasure of seeing each other again,
as lovers or friends,
either way I am here,
and I’m open,
completely,
devoted,
and cleanly,
unfolded,
and ready,
high voltage,
but steady,
I told ya,
I’m ready,
I noticed,
already,
that you noticed,
me so deeply,
that I broke open easy,
as our emotions,
became confetti,
I told you I told you,
I’ve already been ready already,
and we’re in a storm,
and we’re lost at sea,
but we’re almost to shore,
so please just hold steady,
steady,
steady,
breathe,
steady,
steady hand writes the words,
before fingers become spaghetti and I can write no more,
because honestly I feel like I’m losing all control,
and honestly experiencing strange things then staring at screens doesn’t help,
help,
this is a cry for help,
I’m not scared to admit I’m scared,
I actually have only one fear,
I’m only scared of one thing and nothing else,
being alone.
I am alone.
You are alone.
But we can be alone together.
I told you before I’m totally open,
I told you before I’ve already been ready already,
and I’m trying to stay as pure as possible as I wait for you,
and that’s why I wear these sunglasses so that the EMFs don’t extra affect me,
many,
of you don’t know this,
but I wear my sunglasses at night when I write,
and I know I am a poet,
and I’m supposed to be both understood and misunderstood at the same time,
but I can tell you exactly why I wear my sunglasses when I write,
without any misinterpretations whatsoever,
I wear my sunglasses when I write to block the EMFs,
that emit from the the screen on my electronic device,
and make their way to try and make a way into my eyes,
it’s as if every electronic device is alive,
and they want to take every thing from us including our vibe,
and I’m not sure for sure if this is true so just to be safe I protect my eyes,
by wearing my sunglasses at night when I write,
I want to stay pure,
pure enough at least for you,
because everything I write and do,
of course I do it for you,
as cliche as that might sound,
please know that every word of it is true,
and I’m trying not to rhyme to much so these words don’t sound corny,
but I’m a poet I can’t help it I rhyme without even trying *** else am I supposed to do,
and as far as cliches I’ve got another one coming your way hey, “I Love You.”
I love you,
and I’m trying to stay as pure as I can,
so that I can be clear when I see you,
if we ever have the pleasure of seeing each other again,
as lovers or friends,
either way I am here,
wearing my sunglasses at night when I write,
and I know I am a poet,
and I’m supposed to be both understood and misunderstood at the same time,
but I can tell you exactly why I wear my sunglasses when I write…
∆ Aaron La Lux ∆
Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 12:32 PM UTC
Kiss me, here, in a savage way
A clean blue slate conducting violet voltage
I'm a ****** for exotic green
Purple reigns like a sea siren
Rain forests rise and shine
Hippies are just meadow junkies
Can't stop a free spirit
Ocean side to see the skyline blue
Leap frog and I need a refresh-mint
Blue slate for side walkers
Exotic green rain storm
Magnetic force causing a black rage
Skyline blue reminds me of tangerine crème
Why not wild thing?
Kiss me here for the real teal
High line green and stormy weather
Secret admirer radiation
Green with envy, purple reigns
Leap frog just blue me away
Sea sirens are just gypsy girls
Stormy weather shows your black rage
Mint apple and violet voltage
Happy endings will leave you hot blooded
High line green, Olympia
Rain storm and I need a refresh-mint
Stormy weather and we play leap frog
Secret admirer, let's meet?
Black rage, you're so hot blooded
Olympia, rise and shine
Blue slate and I need a refresh-mint
Mint apple and magnetic force
Leap frog with me, wild thing
We blue it, sidewalkers
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 12:02 AM UTC
no mean feat to reestablish,
palpitating those few seconds
when arms-in-motion wave frantic,
in desperation,
in fall-prevention mode,
comical and tragical,
a salty suite,
and the semi-familiar
taste of fall/failing
the freshest fear,
jalapeño hot on the tongue
some months ago,
the thinnest tightrope,
not an obstacle feared,
what I lacked for,
I could not say or now recall
the kindness of calm prevailed
now tension lines drawn,
under the feet,
around the neck,
high voltage wires that
no artist-survivor-breadwinner
can walk without trepidation
though you don't see my arms flailing,
there are faint marks on my soles,
parallelograms on my throat,
where fear has tested
the prowess of its equipment
my life retrospected,
have miracles
made and gained,
given and taken
nine lives used up so many times,
thought my allotment was
nine X nine to the power of nine,
stupid-stopped looking over my shoulder
the poems came so easy,
every phrase overheard was a
story explicated, and the insights slid
from throat to paper so fast
I did not count myself blessed,
just merely fortunate
well fortunes veer,
turn left bad right,
no direction home,
and what was easy,
now impossible
how the story final beds,
will keep you posted,
right now all I can predict
with 100% surety,
the fall is surely coming
for the summer-man
the sun cannot burn off
the fog that paralyzes his
ship to shore,
invisible the safety of port,
the horn sound more of a croak,
his voice, ashamed of failing,
has this man both
landlocked
and lost at sea
Aug 10, 2014
Aug 10, 2014 at 4:39 PM UTC
On the other side
of perfect
between the golden
silky lines
is the mirrored world
we live in
where ties
don't always
fully bind
they unravel
at the seams
get frayed
so rough and broken
as the blood and sweat
and screams
replace the words
of love unspoken
and we all have
a place for fake
for presentation,
a kind of lie
but the truth
snaps us awake
as we choose to live
or perhaps to die
Yes, some of us
might disintegrate
in the wake of
destruction's wrath
not seeing for the
blindness
that pain causes
on the path
for we forget
that light
inside us
in our darkest
stings of wounds
we forget how
high voltage wavelengths
reside within
the numbness
that consumes
and once reflection
melts the glass
and throws self-hate
into the fire
this is the hour
of miracles
of faintest stains
that take us higher
our deepest inner
whispers
that roll discreetly
through our veins
rumbling humbly
between heartbeats
that push the
bloodflow pumping,
igniting sparks
inside our brains
and whilst my heart
is battle-shattered
it quickens up in pace
as I electrify myself
and to the heavens
turn my face
let the wild sunset
bathe my soul in
shades of shocking blue
for after every
combat encounter
I rise again
anew
Oct 25, 2016
Oct 25, 2016 at 4:45 PM UTC
I'm not an electrician but I do know this.
A voltage produces an electrostatic field. As voltage increases between two distanced points, the field intensifies. You and I were similar in this way. We were two points with voltage charging between us. We somehow created a region stronger than us. Our love flowed like currents. Our love brought us closer. The love between us intensified, much like the way the electrostatic field intensifies. Each kiss and touch made the blood running through my veins turn into electricity. You ignited a fire in me.
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 2:56 AM UTC
Two people lurk in everyone
the star and the scar
born from building high citadels of power
and cascading into smithereens
when the switch is tripped.
Maybe the voltage ran low
or the circuit breaker was poorly constructed?
I dont know.
I operate on a three phase armour
of emotional stabilisers
that spark and twitch when overheated
with too much energy. But I return
with black faced integrity
collars up and smoking
to fight on another electrifying moment.
'Thats life' I hear
the rollercoaster ride
built into the system
going around in circles
always facing the sunrise
and sunset. We scream and tumble
into the guts of the incline
the switch and roll of events
swerving around corners
holding on tight white knuckled
until it finishes its rumble
and we walk out wobbly and vomity
until the better side takes over.
The darker side recedes
into an unknown pocket.
Author Notes
Thanks to Cinderley13 who wrote about Catfish and Lydia and Lyda and made me wonder what the hell was being alluded to? It now makes a bit more sense.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 6:41 PM UTC
Truly.........
the charisma
beguiles and challenges them
truly the sublime force is too irresistible
in attraction and confusion they fake faux condemnation
and in awe the artificialities of superficiality offers sanguine solace
as dim counterfeit pundits give counterfeit commentaries
for who dares say this is one like no other
when to be real is a crime per se
wow! that charisma
truly..........
Truly..........
his charisma
exceedingly shades all others
no one and nothing compares we know
God threw the mould away after making him
cry me a river and build that bridge over troubled waters
for a David walks head and shoulder above most
in truth we see his light but lie we must
when passion voltage overwhelms
its ebb is the afterglow
we live to die
truly.........
Oct 3, 2021
Oct 3, 2021 at 5:13 PM UTC
don’t be defeatist
they say
as if i am not already worn to ruin
as if my fingers have not bled
all i am capable of bleeding
over their pristine paper sheets
just believe in yourself
they say
as if belief alone has ever offered salvation
as if i could will myself into being
as so many others wish they could with god
all you can do is your best
they say
but what if this is my best?
what if i am a husk of a human being
before i reach the age of 30
what if all my light was used up
in a voltage too high
squeezed out of me like a surge
in an electrical storm
what if my peak is behind me
looming above me like atlas
blotting out the sun
and leaving me to get swept up
in the wake of an overachiever
what if i am incapable of what you believed in me
because you pushed me too hard, for too long
because what you needed of me you needed immediately
you took me in your hands like goliath took his stone
wrung me out until i was bloodless
wrote out my worth and found your pen inkless before you’d reached the end
worth is relative
i say
now that i forced you to see your mistake
now that i am bedridden and useless and limp like a doll
now that my good days are not when i write 100 pages
but when i remember to drink water
when i remember to bathe and eat and wake before noon
as if all your pushing just wound me up like a coil
set me tight enough to regress unto the mean
i am doing my best
i say
now that i am barely capable of anything at all
now that the pedestal you put me on looked like a ledge
and you see it for what it was
now that it’s too late to walk back from the gallows
because i’ve already been hung like a ghost
and all i do these days is sway in the wind
i have been defeated
i say
but it was because you put me in the colosseum
with nothing but my tired self leaning on my tired self
and i lay on the floor waiting for the lions to come
i have been defeated
i say
to my defeatist self
because no one stays around to watch a losing fight.
Jan 10, 2018
Jan 10, 2018 at 9:52 AM UTC
Sometimes there’s this emptiness in the soul
With which the saddest songs would not heal
And the soft kisses of tissues would not soothe
The burns of the acidic tears
Something in there
Cannot be resurrected
Nor stimulated
With a thousand voltage defibrillator
Most of the time,
the rotting flesh is still alive
The heart still beats
The EKG device monitoring
Each stubborn peak and trough
Sometimes
In this blind bleakness,
There is still a small spark
An iridescent bubble that refuses to be burst
And with quiet determination,
There is a defiance to live
And sometimes
This small act of defiance
Is the greatest courage of all
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 4:29 AM UTC
alight a path of excited neurons
saved by corporeal fuses
sacrificed fried to save
my head from overloads all the
amperage storing up
Danger High Voltage!!!
flows inside from too much reality.
I need your alternating current
to mediate my DC.
To my Tesla, like, you are , Miss Whitman.
To your Edison I am but one spark of Voltaire.
You sing of electric bodies ten million volts.
I imitate Voltaire as he did Virgil.
If someday we should unite,
our sparks would alight on eternity.
Mar 18, 2015
Mar 18, 2015 at 9:16 PM UTC
Her crisp vocals paint paths, long poised by me.
Her beauty is a reality where my ecosystem drives.
Her omnidirectional audio reads every touch and feels every string.
Her heart-bytes pump voltage in my device(veins).
Her smartness is a safe place, where I shut down.
© Feelings Coated
Jul 13, 2019
Jul 13, 2019 at 7:49 AM UTC