"watt" poems
I have a 75 watt, glare free, long life
Harmony House light bulb in my toilet.
I have been living in the same apartment
for over two years now
and that bulb just keeps burning away.
I believe that it is fond of me.
- Richard Brautigan
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 1:04 PM UTC
when Merry Clayton
sings "Southern Man"
i think of all of you
and i think **** you
and if i was Neil Young
i would start a band called Hateful Bigot
and Mike Watt would be the bass player
and i would write a song
called "social justice warrior"
(in all lower case)
and dedicate it to all the children that have been ***** by the gay mayor of your tiny house town
and Merry Clayton would sing that song
there is a parade in tiny house town
for everyone who's arrived 50 years too late to the civil rights party
and the mayor is coming round
to shake your hand
all your tiny houses coming down
all your tiny houses built upon the sand
tiny, tiny houses get smaller and smaller before blowing down
everytime you shake his hand
you have even less to say
about all the children he *****
than the NRA
even less to say than the NRA
everytime the gay mayor rolls down the windows
before he rapes the children in his hot car
everytime he's comes around
to shake your hand
he's got ten dollars in his other hand
tiny, tiny houses blowing down
all your tiny houses built upon the sand
i can't wait til they come down
all your tiny houses coming down
tiny, tiny houses coming down
(nothing to do with the fact
he's a gay democrat
nothing to do with the fact)
Jun 27, 2017
Jun 27, 2017 at 1:44 PM UTC
This terribleness. The blur of traffic lights and puddles paints Los Angeles on my face at night. It's so hard to know who will doze in my blind spots. Sunflower seeds and ******* lining the carpet. I sat on the front porch for five hours gutting the wolves from my appendices. Usually the headaches go away with the squashing of the lights. Fluorescents are the worst, halogens second, and 60-watt 120-volt light bulb the bane of my existence. I look at my phone but I cannot summon a quirky 120 character quip. I need excedrin but all I have to grape flavored children's aspirin. I should have asked for the water. How many unfinished glasses of water have I left around this world?
Maybe Bruce and I will squash after work. I can hear his weekly catalog of two night stands with those married transient women who drive from Santa B. I hate golf, I could have made carried a career in this resentment. Maybe rolling down the window will alleviate some of this pressure. Maybe it's barometric pressure, The Baby is here in time to drag the houses out to sea. It feels like Michelangelo is carving The David in my head and it's the chiseling I've never wanted. It's Tuesday and the drugs were horrible. They killed five of them today. We wrapped their heads in blankets from the Thrifty, and had to have the interns find clothes that would fit for the Christian caskets. Two days until Giving Thanks Day.
I am wrapped in copper and stuck in amber. I am acquitted by nonsense and stipulation, sick with nausea and pushing my forehead into the steering wheel. This is all terrible. The lying I've never told myself. The people that don't even know it's lying. Her and I always seem to escape with our happiness and pleasure in tow. The odds are slim, but our clothes have never fit too tightly.
Nov 25, 2014
Nov 25, 2014 at 2:54 AM UTC
Dear sweet filthy world,
Photographs can lie,
so put away forbidden playthings,
that's how you got killed before.
Why, oh why,
can't an ordinary stand up
with the nefarious gods
on the second floor?
For the other end of the telescope
is leaning toward science fiction,
and this love from a cold land,
this sad burlesque,
is a bottle of smoke
on the deep dead blue,
one watt above darkness.
Jul 6, 2022
Jul 6, 2022 at 10:49 AM UTC
Zeus was the king of gods,
The god of sky and weather,
Law, order and fate.
A regal man,
Mature,
Sturdy figure,
Dark beard..
Royal sceptre,
Eagle..
O, how can I ever forget his passion for his Lightning Bolt,
No one dare touch?
Then again,
I seek..
the power of lightning.
the cackle of thunder.
the massive electrostatic discharge.
AWAKENS MY SENSES
For years I have longed..
For your beloved bolt
But when I accepted that it could not be mine
And shall stand faithfully by your side..
M Y W A N D E R I N G S ended..fullstop
Another bolt greeted me...
No intention had I of embracing a new love...
For your bolt has been sown to my heart..
Sealed forever..
Inaccesible...
The keys are lost in my crimson pool of despair..
No one shall ever find it.
You have ruined the recesses of my heart.
*But, let me tell you something.
the key was unearthed.
found by true love.
brought a sparkle in my eyes
a glimmer in my sunshine
a power arose that beat the daylight out of..
dark and daunting thoughts.
I beamed that 1000-watt smile once again.
Thank you Mr. Lighting Bolt of Hello Poetry
For when you turn yellow, the electrons in me sizzle..Feel the spark, Zeus?
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 2:05 PM UTC
Dear Human (at first I wrote narrow minded *******
This is not a hate poem, although it started out as one
it's something finished before my time
a game already won
My tendons would love to stretch 15 minutes before beginning the race but I wake up every morning to a piercing toast, a celebratory guffaw
of an after party having been exploited and raw
there is no point for me to stretch
metaphorically that is
for if i don't stretch before I start my day
I tweak like a bike in need of WD40
I can't speak because everything I saw deserves an explanation
scratch that
I can't speak because I'm afraid of judgement like
heavy wet cement, I'll drown in my unspoken words though
so I write these down
back to the point
Irritable Bowel Syndrome is a *****
if I don't stretch my aching quaking body can't **** right
and if I can't **** right
every other stressor strangles my already mangled mind and body
Depression is wet cement dripping from my air vent
molding my notches and bolts stone solid
yet, I have to get up and stretch to walk amid, among, noodles
Falling asleep is difficult because I want to get the night over with
and Waking up is difficult because I want to get the day over with
Not a study session waiting for snacks more
my socks are stuffed with thumbtacks
and I forgot everyone finished their after party
so I'm pounding my feet sprinting
for a finish line
I'll never cross
Like when I woke up in the hospital,
banging my head against the wall believing I could smash my way outside on this day, three years ago
My mania surged lightning bolt electric jolt a thousand watt volt
I would never be released until normalcy increased
so I spent every waking moment stretching
desperately trying to release the
desperate stress molded
in my body
Depression is wet cement, I have learned to slip through it's cracks
by releasing the firey strength
I hold inside my bones
I hold inside my soul
Oh human, please hear me with your open ears
yet if you can't, I have no fear
your judgement cannot touch me
I am on fire, all victims of depression
you, we, are not weak
merely misunderstood by false desire
we are misunderstood
Blazing wet cement on fire
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 2:30 AM UTC
There Is Something Impossibly Impulsive About The Body We Wore.
Like A Costume On Stage, Every Change Felt Like A Quick One.
We Were Ripping Layers Of Cotton and Silk, Away.
Never Naked, Just Feeling Like Maybe You Might Of Left With A Little Less Than What You Came With.
We Stood Back-lit, Like Stage Props.
Held Frozen By Spot Lights, Unable To Reach Out And Touch Each Other.
Afraid.
Like We Might Break One Another.
The Ridged Lines, Hard Pallor Skeleton, Like Road maps, Through Broadway, And The Whites Of Our Eyes.
We Were A Balcony Away, Dusty Velvet And Aged Satin.
Palms Prints, Like Sheer Silk Gloves, Elbow Deep In Our Own Self Obsession, A Hallway Of Mirrors, One Thousand Watt Bulbs.
A Cast And Crew of Only You.
We’d Turn Down The House Lights, Dim The Emptiness Behind Our Eyelids, A Box Office Value, Of The Number Of Souls You Couldn't Keep Captive.
Always Realizing You Were Alone, An Underage Tragedy, Ad Libbing Our Way Through The Only Auditions That Mattered, The Ones We Needed To Make Something More Of The Masks We Wore.
There’d Be A Black Out, Long Enough For You To Get Your Bearings.
Realize This All Didn't Have To Be An Act.
There Would Always Be Red Glowing Exit Signs, Easy Outs.
But We’d Learn That You Can’t Be The Understudy In Your Own Life.
There Would Be The Curtain, A Dozen Gold Tassels, To Raise.
Break The Fourth Wall, And Divide Your Insides Apart.
Draw A Line, A Call For Places, A Dress Rehearsal, A Last Chance To Get This Right.
You’d Come To The Sound Stage Reaction.
You’re More Than A Performance.
A No Longer Tried And True Type Cast.
Please Take A Bow, Darling.
Make This Stage Worthy, Standing Ovation,
Say It.
Over rehearsed,
Side Scripted Lines,
Welcome To The Masquerade.
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 4:56 PM UTC
Yes, she stole my thoughts
devoured, digested and made her own
in the shortest possible time one could imagine,
made her imprint to make it a through job.
all between a stuporous sleep of my unmaking
after that frenzied mating instigated by
her cheating instinct at its acme.
she did it quietly in the dim light
of the zero watt bulb,
after we slept together
for the first time;
it was eerie
my romanticized thoughts
were the first to
get drawn out,
a tree full of wild red blossoms,
the name of which slipped
from memory to oblivion,
migratory birds of different feathers
sitting on that tree chirping in love's sweet passion.
i woke up
when the thoughts circling
like blood in my veins were touched,
she was there prowling
with the look of a witch,
a happy one at that
how victorious she looked!
my angst has no place in her scheme of things
after that, she coughed and spat
and pretended ,IPR never was violated
When you get bitten by the
serpent called lust,
and two ***** conjoin,
thoughts go down and hide,
one become unreasonable
and glide through moonlit sky,
stars wink, thoughts wink back,
and the stupor takes over.
*yes, she stole my thoughts
how could one complain?
You need to be one or the other at a time.*
Jun 24, 2012
Jun 24, 2012 at 1:05 PM UTC
Ditch ewe sea Mai poem?
Eye sore year phlegm on yootoob!
Knot of ill my mean,
Ice awe yore fitty oh on yewtwoob!
No won you sis Phil mini moor...
Aisle Ike did the Bell eve id Dio.
**** wear wuss aye at?
Cuss ein owe fur sheer.
God Knowed out debt
Hugh phlegmed me giddy
Nth arc are!
Wail?
Watt Chew say a bow to that?
Weight.
Whole Don.
Dead Yew sin sir writ?
Sense err meow tough fit?
High share open aught!
Bay bee!
Hi muss tar!!!
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 9:18 PM UTC
My name is Haley Gilarwald
and I am a force of nature.
Not too long ago, the stink bugs invaded our city
Unlike aliens or the usual sort, these were just
plague.
Like swarms of locusts they came, but they never seemed to eat, rarely seemed to die.
They just clustered.
And wings, sounding like B-52 bombers, they rattled around the bare watt bulbs and roared, and I
Swear
to Jesus God
Drove everyone here mad.
I hate the little ********
I sit in my room, typing a dreadful paper for a dreadful class
when that hell sound shows up.
(my floors, they are hardwood!)
and so I stood
notebook in hand
and skivvy clad
I played tennis with the swarming thing
they do not die!
like men, they only keep coming back
little war machines
buzzing at my discontent
NO MATTER HOW MANY I FLUSH, THEY ALWAYS COME BACK
THE SAME.
(I am certain that they cannot die.)
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 9:38 PM UTC
This morning’s sunrise was a tacky and artificial affair.
The sun was played by a weak, 12-watt, refrigerator bulb
that looked wet and heavy as it struggled uphill like a drunk.
The horizon reminded me of a cheap, runny theatrical illusion,
the clouds were old cotton ***** glued to cardboard silhouettes,
the birds sagged like dead puppets from uneven coat hanger wires.
I don’t miss you. Everything’s fine. I hardly noticed you were gone, actually.
Things here are a laugh and a half. We’re doing fun girl things. Anna got new shoes.
I’m hardened by years of inescapable, solitary, covid lockdown. I’m immune to despair.
So go off, interview for that new, far-flung PhD life. Go fawn over Elon Musk for all I care.
I’m definitely not in my room eating spoons of peanut butter and crying to Tom Waits songs.
Apr 11, 2023
Apr 11, 2023 at 11:26 PM UTC
the aperture opens
low watt bulb hanging on a chain
rocks slowly in a perceptible breeze coming
from a hole in the wall
a dark odor permeates the room
time has been spent here
desperation has sweated its own flavor of fear in this room
laughter that had no joy has spent hours spilled on the floor
evil has romanced good and plundered its favors
on the stained mattress in the corner
left its once ****** form heaving with
the ****** taste of hedonistic self destruction
slow and pure
pleasured for her like a ribbed one
lubed with promises of a hot carnival of sated fantasy
the aperture closes slowly
the view fades into a single grey line
of wary perception
moments tick by
as the room changes faces
the aperture forced open by her deft fingers
spun monkeynuts she is seeking something to occupy her madness with
or she will end up like the rest in the mirror picking skin
'oh god, please don't let me be a skin picker'
she whispers over and over
as she prys and pulls at the thin metal covering
at the thin eyelid of perception
this perception chain
one moment of reality spawns the next
its clarity the passed on poisoned gene pool of all your yesterdays
the languid drifting from year to year
all the treasures gathered turned to dusty memory
all the lovers fled along the ever enduring wind of change
and as your days have burned slowly down
you begin to realize that each had its place in
the tapestry of your life
and here in this last room of your life
you come face to face with what you have created
and it is unrecognizable to your mind
the walls are covered by ever mutating versions
of a dope shooters regrets
of a spike house roll call of thouse who have cashed in
and are now remembered only by there survivors
i open my eye
and look about in the shadow
and leave you there
because you were never there
you discarded your real self in a spent ****** needle
in the alley behind our once happy home
along with the used ******
from your
Aug 11, 2013
Aug 11, 2013 at 8:23 PM UTC
Disheartened
The Dutch tourists have left
and last year’s cherries
hang unpicked as do almond nuts
that are also full of worms,
and who says the grass isn’t sweet?
The sun is a yellow ring
on a blind sky,
disillusioned.
As a 30 watt bulb in a room
with faded wallpaper,
at a rundown hotel
which calls itself Bellevue;
last stop before sleeping rough.
Nothing is more abject
then an out of season tourist town,
worried shopkeepers and tarts
even the flowers are grey;
except for a couple of retired seagulls,
birds have flown to Africa
and will not return
before the rain stops falling.
May 2, 2017
May 2, 2017 at 5:35 AM UTC
Bucket List
By Harriet-Tecumsah Watt
**What's left when it's done
No more to cross off with glee
No more to choose from**
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/648367/bucket-list
~~~~~~~
never write angry,
wise counsel for most,
but not this holy ****** off
poet~person
I am your bucket,
I am on your list,
or I better be,
and don't be thinking,
my dearest poetess,
that you are all done,
till we meet in the park,
ass-freezing,
beneath the Golden Gate Bridge.
You, my Hamlet,
always questioning and
annoyingly annoying
keeping me ego-honest,
Ergo
you are on my
the toppiest ten of my numerous
bucket list
of lists,
and I ain't crossing you off,
no way, no how.
Word-slapping your face,
frustrated and infuriated,
Watt is left for needy me
in a world with no
rhymeslut
broke, busted, disgusted,
life can't be trusted,
so take your disruptive crying poetry,
bring to me in NYC,
and I'll take you to poetry slams,
tango parties, a real Chinatown,
blow smoke up your nose, Waltz step on your toes,
drink with you in Central Park at five am,
visit half a dozen museums,
take you to the ballet,
and then you can maybe,
cross a few to-do's
off of our mutual
intersections.
write poem lines together alternately,
hell, even post-modern alternatively,
if that is watt it takes to slap the
Most Uncommon Sensibity
into a woman asking an
A+ stupid question
you are one of gods most
hauntingly lovely gifts
to me,
and I ain't giving you back,
NFW
No-red-me-likey-heart for
Watt's "I'm All Done Bucket List" poem,
just me bucking the trend,
just a lightening bolt to send
up your sorry-for-me ***
and a private, tender,
missive.
I'll come to you if you feeling blue,
but
get this straight my Indian chief-girl,
no matter where or when,
you better have yourself
Sequoia tree hugging me,
list unchecked,
and not till then
can we toss,
our lists,
in the trash bucket
they belong in.
Am I clear?
Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 6:03 PM UTC
Remember the days
of skinned knees
and gap-toothed grins?
Your little voice
calling my name
running behind me
in your tiny tux.
Remember the days
of metal mouths
and awkward lanky limbs?
Discovering we weren't blood,
but we WERE just the same.
I will remember fondly
the afternoons
where the beach stretched on
for miles,
and the rocks became our castle,
and we never ran out of words to say.
I will remember
being wrapped in your arms
enveloped in hugs
that could cure a broken heart.
I will remember courageous kindness,
a thousand-watt smile ,
and a heart too big for this world.
You left behind
a legacy unmatched.
So many hearts beat now
to the contagious cadence
of your laughter.
You were loved.
You are loved.
You will always be loved.
Remember now,
our naive promise
so many years ago?
We swore we'd be friends forever.
From your divine perch
seated by our maker forevermore,
remember:
You will always be in my heart.
I will never forget you.
Please remember.
Jul 4, 2013
Jul 4, 2013 at 9:42 AM UTC
I gazed at her skin, fried and sprayed orange like the flames
That swallowed her soul, dragged her down to hell with ‘em…
Let her burn.
Staring at her sparkly stripper shoes, I wondered how she could sleep at night.
Well, she probably wasn’t alone.
Her hair, so harsh, bleached blonde beyond compare,
Frail, fraudulent, wannabe beauty
Like her shallow, gimmicky, stage get-up for the guys,
Giving the goods in mass quantity, like a buffet.
How cheap could she be?
I ogled her body, ***** that resembled balloons.
Psh. More like implants.
Honey, you’re not fooling anyone.
Her makeup, tacky and overdone.
It could never be plastered over her tattered self-worth.
I glared at her clothes, or lack thereof, itsy-bitsy and a poor excuse
For a cover-up, of any kind,
Physical or emotional.
Leave something to the imagination, would ya?
Some girls, how pathetic they are.
I’m better. I have morals.
Even if I don’t abide by them…
Even if I despise the creature I’ve transformed to…….
I gaped at the reflection, in the million-watt mirror lit aglow…
Who could this be? It never could be me.
Staring between false eyelashes, she was easy to see.
A party girl. A ***
No, no!
It’s not me…
Apr 30, 2011
Apr 30, 2011 at 2:33 PM UTC
Wandering down a twisted maze,
I can't find the doorknob,
The ten watt bulbs are flickering
I do not know which wall is which.
I sting, I itch.
I am burning, its stifling,
I'm dying in this maze.
Sep 19, 2012
Sep 19, 2012 at 7:55 AM UTC
an open book on your lap,
hair a black jumble as you cross your legs.
i can hear the skin sliding over skin and the pursing of your lips,
like the sea chumming it up with the salt or some ships.
and of your tongue like a red oval sun
fighting against mine in the dark,
i lilt and drown in the dime of flesh above the ankle strap of your left shoe.
you uncross your legs and look at me, then dip your head toward the ground,
draw your hair out with your fingers, past your face, and let it fall
between your thighs.
skin brown as sand and as hot inside the living room,
beneath seventy watt bulb and lampshade.
you sit up, one mile into my mouth,
and cross your legs again, begin,
*“do you like the way that sounds, joshua?"
when my thighs brush against one another?”*
the moon gets caught
somewhere in a net as birds shut up
and cats uncurl.
unbuckle an ankle strap,
slip one foot barely out of your shoe. *“listen to that,
joshua, you can hear my foot
arching, my legs smearing into one another.”* sand glistens
with sweat
and trembles. uncross legs and gather your hair behind your neck,
slip off your other shoe and claim that you are “naked”.
i believe you
and blame my imagination on the book covered in the folds
of your dress.
***for my shortie
Mar 30, 2013
Mar 30, 2013 at 9:02 PM UTC
God is heard on fifty-thousand
fifty-thousand-Watt stations
every Sunday
He is a female albino corn snake
hissing into a microphone for fifteen
minutes and six seconds
People are raptured
When He spots a rat
Feb 8, 2012
Feb 8, 2012 at 10:43 PM UTC
Life, the pursuit of happiness.
Some will go insane trying to fine this "happiness".
They say its just a chemical in balance in your brain,
"Here pop some pills, tell yourself you're happy!"
But what if somewhere along the way we forgot what happy was.
How can we pursue something when we have no idea where to find it, how it feels, what it looks like.
Everyday we'll wake up and place a twinkle in our eyes, a 1000 watt smile on our faces so that those around us don't know.
So that even though the chemical imbalance is there,
And even though we don't know what it feels like, the others around us can go on finding their happienss , forgetting about any of our troubles.
Dec 27, 2014
Dec 27, 2014 at 6:47 PM UTC
in the bars
the dark and quiet bars
i can sit there drinking in the soft glow
of sixty watt bulbs
******* into ancient fixtures
and the bartenders will at least
tolerate me
so long as i don't fall
or drift to sleep
or scream
horrors
and such
and the bartenders will at best
be nice to me
and fill my glass
with whiskey
and maybe the ones
who are pretty girls
will smile at me
the smile of pity you would give
to a dog
or to me
or to a person who honestly
needs it
and is so unworthy
of it
in the bars
perched up on my stool
i am elevated
elevated above the horrible dirt
of the earth
the dirt i walk on
sleep on
dream of escaping
the dirt i am a part of
covered in
almost indistinguishable from
in the bars i am the god king
of the world i create
for and from myself
with the two square feet of bar-top
that is mine
and so long as i have money
and don't look too drunk
i can read for hours
in what light i can find
and not have to speak to anyone
or look at anyone
except the bartender
who wishes to trade no more words
with me
than necessary to order a drink
and most times
i wish
the same
Oct 1, 2010
Oct 1, 2010 at 5:37 PM UTC
Stubble mushrooming his chin
he showed up on the door
without his trademark grin
he looked clearly sore.
He motioned me to sit on a chair
in the room with low watt light
his sullen stare and disheveled hair
said things weren't alright.
I sat in the embarrassing silence
thinking what might be the cause
what lay behind the simmering suspense
why my friend looked so morose.
There wasn't a sound in the whole house
the creepy stillness was deafening
with only the clock ticking sleepy hours
carried the night on its wing.
Sensing something was definitely wrong
gauged from his eyes swollen red
his father I knew was ailing for long
surely he was mourning the dead.
Where's uncle I set words in pace
long time I haven't him heard
making a dispassionate face
he pointed his finger upward.
So proved true my worst fear
the son was mourning the demise
everything was now clear
my shock I couldn’t disguise.
*For you what a terrible blow
so early for him to have gone*
my words poured sad and slow
may his soul rest in heaven.
My friend now spoke in awed face
I couldn’t miss his perturbed glare
*My father is fine God bless
he is only resting upstairs!*
Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 2:13 AM UTC
There’s a monster in my closet
Sharp eyes watching
Deep growls follow quickly
The door cracks open a little more
I can hear it, can you?
Its claws tugging at the carpet
Curling deep and holding tight
Nightlight flickers
**** that 2 watt bulb
Please don’t fail me now
Hiss, crackle... my lights gone out
The door swings wide
I’m all out of places to hide
Quick for the door
Run! Run!
Faster now, heart racing feet pounding
I’m standing in the hall my back against the door
Breathing hard eyes shut tight
But nothings coming, nothings scratching
Growling, whining at my bedroom door
The hall lights on now bright and warm
Mum has come she’s standing with me
...we both look at my bedroom door
Sheepish smiles, feeling silly
There’s no monster here anymore
No hissing, scratching, whining
No claws curling, digging
Tugging at my bedroom door
There's no monster here anymore
Mar 11, 2012
Mar 11, 2012 at 5:52 PM UTC
seemed like a live concert in my trailer park
"Hey Jude" rattled every thin window here.
Blue lights flickered, as all my neighbors called 911,
I was overpowered with emotion,
No one could hide as I next played, on my Christmas present
( 10000 watt amplifier made by JVC)
"Let it Be" and heard na na na and sacred chords loud
through Bose's best.
I almost heard the cop when he yelled, but did not hear any thing, after he tasered me, except for all my neighbors cheering keeping time with sirens and Na na na.
I heard in handcuffs and spasms, "My Guitar gently weeping"
Dec 26, 2014
Dec 26, 2014 at 11:39 PM UTC