The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 05.18.13

“A revolutionary poem will not tell you who or when to kill,

what and when to burn, or even how to theorize.

It reminds you... where and when and how

you are living and might live,

it is a wick of desire.”

Adrienne Rich

Passionate Pallette (above) by Paul McMillan, one of over 20 featured artists currently coloring the virtual walls in Mad Swirl's eclectic electronic collective Mad Gallery. We know you'll wanna see mo' fo' sho' so move that mad mouse of yours right over here and a-way you'll GO

•••••••••••

This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we were told a mermaid's take on what she could make of the ink on an illustrated mariner; we looked at a lover's hope-held scene, a slippery slope with full caffeine; we dodged an anesthetic to embrace the antithetic, forsook frigid for fur; we brought a burnt offering, breasts for a beast, undeserved; we carved out love on a living tree, S & M to the Nth degree; we indulged an insatiable appetite, ate every(one)thing in sight; we ultimately acknowledged that all was not right but greatly wrong, followed with an out-loud utterance, a SCREEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAMMM of fright (not a song). After this week, what's love's best remedy? Said Hamlet, "Get thee to a nunnery (or monastery), go!" ~ mh

Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...

Play The Role

We should all be
Like white women in
50’s B-movies.

They screamed to the
Top of their lungs,

Eyes bulged out to
The size of volleyballs

Their hands either pressed
On their pale cheeks or
Extended out as they
Look away.

Because the evil thing
Covered in plastic and makeup
Creeps along to seal their doom.

There might be something
They can do to prevent it
(Such as the logical idea of
Running), but they don’t.

They scream motionless
Hoping someone hears and
Saves them – but they won’t.

Yeah, we should all be doing
That right now. Scream. That’s
The only thing missing.

- Roderick Richardson

(1 poem added 05.18.13)

editor's note: Aaaaaaaaaiiiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeeeeeeee, helpmehelpmehelpmehe-e-e-e-e-e-elp! (The monster is still there...) - mh

CANNIBAL SUICIDE

I poured a finger of scotch into a coffee cup
and ate the cup and licked up the spilled scotch
and ate the mouth of the fifth down to the neck and
was wolfing the table leg, when
mother came in to iron some bugs out
of her pocket calculator
and couldn’t help but notice the ruined fifth,
the cup nowhere and the table wobbly
on three legs. She threatened to knuckle down
and hand it to me,
but I trumped her rump,
tugged the table leg out of my throat
and clubbed her to death. Blood spattered
the venetian blinds and mother slumped
to the foot of the refrigerator.

I threw up a window and sat on a foot stool and
reswallowed the table leg
and munched on the arm of a chair
till I was stuffed, then jerked down the wallphone
and ate out the mouthpiece
and considered sucking the news off the tv,
but decided instead to put the mouth
of a firearm to my temple
and pray.

- Willie Smith

(1 poem added 05.17.13)

editor's note: Sounds more like salvation for this confused carnivore. Crikey! - mh

Shape of a Heart

We play the game called Exquisite Corpse –
you with the curlicued lust lines
of your tragic fine-point pens,
I with charcoal-smudged
weather reports and raucous blackbirds –
two sides unseen of the same
folded paper’s fearful symmetry.

I hand you the scalpel, Dottoressa,
and turn away at the first red spots
beading along the curve you cut,
a rotated cardioid, the rolling circle
that traces a two-lobed valentine.

- Ray Sharp

(added 05.16.13)

editor's note: This is playing doctor for keeps; no greater love... - mh

Herostratus

Burn me down
from the roof
to the ground-
in multi-breasted glory,
my beastly yearning-
I want it burning,
you bastard!
Because I love you,
my Alexander. I have
forsaken my sanctity
for your golden curls.
I’d rather be ashes
than a Goddess now!
My temple slips
beneath swamp-myth
to fuel your firelight.

- Trier Ward

(added 05.15.13)

editor's note: The height of devotion and self-sacrifice. No hero is worthy of this! - mh

Dating Immune Novocain

I’m dating a man who’s immune to Novocain:

the only other man in my bar,
sitting across from me, beside the bartender-
he reaches over and grabs the Dilbert
While We Were
Downsizing pad on which
I had written, “I’m dating a man
who’s immune to Novocain”-
and tells me,
I have a purple and yellow yak in my pants.

And I look in his numb eyes:
I’ve always loved petting zoos.

- Steven Minchin

(1 poem added 05.14.13)

editor's note: Animal magnetism over unrequited angst every time. Say it with feeling and we'll follow you anywhere! - mh

Lube and Coffee

We spent the morning having sex
in the room you rented,
the mattress on the floor in the corner
and music playing loud
so the neighbors couldn’t hear
you slam open the door of my body.

When we came up for air,
we walked to the town square,
bought lube at the corner store,
spent an hour drinking coffee
and watching people walk by the river.

Tonight, I am waiting for you
to head home from work.
A rainstorm dances with the windowpane,
so I think of that day again—
your lips tasted sweet with latte foam,
the sun warmed our faces,
We had so many places to go.

May we always hold that hope.

- Isaiah Vianese

(added 05.13.13)

editor's note: Finally, an acceptable circumstance for slamming a door. Yes, hold that hope! - mh

War Paint

Friday night we quarrel
he's drunk on Wild Turkey
and passes out in the bar
so I take him home.
The next night we stay in bed for thirteen hours
is this unlucky?
Sunday we eat Sashimi and rice
I make a mess
he laughs and feeds me red wine,
the sailor's tattoos burn impressions in my mind
the issue is here and now -
no yes or no, just resonance.
His arms are hairy from diving deep
saturated for hours with cold ocean salt water
bringing me abalone presents,
face betraying nothing, restraint is necessary.
I wake in a blue painted room
filled with knives, guns, and velvet paintings
that he bought in Tijuana
a Folsum prison calendar hangs from a nail
his brother guards the murderers who made it.
The sailor covers his arms
with black tattoos
an inky needle prints a dragon in Hong Kong
trailing wild psychedelic fumes next to a
snarling tiger crouched to pounce from Kaneohe Bay,
in a dirty Philipino parlor
he planted an unfinished rose
with a small pink tongue licking my ear
the thorny vines missing...
five times in thirteen hours.
I'm no fool, I think,
in black war paint he swims down under
with eel, Bat Rays, keen Leopard shark,
playing weird games with mermaid's hands
in dark water caves
the sea's deep demands pressing his dirt bones
so they shrivel, cracking beneath her weight.

- Sissy Buckles

(2 poems added 05.12.13)

editor's note: The marauding mariner, as seen by the mermaid. Nice! (With this one, we welcome Sissy to our crazy clan of Contributing Poets! There's more of her madness on her new page - check it out.) - mh

•••••••••••

The whole Mad Swirl of everything to come keeps on keepin' on... now... now... NOW! Every second, every minute, every hour, every day, every week, every month, every year, every decade, every every EVERY there is! Wanna join in the poetic conversations going on in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum? Then stop by whenever the mood strikes! We'll be here...

Desirin',

Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor

The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 05.11.13

“The one thing the world will never have enough of is the outrageous.” Salvador Dalî

Birth Of Insanity (above) by Johnny Olson, one of over 20 featured artists currently coloring the virtual walls in Mad Swirl's eclectic electronic collective Mad Gallery. We know you'll wanna see mo' fo' sho' so move that mad mouse of yours right over here and a-way you'll GO

•••••••••••

This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we nixed the nattering bard, editorially encouraged economy; we took our own time to hurry; we jabbed at the jealousy of crows over a jaunty jay; we sought to light a blurred line, wrongs put right in due time; we considered cattle and coffee, lose some, latte the other; we gave good blood for bad gunplay; we raised an appeal to retool our reasoning, death for honor is a raw deal.  A strange swirl this; silly to sober.  I could use a splash o' cold water and some hair o' the dog. ~ mh

Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...

Ten years of war and counting

Words can’t be put together,
Not here, not now,
And how are the dead to act?
How is anyone to understand the horror
That has become the mundane?
The everyday.
Our children grow up,
Believing the justice of violence,
Who see death everywhere
And glorified.
The ultimate goal,
An honorable death.

- R.A. Hernandez

(2 poems added 05.11.13)

editor's note: Honor is for the living; the dead don't need it. Teach your children... (Another fine bit of take out from R. A. on his page - check it out.) - mh

We're Fucked.

the problem is this,
his blood is outrunning my legs
and i'm out of breath.

i told you, son,
there is only one
conclusion to living
by the gun.

i'm sick.

the problem is this,
his blood is running down my legs
and i'm out of my mind.

it's a hard life, in fact,
this existential balancing act
between power and gunpowder,
live or die, reload and attack.

you're dead.

the problem is this,
my blood is running through his legs,
and i'm out of bullets.

if you're not with me, you're against me,
a father's love comes with no pity
when you play with papa's guns,
papa's guns don't play, timmy.

we're fucked.

- James "Bear" Rodehaver

(added 05.10.13)

editor's note: So long as we play with toys like these, we are indeed! - mh

Guias

The green guias are paid for.
The seven thin cows
and seven spine-warped bulls
are about to vanish
from our virid pastures.

The Accomplice skipped work today.
He did no show his olive face.
I guess he became weary
of shoveling hen-house shit.
We set his horse free.

My truck wheel fell off:
after driving sixty kilometers
at one hundred thirty kilometers per hour
I turned off the highway upon a dirt road
and felt the thump.

The two calf-killing stallions
were boxed in crates
and although the Calloused-Hand Curator
displayed coins in his palm
I did not offer the star-marked colts.

The Malingerer extended his sick-leave:
I loom patiently outside his locked window
with a hammer in my hand;
I remove rusty animal traps
from the moonlit afternoon.

In town I errand tools and supplies
and take a coffee-break at El Café Local,
The gossip at the table behind me
is that the Rustler was seen at the stationer—
that his pen had run out of ink.

- Stephen Page

(added 05.09.13)

editor's note: When those guidelines indicate the end of famine or the imminency of thieves (which?); when all the usual suspects have fled the scene (where?); it takes a good cup o' joe to clear the head. - mh

Borderline

There’s a thin line between right and wrong.
Of justice done wrongly.
And injustice pulled on the right.
And yet the border between the two lines drawn is straight.

Wherefrom will justice come when the eyes are blind.
While the cloak of love and emotions does not see.
What’s right and has to be.
Needs no ears, no eyes, no proof but remains to be.

Yet there’s a thin border line between right and wrong.
Just when the wind blows, the curtains shall fall.
That’s when the right will have justice.
And that’s when truth shall prevail, that’s all.

- Madhavi Mohandas

(added 05.08.13)

editor's note: Until that curtain falls, use pencil; the angels can use ink. - mh

Composition

He was a jay amongst crows,
Too dazzling and vibrant for their funereal garb
That suited them to a pernicious throng,
Mocking his harlequin attire
While internally shades of green, red, and blue
Flagged their discontent with caulked success.

- Anthony Ward

(1 poem added 05.07.13)

editor's note: All that colored angst locked inside explains the parched crack of their cackled call. Let them crow and strut your stuff; jays, peacocks, eagles, all! - mh

Western Dream

How fortunate we are
to be granted the leisure
to be impatient.

- Lee Mason

(added 05.06.13)

editor's note: Yes, we'd like to waste our own time, thanks very much! - mh

Word Economy

Dear Bill,

Your "To be or not to be"
doesn’t work for me.
Invoke word economy,
tighten your wording:
think B&B/J&B/GB.

Parcy Monious,
The Editor of “Word Economy”.

- Irena Pasvinter

(1 poem added 05.05.13)

editor's note: From one editor to another... (sending thoughts of gratitude to economize a bit, too)... (giggle) - mh

•••••••••••

The whole Mad Swirl of everything to come keeps on keepin' on... now... now... NOW! Every second, every minute, every hour, every day, every week, every month, every year, every decade, every every EVERY there is! Wanna join in the poetic conversations going on in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum? Then stop by whenever the mood strikes! We'll be here...

Bein' Outrageous',

Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor

The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 05.04.13

“We have to dare to be ourselves, however frightening or strange that self may prove to be.” May Sarton


Jello Mirror (above) by K.R. Copeland/Jeff Crouch, one of over 20 featured artists currently coloring the virtual walls in Mad Swirl's eclectic electronic collective Mad Gallery. We know you'll wanna see mo' fo' sho' so move that mad mouse of yours right over here and a-way you'll GO

•••••••••••

This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we were overcompensated, but not overcome, in our cry over spilled thoughts; we were side-tracked to safety, seduced by a siren to sing and not break the glass; we conceded old comforts and classy convertible with no where to park it, ensconced all in attic archive, awaiting an uptick in the market; we lingered o'er a list in bed, laid not long nor listless, looked toward the light instead; we eschewed conventional hammer bang for expedient alternate picture hang, big not blank; we pissed away a poem proffered by a piss cleaning poet; we fueled an old fire with an ignominious accelerant, fanned the flames, but felt no warmth. It's all good! I see you better when you stand in your own light! ~ mh

Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...

gasoline

ashes and firelighters, gasoline
the remnants of an unstable mind
medicated rational.
caught in the act of writing
and morning coffee
vouchsafed in early afternoon.

dreaming, in sleep
looking down my naked body
enumerative cosmic vibrations.
at last, I am found out
a fraud!
a plain written confession.

dear Judas, I see you!
contemplative, walking
stretches of eternity.
vilified
the rains of a Sunday afternoon
bearing down your soul.

dear Judas, be comforted at last!
be not in prison of pity
my candle is lit for you.
we are only shadow
dancing on near cave walls
illuminated by

ashes and firelighters, gasoline

- Jhon Baker

(1 poem added 05.04.13)

editor's note: Absolution: Divine solution, or grand illusion? A question well raised here. Thanks, Jhon! - mh

Piss Poem

I dreamt last night of puddles of piss,
Babies being held up naked over the floor
And the pale, stinking results
Seeping slowly over the floor tiles.
I dreamt of brown-edged rusty stains,
Reek rising from them. Dreamt of water,
And the sound of water in pipes,
And the non-water outside the pipes
Dappling while porcelain,
Caught mid-drip and drying.
Piss, indeed,
And who to clean it up but me.
Me, armed with rag, sponge,
Scrubbing brush,
Me, with my container of scouring powder,
Itself piss-smelling evil sand.
Me, following my nose down to the ground.
What is that?
What is that?
Your piss or mine?
Fine. Clean it up.
And who to clean it up but me,
The Piss Cleaner,
Left to deal with the piss and shit
Not to mention the string beans -
O Literary Reference
Where do you get me now?
And who to shake a stick in my direction
Unless it be the stick of the mop handle
To clean up the piss.

- Ann B-D

(added 05.03.13)

editor's note: Would we judge this custodial caste? Let him who is without piss throw the first mop. - mh

Well Hung

I am not one to sit around waiting for perfect
The perfect moment
The perfect tool
The perfect plan
Improvisation is not always mediocrity
Sometimes we need to drive nails with high heeled shoes
Instead of waiting for the hammer store to open
I'd rather look at the big picture
Than stare at a blank wall

- Lucinda L. Flanary

(added 05.02.13)

editor's note: Ha! This one is well said, well done, well hung! Perfect! - mh

OF THINGS LOST:

a silver nickel
torn from denim, sock unraveled
at dryer floor,
look
there is no match,
pick away the mascara-
coated eyelash hooked
to cheek, pull the silver
zipper from a dress, that red
one that clings
too tight, laugh out soda,
or pop, or coke, let it burn
through the nostrils, take
away the dog you loved, turn him
into ash, toss away a lover, one
from each year, that lipstick still
stained to collar, and shed
that rich caramel
of hair, rip it out, strip it down
to grey, lose beads
of sweat, of virus
that held your voice that winter,
when emerald
leaves washed
to brown, turn down
the temperature, throw away the muscle
ache and wash dirt
from your hands,
sleep
minutes from the clock, grind
down teeth, and let
the bedroom window
spiral light
into a tangle
of bodies that wake
into morning without
knowing what will
come next

- Brittany Cagle

(added 05.01.13)

editor's note: Yes, oh, yes! Wash it all away and sleep. No one knows, anyway! - mh

Barbie Dream House

Christmas when I was six and my dad still lived with us
I had it all—the house, the furniture, the convertible,
Ken and Skipper. I twirled Barbie around her balcony,
changed her clothes, cut her hair. My brother
would strip her naked, grind her against his crotch.
I’d scream at him, call him a perv while holding her close,
tried to calm Barbie’s nerves after the date rape, which I learned about
from TV movies my mother watched,
waiting up for dad to come home.
I’d sit at the top step, squeeze my head
through the banister cracks, watch over her shoulder.
Once I got stuck, couldn’t sneak back upstairs
when I heard his car in the driveway.
Their fight put on hold to rub butter on my neck and ears.
Together they pulled me free.
Today in the mail: Barbie Catalog for the Adult Collector.
For $2000 the 1978 original Barbie Dream house
comes unassembled.
Barbie didn’t come to my dad’s apartment when he moved out,
after I turned seven. She stayed in her house smiling,
completely bald, teeth marks on her arm where my brother
had bitten. My mother keeps her in a shoebox
in the attic, in case she’s worth something someday.

- Bernadette Ulsamer

(added 04.30.13)

editor's note: Looking for that thing, that treasure to appreciate in value over time. As markets rise and fall, we can always appreciate poems like this. - mh

Scribbles

Out of the nonsense come scribbles,
Clear as a razor,
An infant boy looking through
The glass pages
Of a children’s book

She said sing melodies
So I did
As she smiled
And walked away.

- Paul Tristram

(1 poem added 04.29.13)

editor's note: A little melody to dull the edge, soften the sting. One could cut one's self on those glass pages. (We welcome Paul to our clamorous confab of Contributing Poets with this poem. He has more madness on his page - check it out.) - mh

While Waking Up I Had a Thoughts

I must do something unnecessary.
It’s necessary for sanity.

There are exactly 37 ways to skin a cat.
Trust me, I’ve tried.

From which I obtained the kind of peace
You find while being far from a church.

A human is like a world, is a world,
Is consistently inconsistent.

Thus every statement is an oversimplification;
And we was crying over a thought.

(Every thought is a battle, Every battle was a thought)?
(Every thought was a battle, Every battle is a thought)?

It promised entertainment and enlightenment—
But for whom?

I heard Emerson once said,
“I hate quotations.”

But I have a theory about Lincoln:
His wife was crazy.

- Joshua Bocher

(added 04.28.13)

editor's note: Many a random thought-soup morning, all kinds o' flotsam and jetsam floating to top. Speech is our skimmer; a pen is our net. - mh

•••••••••••

The whole Mad Swirl of everything to come keeps on keepin' on... now... now... NOW! Every second, every minute, every hour, every day, every week, every month, every year, every decade, every every EVERY there is! Wanna join in the poetic conversations going on in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum? Then stop by whenever the mood strikes! We'll be here...

Darin',

Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor

The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 04.27.13

“No good poem, however confessional it may be, is just a self-expression. Who on earth would claim that the pearl expresses the oyster?” C. Day Lewis


Tearing Opals (above) by Christian Millet, one of over 20 featured artists currently coloring the virtual walls in Mad Swirl's eclectic electronic collective Mad Gallery. We know you'll wanna see mo' fo' sho' so move that mad mouse of yours right over here and a-way you'll GO

•••••••••••

This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we encountered interrupted ingress, ice queen unmoved, us unwelcome; we pondered purim and poverty, scarcity of succour, all things distorted by the diatribe of a crazy motherfucker; we wielded weregasmic dog-breath whorls to wend vexed vampire bites into . . . something I forgot; we dispensed with defenses to discern a different disposition; we renewed our resolve to outlast an irresistable juvenile's, nubile journey, delightfully unsuccessful, in the end; we deferred to dog day definitions of death and light; we ultimately affirmed the efficacy of "Yes!" in this life and the next. Ah, so soft our sighs, our contentment; derived from these sweet strings of words! ~ mh

Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...

Haiku for Eric

Tiny storm diamond
Angel leaps in the lightning
Permanently Yes!

- Chris Zimmerly

(1 poem added 04.27.13)

editor's note: Yes, maximized to the full extent of life; leaping with the angels. Yes, Eric, wherever you are! (And yes, Chris, we welcome you to our crazy congress of Contributing Poets with this one. More Zimmerly magic on his page, folks - check it out.) - mh

Rant from the Dog House

When did the globes become a problem show,
or any of the numerous other
back patting circles, quilting bees or shire slick
worshippings whittled in columns of clay?
The true ghosts must be begging,
hoarding hope at the hangar doors
of this studio necropolis.

Inside, manicurists, blind
attendants to the claws of kings,
rein in the growth of death.

“Enjoy it. Light a candle at the shrine
for me. This love of self must be a sin
or have I missed some irony?”

But I know, as I rest my snout
on the cold stone floor
of the cynic yard,
that the answer
is yes.

- Silas Gorin

(added 04.26.13)

editor's note: Love of self a sin, you say? Only one response to that... Woof! - mh

Rebecca

Snowboardable curves wrapped and sat easy
in creamy, smooth skin –
deliciouslicentious –
obscenely appetising brown eyes;

glorious in her brutally bourgeoning sex
and casual in its cruel manipulation.

Had her hands on the glans of creation;
she could squeeze semen from a stone.
Given longer, I'd have fallen to the pavement
in sweat and salt and callow yen.

Fumbling, virginal,
jumping the starting-pistol,
yet she still loved me.
For three weeks.

Ventured over the tracks till four a.m.
night after night, driving drunk
on adrenaline and testosterone.
Eight Mile. The Boondocks.
Bridge into the Badlands of South Auckland City.

Wander-lust dragged me nightly
by the scrawny adolescent neck
on a ballsy journey
that lasted longer than I did.

- Luke Prater

(added 04.25.13)

editor's note: Such sensual stimulus is more than enough to make premature capitulators of us all. Gotta build that resistance! - mh

Shut for business

Stand high
Be outspoken
Not that it’s the message
Behind the action
But that it’s worth being seen.

The smart ones get out early
The rest stay
To prove a point
Stubborn
Dogged
See God run
Good dog
Stick to the guns
Admirable
Or short-sighted
Unwilling to budge
Means closed minded

A willingness
(Only)
To travel a straight path
Across coarse
Unpredictable hills.

Laugh in the face
Of danger
Throw caution to the wind
The signs unheeded
Consequently
A surprise
Delivered
With defenses down.

- Anthony J. Langford

(added 04.24.13)

editor's note: Yes! Get out early, but take the dog with you. Good dog! - mh

Releasing The Weird Taste Of Chewing On A Heart

The human race is lifelike. That's what makes it non-human.
A featureless slosh fed hard to become the evil twin booger,
booger-like, aired by surrounding satanic holes that shift together
closer to form a large coat. Soon the very air surrounding
the booger is too small. I'm allergic to the bio-engineered
pixels of the booger's tight unitard. I sneeze my mind out.
Nobody cares. The sneeze's vomit whiplash creates vibration
sounds. Let's call it jazz.

For it is sonically equivalent to the lakes of hollowness
that facilitate the armpit farts of, say, DNA in a can.
A canned vacancy supplanted my brainless ghost's cranium
with a plunger's unabated chug. The decomposition of
a ghost is a pretty impenetrable grid. A tiny bar of soap may be
made from an aborted ghost fetus, which is sad.
It's best to use the potato of safe sex. Bump against
that with your rubberized antlers. It's like electrocuting
fake leather, which can take the ginger pigment
out of one's laser. Forever leaving tracks in the gristle
of dead-sense luminescence. It's best to just fuck normally
then cannibalize the tiny soap until it tiredly breaks apart.

A werewolf's id rotates on a spit: its howl fizzles and says something
of the rancid mystery at the heart of the weregasm. Both pain reliever
and vascular dog breath whorl. A vampire vexed after
biting into memory foam. The fed mass's infinite yet
ill-fitting esophagus. Cushioning, but without connections
between its fearful cave and sunny altruistic leak. Biting into
it is like weaving a bridge while at the same time crossing it
and sedately grinning.

- Tyson Bley

(1 poem added 04.23.13)

editor's note: Strange feast; sneeze whiplash, soap grid, bridge bitten while crossed. It tastes like... it tastes like... yes, like jazz. - mh

Purple Haze Purim

purple haze purim
with absinthe absolution
purloined petticoats
stoic pasties of rhetoric
because no jews
are good jews
swastickle my fancy baby
gave some death head
circus came to the party
in the big tent
The magician
master of illusion and delusion

he was one crazy motherfucker

- Steve Roberts

(2 poems added 04.22.13)

editor's note: It's a nasty human reaction, incited by "stoic pasties of rhetoric," screamed by "one crazy motherfucker." If we won't listen, they won't prevail... What? Did somebody say something? (Welcome, Steve Roberts, to our cool congress of Contributing Poets! See more of Steve's Madness on his new poetry page.) - mh

Stop

There’s no use trying that door
it’s locked
barred from push or pull
force of hands
damaged
it slants downward
blood of past efforts
mingle with wood
girl behind door
restless
unmoved

- Kristina England

(added 04.21.13)

editor's note: Beware, Conquistadors! With this one, you will make no notch, but be notched - in her door. - mh

•••••••••••

The whole Mad Swirl of everything to come keeps on keepin' on... now... now... NOW! Every second, every minute, every hour, every day, every week, every month, every year, every decade, every every EVERY there is! Wanna join in the poetic conversations going on in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum? Then stop by whenever the mood strikes! We'll be here...

Divin' for Pearls,

Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor

The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 04.20.13

“None but ourselves can free our minds.” Bob Marley



•••••••••••

This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we sluffed life's slew to hear enough talking sleepwalking to tighten our belt and take a flier; we trilled a triumphant aside, emitting from our ancillary existence; we ditched our programmed propriety, glitched our subjected society; we blew capricious bliss on a dysfunctional koan; we sought to soften thick skin with hard feelings; we submitted to swallow the certainty that our less is the market's more (gagged instead on garrulous gobbledy-gook); we, lastly, let go of (or, were let go by) drudgery with prospects plenty, resorted not to a 10-15, in favor of a good 4/20. Feeling lighter by the minute! ~ mh

Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...

Office Worker

When they streamlined
the company
they let go
of the guy who
daydreamed at
the watercooler
and whistled
in his cubicle
you know that
guy who always
had something
nice to say
or said nothing
at all
the one who
always came
in late
and left early
has been laid off
and I heard
he stopped
to smell
some roses
on his way
to the exit
door

- Ivan Jenson

(2 poems added 04.20.13)

editor's note: Until they start charging for smelling, better sniff all we can - damn few things are free in this world anymore. (Another good one from Ivan on his page - check it out.) - mh

S & M In The Work Place

The leather is subdued,
kept to belts, purses, shoes.

All good workers learn to kneel,
take the beatings without a squeal.

“Thank you master,” you must say
when managers take pensions and benefits away.

“Be thankful you still have a job,” is what you hear
while budget projections are rammed up your rear.

“No raises this year. Some reductions may occur.
Increase production you lazy curs.”

We bear the stripes upon our backs,
kiss the boots and grovel home,

still blind and proud in our American faith
in truth, justice and the marketplace.

- Joseph Farley

(1 poem added 04.19.13)

editor's note: Marketplace monotony molds our moods to mutual benefit - that's the line! Any one biting? - mh

Man-up

Spasmodic ‘ruptions of life
in our death, dear,
is what makes us Human.
If Hu-man becomes Wo(o)-man
we enter the home of whores and poets.
Feelings - the effeminate liquids that oozed
hardened, wisened.
We are one giant slab of epidermis
saving the world from collapsing
into vulnerability.

- Saheli Khastagir

(1 poem added 04.18.13)

editor's note: Well, OUR world, anyway. I think we give the wide world a rash. - mh

Why Is This?

Like a bolt
Out of wherever
Peace of mind
Comes upon him.

He wonders why?
Is this it?
He can’t understand
Peace’s fleeting appearance.

Maybe watching ducks
Fly the swamp;
Maybe it’s Jupiter
Beside the moon?

Maybe it’s because
He can’t explain
Why it happens
That it does.

And that pisses
Him off and
There goes peace
Out the window.

For AH

- Hal J. Daniel III

(1 poem added 04.17.13)

editor's note: Tell me the sound of one hand clapping and I'll smack you for interrupting my moment of zen. Thanks, Hal! Now I lost it, too. (Let's welcome Hal to our crazy confab of Contributing Poets. More of his singular insanity on his new page - check it out.) - mh

Artificial in semblace

"Aye, I...
Had a question about…
A.I."

Question?
You are in joyous solitude…
No need for questions…

"Can you please tell your umbrella to stop raining on my clouds?"
Computer! Translate nonsensical human statement.

Processing...

Today's memento is for the disintegration of the human spirit
in the sentient universe as it's come to be learned as,
preferred as...
A solvent, attainable body of neurotransmitters, tender, destined
for Earthspread

brain / brawn / detergent distribution committees
are rounding up the best of these men that are left
for a "burning tribute on the altar" "last hurrah engulfed in flames"
approach, and 720000 other results in similar phrase

History modules show elemental cleansing to be desirable custom
not to be mixed up with the monikers:
"ethnic cleansing"
"where there's smoke there's a fire!"
"where there's life, there's ominous death,
or termination of robo-genetic consciousness"

In data sponges, there is no shortage of thoughtful inquiry.
It wasn't always like this in a nanointelligent machine society
Gathering wood, is cultivating Solaris.
Engaging the enemy fort is taming the biosphere.
I suppose we're bygones when Earth's gone.
even in animated terms, reality has a smog-borne harshness to it.
The bitterness of the limb output station and Blueshard epoxy withdrawal
compounded into a 'be all you can be' camaraderie.
Downloading ABSOLUTE MORALITY was the first step to purity.
Puberty? Computer! Assist in wording:

Processing...
"Progeny."

We didn't intend for the people to become drone-like.
"Do the right thing" said the bionic man to the farmer joes.
arthropods in a circle of life spliced by the horn of creational irony
Self sustainable, but pardon the necropolis effect,
like what happened in New Haven.
Stethochips lodged into their necks.
The "self enriching existentiers" manipulated into joyous servitude…
Computer: We still have work to do.

- Erik Moshe

(added 04.16.13)

editor's note: Yes, we are the only solvent which will not result in a solution. Nothing computes! - mh

Infinite Creatures We Be

Creatures with all your power
Lusting after your mortal coils
Blazing through life’s angular tiles
Abandoning hopes and dreams
Begging to just be
Longing for sleep again
Bursting to awakening
Morning after morning
Sluggish nor slothful
Diligent and ever present
Where do you go?
And where do you come from?
You timid wild ones
You ancillary subjects of eternity
You crying crashed happy ones
With the affinity for indulging and living
Burning ships
And setting sail with new ones
Crying, “These are the days my God!”
With graveyard tans and carrying crosses
Burying the seven sins to lift up the seven virtues
And somewhere, everywhere, in between
Breaking equilibrium with entropic madness
Till finally settling for the night
Creatures with all our power
Softly and slowly letting go...

- Kelly M. Doolittle

(added 04.15.13)

editor's note: All we "crying crashed happy ones" will NOT SLEEP; will not budge, but grudge each moment robbed from "these are the days." Will not, will not... (getting tired)... WILL NOT... (sleepy)... zzzzzzzzzzz. - mh

The light kite and his flight

Sleepwalker, he sings,
Looking for the dream
In the sky to catch.
He lets his welkin ring
Pull gently on the rein,
A world of never land to see,
Controlling the steed.

Small bobbin he rolls,
Lurking in the void,
Throwing its shadow beneath
In the luminous doubt.
Somnolent found is the city,
Proximity of which, is very material,
Had kept less ears aesthetic, to listen to
Creative sanguine flow.

Indignant kite that,
Pushing once again, the wind,
Along with fluctuating dream,
Betokening to go ahead,
Unseen behind, to make it see
The paper, where the horizon rolls
Entangled into his finger tips.

The kite is landed
Unharness the belt.

- Hem Raj Bastola

(1 poem added 04.14.13)

editor's note: I'd rather pull the belt tighter and go for another flight. Nice! - mh

•••••••••••

The whole Mad Swirl of everything to come keeps on keepin' on... now... now... NOW! Every second, every minute, every hour, every day, every week, every month, every year, every decade, every every EVERY there is! Wanna join in the poetic conversations going on in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum? Then stop by whenever the mood strikes! We'll be here...

Gettin' Free,

Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor

The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 04.13.13

“We are all born mad. Some remain so.” Samuel Beckett


simpleman (above) by Halo Jones, one of over 20 featured artists currently coloring the virtual walls in Mad Swirl's eclectic electronic collective Mad Gallery. We know you'll wanna see mo' fo' sho' so move that mad mouse of yours right over here and a-way you'll GO

•••••••••••

This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we plied perennial, sharp-edged passions with prurient, primal curiosity; we felt a flower's remorse for a passing bee, perhaps rebuffed; we shed shyness and chivalry to sit Shiva; we bantered the Book value of obsessive screen time, seek society or simmer in solitude; we lurked like a lovelorn lacky when we could been "juggling kittens and laughing and smiling;" we harbored a hound-dog handling, scratching to heal; we witnessed, from a Bates Motel horror room, an unwitting well wisher's narrow escape. Checked in, checked out - check'em out! ~ mh

Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...

room 168

dingy door open wide
lights glaring loudly
madness bouncing from boombox
muses floating on confused canvases
repeating over & again
looping
half drunk beer
sweating on night table
keys keeping it company
bedside lamp fueled by cheap bulbs
zapping
eyes snapping to kicked off shoes
posing in corner behind door
half upside down
abused
peeks behind corners
calls for her
echo off bathroom tiles
phone winks its LED eye
sink sitting
blinks high
blinks by
buzzes
tub sits half emptied
water murky with grime
hair slithers on side
unidentified floating object
identified
clothes carelessly clinging
to paper laundromat hangers
favorite hat half twisted
in ugly grimace
staring
back steps
snapshots snapping in mind's eye
madness continues to echo and loop
muses still confused
brushes bruised with hues
beer still half empty
sweating company with keys
lone hair ribbon speaks volumes
of what is now absent
abandoned
back stepping away
snapshots still snapping
capturing the scene
escaping room 168
relieved no one was home
door wide open

closed

- Gianni Sacco

(1 poem added 04.13.13)

editor's note: Love uncertain made certain, love no more; escaped within an inch of its life. - mh

the softest part of you is behind your ears

you grow when i kiss you
squashyou.
your right eye holds a lonely grain of black
outside its iris, fallen
out of the nest.

you face the heater when you sleep
i can see that scab, growing
i can't stop
myself from picking, tearing
peeling away crushed edges moving
onto tender red beneath.

i scratch but you leave marks
it hurts best on my fingers
where i bend reach. i need
to soothe with what burns me
my blood, it pools
in the cracks of my hands
these fingers still somehow rough

you sweetly listen as i rub away.

- Kayla Siobhan

(1 poem added 04.12.13)

editor's note: Maybe not quite the object of affection, but obsession is better than sleeping alone; so happy to be her worry toy. Woof! (We welcome Kayla back to our crazy congress of Contributing Poets - see more of her madness on her reinstated poetry page.) - mh

did you ever notice that staring up at a ceiling fan that’s spinning kinda looks like an above view of you watching someone spinning nunchucks really fast?

These days
are ripped in half
by black and white
memories
of you.

Sometimes
I think about
cutting my lips
off
with a butcher’s knife
so I never have to
feel the constant need
to apologize
to everyone around me
for frowning
all the time.

I feel
peer pressured
into smiling.

All the cool kids
are doing it.

“If all of your friends
rode around
on unicorns
shooting rainbows
outta their asses
while juggling kittens
and laughing
and smiling
would you do it
too?”

No,

but I would
jump off a bridge

and then remind myself
while falling,

Everything
is gonna be
okay...

Everything
is gonna be
okay...

Everything
is gonna be
okay...

What
a beautiful,
last sound,

skull shattering
into ground.

If you clean
my pieces up
with a broom and dustpan
I’ll come back
as a ghost
and say,
Thank you...

Thank you
very much
for cleaning up
after me.

Sorry ‘bout the mess.

You’re
the best, though.

Really...

Rock on.

- Calvero

(added 04.11.13)

editor's note: Hard to tell if unrequited love can be helped by peer pressure. One thing is sure, though, Everything IS gonna be OK! - mh

Art of MiND FuCK

It is now,
The era of can’t
The beggars from saints,
The letters that won’t
But the bats that will.
Don’t hit it!
Just kick it!
Don’t lick it!
Just like it!
Era of the
FACE.
Face the Book, day and night.
Cry all night.
There is no passion
Just pictures of grotesque fashion.
Buy into it
Fall into it
Spend all your life in it
Feel it.
Cry for it!
Live with it.
Become one with IT!
Face your Book,
Book your Face
There is No ending,
This is,
The Art
Of
MiNd
FuCk!

- Sakazaf

(added 04.10.13)

editor's note: Human progress; the perfection and perpetuation of the mind fuck. Might as well face it! - mh

Sitting Shiva in a Hotel Lobby

For a year this image has haunted me.
Over and over I hear on the gramophone
Cohen put in my ear
“Feature this:
On a crowded elevator
a strange woman in a baseball cap
unbuttons your fly.”
That image is on the ceiling every night
as I sit shiva in the lobby
of this small hotel,
a hookah, like a tired cobra,
coiled at my feet,
a shamrock in my buttonhole
dead from the last parade.
Night after night,
I think about this strange woman
as each hour I watch
the doors of the elevator
part and give birth.
I observe each new guest carefully,
hoping the woman in the baseball cap
will tire of the rain and ride up
in the elevator and register.
I want her to sit in the lobby
and talk with us.
We who are guests here forever
have eons to hear
what she has to say.
We have paid our rent in advance.
We can afford to sit here and see.

- Donal Mahoney

(1 poem added 04.09.13)

editor's note: Patiently we await her; hoping we get to first base, wishing she'd make us her shortstop. Most likely, we'll just be left fielder to her left-handed bat. - mh

Vince

who lives upstairs
and smiles slightly when he walks by
makes me tremble
when I see him
and I wonder
what he does
on a lazy Sunday afternoon
and if he eats omelets for breakfast
the way I like them
and Vincent
as I call him sometimes
takes out the trash on Tuesdays
and on Wednesdays he always drives away at 7 pm
perhaps to someone waiting for him
with sweaty hands and bright red lipstick
Vince my beautiful neighbor, once held the elevator
on one of my bad hair days
and he smells so dam good all the time
Vince from apartment 304
doesn’t really know I exist
but I lust for him anyway
and dream him into bed with me
cause I know he’d like my softness
and satin sheets, and snuggling in my white duvet
as we sip fine coffee in the morning...
Vince, who I know so well
would love me
and love running and
love radio head
and my Vince would love guinness beer.

- Elissa Landrigan

(added 04.08.13)

editor's note: Ah, poor man! If he only knew what love awaits... - mh

A Love in Spring

In the smooth blackness
of the sky,
ten thousand stars
sparkle and dance,
every inch of her skin
comes alive,
curiosity hones,
tempts heights of passion
into pools of dazed wonder,
mad, marrow-deep longings
linger, her heart cradles
a new affection.

- Amy Barry

(added 04.07.13)

editor's note: Spring is erotica, perennial porn; flowers, stalks of wheat, your passionate partner. Like bees, we are drawn; to me, to me, to me. - mh

•••••••••••

The whole Mad Swirl of everything to come keeps on keepin' on... now... now... NOW! Every second, every minute, every hour, every day, every week, every month, every year, every decade, every every EVERY there is! Wanna join in the poetic conversations going on in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum? Then stop by whenever the mood strikes! We'll be here...

Gettin' Madder By the Minute,

Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor

The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 04.06.13

“The idea is to write it so that people hear it and it slides through the brain and goes straight to the heart.” Maya Angelou


Heart (above) by Jon Marquette, one of over 20 featured artists currently coloring the virtual walls in Mad Swirl's eclectic electronic collective Mad Gallery. We know you'll wanna see mo' fo' sho' so move that mad mouse of yours right over here and a-way you'll GO

•••••••••••

This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we flipped through our gray matter phone book to free a fond memory; we proffered a septuaganarian's primer on the care and handling of knives; we idled on the idea of uncovering idols from holes in the ground; we walked a rope without a net because we couldn't hedge our bet, there were no hedges, someone removed all the edges; we heard a keyboard clicked compulsive tune when a pensive poet kicked the moon; we recalled compatriotic cold war years, unearthed dystopic utopian fears; we fomented those fears further with the vision of an ill-tempered mother who liberally laces her love with revenge. Whew! Thank goodness, they're only words, right? ~ mh

Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...

The Warrior’s Mother

The warrior’s mother, all peacock attitude,
prayers, plus Galil submachine gun,
Settles, frustrated, at an ersatz table built of wood and bone;
she loathes the enemy.
Euphony, as Mama knows, means cries, screams,
railing in the night, sounding off,
Those others intend, insidiously, to kill her boys.
Mama deploys, accordingly, subversions.

She dreams, as well, of questionable warfare,
of not limiting herself,
Of employing mobile extermination squads,
poison gases, infectious diseases,
Random acts of pillaging,
and unpredictable executions of POWs,
But bad characters,
those who harbor lice, plague, attitude, wash up the media.

So, when tired from envisaging the offing of bandits,
from imagining the flaying of malevolents,
Mama dabs her forehead with cloth, adjusts her kerchief,
rubs on lipstick, smiles pretty;
News bureaus obfuscate in line with evil’s agenda.
Witnesses hide black, disproportionate force,
Indiscriminate rocket attacks, the use of white phosphorous,
most iniquities wrought by “them.”

That side’s creation of orphans, disregard of appendages,
illicit building, gall, sells popcorn.
As such, foreign lies, depravation,
tank shells full of depleted uranium, knife attacks,
Exaggerated accounts, retouched pictures, castrations of truth,
yet severe maternal conveyances.
Those nefarious actions bring Mama to knees of weariness,
until they awaken her martial heart.

- KJ Hannah Greenberg

(1 poem added 04.06.13)

editor's note: Don't want to be this mother's little helper, but orphans and lost appendages are not a fair trade. The game is rigged!! - mh

OUR FEARS OF RUSSIA

Every man is a hero
And every really good friend
A sidekick
Occasionally a dual force

The brute force of human nature
Is what makes us grow old

Our fears of atomic ultimatum
God Hand
Elected Dictator
Dislikable and Confident
We talk about

His point of view

His secret zipper

Our fears of
Russia
Red Dawn Red Square Dolph Lundgren
Our fears of utopia

- Jericho Joyce

(3 poems added 04.05.13)

editor's note: If we had Utopia; no need for dictators or Dolph. That is scary! (We welcome Jericho to our crazy confab of Contributing Poets with this submission. See lot's more on his page.) - mh

Kick the Moon

O Moon, sharp-edged,
Welted tangent toes,
Sharp rounds crunching
Hacks boisterous houses,
I kicked a stone: Moon created,
A monotonous life before the screen
Writing, writhing
Press two fingers
And heart will blast off
With no errors and complications,
Tear apart the last remains
Earth trembles, sky vomits;
I’m cleansed thoroughly,
Through a narrow path
This darkened vision I see
A primitive era arising,
My bones dissolve
Dark-blooded, pure;
I’ve nothing to lose but shine forth,
Is this a compulsion to love?
She offers her lips to kiss,
Oh, let me touch it and forget her!
Cross it.

- Arun Budhathoki

(1 poem added 04.04.13)

editor's note: A keyborne, moonbeam chaser tries to kiss but crosses. Press "enter" to try again. - mh

EDGELESS EARTH

You will not fall off the face of the Earth.
No one can or ever has;
because it has no edges and
because it is as faceless as a god
who never shows his face.
We only meet things that do not exist
as we lay dreaming.
Angels are like aliens, aren't they?
Both ideas frighten children awake
in the night when searching eyes
stay up past bedtime.
They are obsessively combing the sky for
shooting stars and men from Mars or
any sign of a giant winged predator.
And sleeping can be like religion,
immobilizing flesh.
Reality stopping
somewhere to go when you
are too scared or lazy
to really keep your eyes open.
To keep your life as your own
You needn't curve mind or hand to hold on
An edgeless Earth means
You could let go and
Thank
Gravity
Arms wide open
No need to touch palms

- Meg Frances

(added 04.03.13)

editor's note: No edges, no boundaries! Make your own way by making peace with all who are making theirs. - mh

When We Are Discovered

all rust-golds and talc-whites,
colors growing while the sun
drops west of their structures,
sets to glowing the stone
stairs circling a pit of toxic
water from which, perhaps, gods
rose to judge believers
who dug copper rocks from
scarred edges of the open
temple.
where once there
must have been a hillside
rife with green, this people
carved a hole in the earth,
rolled armfuls of dirt away,
aching with the toil of
destruction and worship—
what gods did they find
here in the ground,
what idols did they admire
in this place they named
a mine?

- Genevieve Jenkins

(1 poem added 04.02.13)

editor's note: Where we dig, aptly named "mine," as in, "not yours," is not ours, either. The gods giggle. - mh

Vintage Movie

At 70 years-old my grandfather
Still thinks he will outlive the snow,
Psoriasis-bound, a whiskey flask
For a heart, he chases

The glorified bird-droppings
From his weasel farm
With a horseless carriage,
Howling, "Hurrah! Hurrah!"
Like a Confederate general.

Afterward he gives an agate ring
To the lady who most admires his form,
And promises her the world,
Which is a condominium complex
Just outside Orlando.

He says, "When I was young,
A patch of grass meant something,"
And, "Get up, lamb,
It's only a stab wound."

He says, "When I was young,
Knife fights on the starboard
Cathedral steps every Friday night
Were no alarm, only a way
To prove your 95 theses,
Eliminate your competitor
For Mary Lou's honeyed heart."

He says, "The problem is,
You kids don't know how
To drive a knife properly.
Now the world will go under
Or the Chinese will turn
Our knives on us."

- Brian Le Lay

(added 04.01.13)

editor's note: Every former generation thinks the current one lacks vital skills. I say we compile a new almanac, from theirs and ours; learn to dance and sharpen your knives. - mh

803 Monroe

I needed to call you but
I'd forgotten your number,
the one I always thought
was burned into my memory -
for hours I anxiously thumbed through
white and yellow pages, forgetting
then remembering your name.
Between the pages I could see
your dining room, the floor
tile cracked like a spider's
web, the old fridge where
all your kids stood before the
open door to feel the frigid
air on desperately hot days
while upstairs pretty ladies on
a calendar lounged without a
drop of sweat to mar their
fleshy perfection.

- Charlotte Hamrick

(2 poems added 03.31.13)

editor's note: Why can't fond memories create dial-tones, connect with a ten digit query to greet old friends? (Another great memento from Charlotte on her page - check it out.) - mh

•••••••••••

The whole Mad Swirl of everything to come keeps on keepin' on... now... now... NOW! Every second, every minute, every hour, every day, every week, every month, every year, every decade, every every EVERY there is! Wanna join in the poetic conversations going on in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum? Then stop by whenever the mood strikes! We'll be here...

Hearin' It,

Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor