Long Electrocute Poems
Long Electrocute Poems. Below are the most popular long Electrocute by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Electrocute poems by poem length and keyword.
Two Words
Dream
Scheme
Beam
Team
Shout
Pout
Duel
Shot
Life
Death
Brain
Drain
Stupid
Cupid
Dumb
Numb
Rum
Thumb
Prosecute
Electrocute
Einstein
Infinity
Immigrant
Us
Atom
Bomb
Strength
Weakness
Love
Hurt
Fate
Destiny
God
Cosmos
Lucifer
Lost
Passion
Torpid
Feelings
Flatline
Politician
Huckster
Glorious
Despicable
Moon
Mars
Space
Race
Beguile
Style
Truth
Lie
Cake
Pie
Bicycle
Tricycle
Car
Jar
Balloon
Burst
First
Last
Lust
Like
Fist
Fight
Right
Write
Left
Deft
Genius
Idiot
Manners
Rude
Give
Take
Rate
Deflate
Washington
Jefferson
Hamilton
Burr
Trump
Nixon
Hitler
Wotan
Karloff
Lugosi
Frankenstein
Dracula
Foot
Fall
Think
Blink
Popcorn
Unicorn
Coffin
Fly
Fish
Fry
Good
Bad
Think
Drink
Smile
Scowl
Teeth
Towel
Grimace
Ace
Lash
Bash
Date
Hate
Hurry
Wait
Freeze
Animate
Brave
Wave
Holocaust
Heydrich
Fool
Drool
Slob
Blob
Dead
Undead
Alive
Thrive
Evolution
Revolution
Vampire
Umpire
Wire
Dire
Flour
Flower
Alien
Robot
Klaatu
Gort
Tower
Power
Rush
Hour
Talk
Walk
Hysterical
Empirical
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved
July 8, 2018 (Short-Form Free Verse)
She is known as Dotty,
her actual name is Gertrude,
that secret she will take to her grave.
Powerful people have always sought her out.
Edison visited in the summer months,
he proposed many times,
but a man that would electrocute an elephant
just to make a point
could never have turned her head.
Teddy Rosevelt visits, sadly his ghost
has not lost any weight.
He has an affection for her,
they manage some careful lovemaking
in the long twilight hours.
She enjoys the half-light now,
dreams of other voice that had wooed her.
Sometimes she spies little Gertrude
peeking over the foot of her bed,
but she is not at all ready to permit her existence.
Elderly hands cover eyes.
Gertrude has taken on a life of her own,
Dotty does not approve.
The old lady has kept many a romantic secret.
She has recorded her favorite erotic memories,
she keeps these missives in a carboard box,
under her bed.
Perhaps with a tinge of remorse,
upon the box lid, she has printed the legend:
‘For Gertrude when I am gone.’
Hand on your shoulder- by Dominique Smith
Hi, whom are talking to? The cold reality pull you back. Hey? Whered you go? Whomsoever is there is no longer a feeling. Tight shadows in your cold corner, the feathering flicking lights of trust have been drained. The wires are exposed and unsafe, the water of tears can help electrocute you.
Falling failing flattened on the pavement, Hey? There you are. Wake up, what are you doing out here. Forest lit by fire flies, no memories have felt so enlarged, time goes on the weather is no longer a factor. Stop being stupid and get up off the ground, stop calling me stupid! Whome are you talking to? The humidity has you in a chokehold, the warm bath you slip into is a huge relief.
Come on, Lets go home. But I am home, No our home. Ok , lets go. WAITE!! NO!! what the hell is wrong with you?! I was going home.... No you're not! Youre going to the building with help and hope, No! Im not! Im going home! Look me in my eye, ok. Are there any hands on my shoulders? No. Then you fooled her again. Because you told the truth, the only hands i see are on my shoulders and they would never leave me no matter what or who.
have you heard of or seen the Mongolian death worm?
has he spat venom your way or tried to electrocute you?
you need to travel to the Gobi desert, where he is.
in the 1950’s there were many hysterical sightings.
known as olgoi-khorkhoi in Mongolia.
Roy Chapman Andrew made the death worm famous.
Writing a book about how he travels underground.
Creating waves of sand on the surface.
Looks like an intestine, has teeth, but no face or mouth.
Kind of a hideous looking thing. Sprays venom.
Is two foot long, without a head.
Many expeditions have tried thumping to get him to appear.
Even Roy Chapman Andrew disbelieves he exists
Except in Mongolian folklore.
Peachy keen verboten maiden jailbait
USA plum ova ripe fruit
inevitably, inimitably, invariably,...
whets whistle pubescent magic flute
impossible mission to rein with absolute
zero sucks esse to temper acute
raging testosterone, I attribute
overbearing animal urge doth constitute
difficult surge protector
resultantly, subsequently, untimely...
not inconceivable teenage
parenthood does contribute
overwhelming responsibility
adds complex twist making destitute
expense regarding sudden newlife
analogous how simple surface
Möbius strip doth render convolute
frivolous shenanigans offer pointless dispute
buck haws fawn hook caisson
akin to holding back the tide, disrepute
fallout, whereby accountability ideally
one must distribute
between minors, who risked major shock
generally ill prepared to handle
grasping hot wire strong
enough to electrocute
call of the wild heedless,
when in throes to execute
human reproduction hard rock
tune somber sober air thenceforth
issues out magic flute
after drenching, dribbling, drooling
residual expulsions 'pon hirsute
tuft possibly engendering hyperacute
revulsion basically atavistic
copulation recalls imbrute
tell tale swollen belly of gal doth impute
culling instinctual maternal institute
fancy free footloose
promiscuity makes involute
sober reality moot point,
whether one or both kids feel irresolute
adding insult to injury
mama's papa's none to happy
swiftly kickstarts harried styled jackboot
careful pops not to damage unborn
vital umbilical cord taut as jute
strong enough to harness malamute
and/or team of huskies in conjunction with
wild horses or domesticated
breeds Equus caballus
couldn't drag away even for one minute
infinitesimal speck - trim
unmistakable to misattribute,
how basic multiplication
one cannot miscompute,
and product will upend and misroute
grandiose plans leaving
puppy love mute.
Am I the only one who doesn't care it's raining?
That it's cold outside and no one's on the street
When the wind is blowing a hundred miles an hour
And the earth decides to shake its fist at me
When the elements electrocute my senses
And lightning carves the sky with angry streaks
When flying branches shatter picket fences
And thunder gives an awe inspiring speech
When the water that surrounds me churns and vomits
And the shoreline has no choice but to retreat
Not a morsel of my soul is craving shelter
I choke on rain and plant my stubborn feet
This is the fragile life that we inherit
These are the numbered days that mark my place
The Earth can be so damn intimidating
But I'm happy any time it shows its face
The President of the United States called last night,
he spoke most curtly, demanding to know her middle name.
She sent him packing with a stinging rebuke.
Her middle name is Gertrude;
that secret she will take to her grave.
Powerful people have always sought her out.
Edison visited in the summer months,
he proposed many times,
but a man that would electrocute an elephant
just to make a fake point
could never have turned her head.
Poor Topsy.
She enjoys the half-light now,
dreams of other voice that had wooed her.
Sometimes she spies little Gertrude
peeking over the foot of her bed,
but she is not at all ready to permit her existence.
Elderly hands cover eyes.
Gertrude has taken on a life of her own
a neglected life but still able to come when called
or to follow behind or hide in the middle
of those other names.
The lady has kept many a romantic secret.
Most of her best erotic memories
she has written down with a fine cursive hand,
she keeps these missives in a carboard box
under her bed.
Perhaps with a tinge of remorse,
upon the box lid, she has printed the legend:
‘For Gertrude when I am gone.’
It's always those who reside in our hearts,
whose words, like lightning,
electrocute our soul,
and in each pain there is a lesson.
Her life was like a room without a view,
those 'rainy day' eyes,
could have formed a deep river,
but no ship sailed upon it,
to carry me to her
and I would have kissed away every tear.
Misplaced, I could feel her yearning,
for a home, she had never known,
confused and lost, but her silence,
left her trapped in burdensome meadows,
and I wonder if I could have shown her the way.
From the silent echoes of her tongue,
I could feel the malady of her spirit,
feel the lacerations piercing her heart.
If only my words could have soothed her,
but even they could not save her.
As the lights dimmed,
silent stars became the nature of my poetry,
I asked the moon why?
but clouds covered his expression.
Now my mind is a time machine
of her memories, her voice still haunts,
as I ponder if the thunder will persist,
because I'm too afraid to close my eyes.
Simple Musing
Silent One
4 October 2018
(William Hammer, Thomas Alva Edison's assistant,
has reached the end of his tolerance. His boss is
planning to electrocute an elephant for a publicity
stunt.)
If he goes through with this, the dam has burst.
I'm done with him. Of all the tricks he's pulled,
this is the lowest, cheapest, cruellest. Worst.
Yes, Edison. He can't be serious,
can he? To execute an elephant?
He's out there, grinning like a Barbary ape.
Where two or more newspapermen are gathered,
Alva loses all his self-control.
He'll be there now, perspiring, shouting, lathered,
excited to his flinty, vulgar soul.
I'm William Joseph Hammer. Who are you?
A quarter-century I've spent with him,
but now the scales have fallen from my eyes.
The man's a pirate and a charlatan.
Inventor? Him?
Well, since I'm stranded here
in shabby Coney Island in the rain,
ignored and slighted, spited yet again,
I'll tell you. Edison did not invent
the light bulb - that's what he employed me for.
Besides, I'll name a dozen scientists
who'd made a working lamp some years before.
What is he good at? He's a patent-mill!
He takes out patents like a dentist, teeth
(except that dentists never put their name
on what they've pulled). The man has got no shame.
The team has all the talent, he the grin:
we think the thoughts, and Alva cashes in.
I think he's met his match in Westinghouse.
The so-called war of currents. Who will win?
America will buy one set of goods,
and where this country leads, the others go.
To get his system in American homes,
He'd kill his grandma.
Hence this all-time low.
He's worse than Czolgosz. At the very least,
the latter had nobility, although
misguided. Alva has no other cause
beyond himself. Those motion picture-things
are here for Alva's glory. When the blow
extinguishes that poor beast's life, you'll know
whose self-promoting hand was on the tiller.
Saint Thomas Alva Edison's a killer.
The Seeker
I have come to find shelter
with a fire dance on my lips,
my waist turning heads,
twisting in the tango of my history;
I have come with a storm in my eyes,
perhaps you will name me home.
I am here to seek a home,
where the sky will not spit on my face
nor the moon’s rays electrocute me;
it must not erase my beauty;
I carry my body like a river
and flow to the source of my dreams.
There is a fire in my heart
without the slow-killing smoke;
perhaps you will not suffocate
the whispers of intense love
burning in your soul.
Perhaps you will not trap my cry in your navel.
I tried to change my history, root,
I tried to exchange my destiny;
yet, here I am, intoxicated with shame,
the debris of my unwanted then,
when I sought In a million ways
to find another home.