::: A Taste of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 03:13:09 :::
”We live at the edge of the miraculous.” Henry Miller
Welcome to a weekly taste of the Mad Swirl Poetry Forum. We have collected poetry from the maddest poets from the maddest corners of the world and have showcased them here in the Forum just for you. The Poetry Forum is in flux, living and breathing, evolving and changing constantly...so please come and come often for the latest additions and submissions!
NEW DAY
Wake up at 7:00 in the morning
Get on my bike
Let's rock n' roll
Hit the street
And take off like
A bat out of hell
Alice In Chains
"Jar Of Flies"
Playing in my Walkman
Going to the store
Magazine rack
Reading about Green Day
White Zombie
Bloody pictures of gore
From "Tales From The Crypt: Demon Knight"
Going to the cemetery
Old tombstones
The founder of Benbrook, Texas
Lots of age
Small, wiry, old-time fences
Around moldy, old-time graves
Graffiti on the stop sign
"Fuck your mom"
Signed "WZ"
That's me
Going to Blockbuster Video
Horror section
So many movies I wanna see
Especially the ones with the
Trademark blue-and-cheese yellow
"Youth Restricted Viewing" stickers
Some are in big boxes
Like porno movies
Wondering what these movies are really like
Knowing how some already are
Standing for hours
Loitering among the shelves
VHS boxes, some big and old
Going to see friends
Like Michael the porn-loving pyro
With his little black book
Of 800 numbers
And his talk of pipe bombs
My heavy metal friends
Who listen to all their devil shit
(It don't sound half-bad, though)
My little kid friends
And their backyard tire swings
Sean next door
With Stephen King
Clive Barker
Nine Inch Nails
And Mormons
Going to the library
Checking out Leonard Maltin
And "First Blood"
(The book)
And "Willard"
(The book)
Looking around for more
Sweating so much, I could die
Climbing the hills
Coasting down them
Feel the heat
And feel the breeze
I'll have to go home when it starts
Getting dark
And on the way
I'll flip off Cozby St.
Because the soccer moms don't want me there
- kyle segars (as myld kyle)
(1 poem added 03.13.09)
Karenia brevis Makes Itself Known
Someone told me it concerns circadian rhythms,
I think, or the tides. Finding the constellations
in fistfuls of sand; searching for the infinite
in a nautilus shell. It’s gone, the cognition.
All along the shore: little bodies washed
up whole. A blowfish in full expansion,
an eel, jaw hanging open. In red
seaweed, lateral fish fins entwine,
clinging by accident. White fleshed,
they haven’t even begun to stink
in the heat. They’re presented as though
gifted to me from the sea. I walk out along
them, amid bodies, and follow a narrow
path winding miles around the Gulf coast.
I want to pick them up in a heap and throw
them back home but my eyes are already sore,
stung by the mist in the air and my delicate
hands would swell. And down the crusted shore,
I want to see that this swath of reddish-blue
sea has left me a pattern, that the path
of bodies is a map or has mystical clues
to a recondite order. But the math
of it is unravelled chaos theory,
chained events that spin adrift
from golden ratios of pearly
nautilus shells, into a death
reaction, somehow naturally
explained in terms of a wealth
of algae, an algal bloom. A cloud
of death in the water. As for myself,
I shouldn’t swim, I can’t touch, I won’t
give back. This Red Tide. The creatures
bake in the sun while I wait for the foam.
- laura zawistowski
(added 03.12.09)
INDIGESTION
A bad dream pastes
a collage of magazine images
on the moon, backlit
designer names
from a stellar platform,
but dims all the romance
around the world.
A woman tries to wake
from the mind’s
imaginative subconscious,
clean the sable brush of light
painting the inside canvas
of her rapidly moving eyes.
There is nothing wet
about this rain
of designer labels,
the monochrome multitude
of Ford model faces,
the craters that cup
bare breasts.
A woman holds
her breath in sleep,
tosses off the covers,
crosses legs,
beats her pillow,
then smothers it
against her belly.
- kenneth p. gurney
(3 poems added 03.11.09)
END OF THOUGHT
Hounding subliminal sensations
Vague undercurrents of feeling
Confusing concurrent creations
Storming sea of sorrow unappealing
Definitions, conclusions, conceptualizations
Twisted, limited, illusory projections
Continuous, continuing, continual complications
Imitative, burlesque, counterfeit intimations
Timeless sorrow, the bondage of man
Ignorance without a beginning
Unlimited chaos without a plan
An injured bird without a wing
Recognition
Familiarity
Projecting the unknown
Of its own knowledge
Imitation, solidarity
Like a nameless clone
Never original, and never free
From its own inherited bondage
The end of brain
Is the end of thought
Sane, insane, both caught in its chain
The mind of man in its network fraught
The end of thought
Thought can never see
Beyond it's self-created frontiers
It can never be
- ashutosh ghildiyal
(1 poem added 03.10.09)
Dissected
seamlessly blended
slowly gliding
fall like flashes
reveals your anger
and joy
your power has limits
no utopian goodness
it’s ironic salvation
dissected in the dish
so smooth and mellow
aged like bourbon
in a burned barrel
life and vitality
a warrant at the door
the hungry partner
rich with secrets
elbowed hard
back to life
irresistible breaking out
the curious gather
around the fire
made out of anguish
sprouting up like seedlings
irritated by the odd
accepted by the fading
the sun goes down
around your ankles
working out the bizarre
encapsulating it all
within the cold stare
the green sponsor
pours the beer
Capitalist Reichstag
on F street
hip hop wars
throwing out rhymes
pronouns bleeding
in the streets
blood on your carpet
the Mercedes rolls
this took a turn
you couldn’t predict
your cards given away
to pay the bills
for Homer’s adventures
I came across a friend
who once was a monster
now he sells betting tips
at the track
and lives with his mother
the lost boys never grow up
- glen lantz
(3 poems added 03.09.09)
To the Future
1.
I can't believe it's January already
and I sure as Hell
can't believe it's 2009
Where are the flying cars?
robot servants?
food tablets?
Where is the future?
I fully expected the space age
the computer age
the electronics age
to be more fancy than this
It's been 2000
for almost a decade already
and the world doesn't feel
significantly different
from the late 70s
or early 80s
That era
seemed much more futuristic
and by that I mean
they knew what the future
was going to look
and sound
and feel like
They could imagine
a world of tomorrow
2.
Maybe the difference
is me
Back then
everything was new:
ideas images sounds technology
they all sparkled and popped
radiated that uranium glow
that we all expected we'd see
some morning
when we looked out our windows
The future
then
was being born before our eyes
developing
grabbing towards
and catching
tomorrow
So now we're here
the morning after has finally arrived
and computers and electronics
syth pop and blue hair
space shuttles and satellite communications technologies
all seem so familiar
That new computer smell is gone
the hair dye has faded
Dick Tracy's wrist communicator
seems like a toy
you could buy at Radio Shack
3.
What's new?
where's the sparkle?
who's reaching towards the future now?
and what will it look like?
My fear
although it's not fair to call it that
is that it'll look
a whole Hell of a lot
like today
New gadgets and gizmos
faster bit transfer rates
slightly better medical treatment
(for those who can afford it)
but the same old people
doing the same old things
killing time
waiting for something new to appear
and make their lives more exciting
And I'm one of them
- richard f. yates
(3 poems added 03.08.09)
out Of control
when you want so much and are just doing your best when you see things there that no one else does when you keep tripping or banging into walls but keep on going because you know it’s worth it people say it’s the journey that matters but of course the destination does too or what’s the point when you’re too real for anyone to comprehend when you’re passionate to the point of self-indulgent excess when a bar of music speaks more than a day’s worth of human conversation when all of life is focused on a single point that is
- jess c scott
(3 poems added 03.07.09)
We're telling you, this poetic place is hopping! Now with over 90 poets (and growing everyday), Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum is truly a poetic voice to be reckoned with. This massive online collection features some of the maddest poets from all over this big blue marble of ours. Check it out...right...NOW!
Welcome to a weekly taste of the Mad Swirl Poetry Forum. We have collected poetry from the maddest poets from the maddest corners of the world and have showcased them here in the Forum just for you. The Poetry Forum is in flux, living and breathing, evolving and changing constantly...so please come and come often for the latest additions and submissions!
NEW DAY
Wake up at 7:00 in the morning
Get on my bike
Let's rock n' roll
Hit the street
And take off like
A bat out of hell
Alice In Chains
"Jar Of Flies"
Playing in my Walkman
Going to the store
Magazine rack
Reading about Green Day
White Zombie
Bloody pictures of gore
From "Tales From The Crypt: Demon Knight"
Going to the cemetery
Old tombstones
The founder of Benbrook, Texas
Lots of age
Small, wiry, old-time fences
Around moldy, old-time graves
Graffiti on the stop sign
"Fuck your mom"
Signed "WZ"
That's me
Going to Blockbuster Video
Horror section
So many movies I wanna see
Especially the ones with the
Trademark blue-and-cheese yellow
"Youth Restricted Viewing" stickers
Some are in big boxes
Like porno movies
Wondering what these movies are really like
Knowing how some already are
Standing for hours
Loitering among the shelves
VHS boxes, some big and old
Going to see friends
Like Michael the porn-loving pyro
With his little black book
Of 800 numbers
And his talk of pipe bombs
My heavy metal friends
Who listen to all their devil shit
(It don't sound half-bad, though)
My little kid friends
And their backyard tire swings
Sean next door
With Stephen King
Clive Barker
Nine Inch Nails
And Mormons
Going to the library
Checking out Leonard Maltin
And "First Blood"
(The book)
And "Willard"
(The book)
Looking around for more
Sweating so much, I could die
Climbing the hills
Coasting down them
Feel the heat
And feel the breeze
I'll have to go home when it starts
Getting dark
And on the way
I'll flip off Cozby St.
Because the soccer moms don't want me there
- kyle segars (as myld kyle)
(1 poem added 03.13.09)
Karenia brevis Makes Itself Known
Someone told me it concerns circadian rhythms,
I think, or the tides. Finding the constellations
in fistfuls of sand; searching for the infinite
in a nautilus shell. It’s gone, the cognition.
All along the shore: little bodies washed
up whole. A blowfish in full expansion,
an eel, jaw hanging open. In red
seaweed, lateral fish fins entwine,
clinging by accident. White fleshed,
they haven’t even begun to stink
in the heat. They’re presented as though
gifted to me from the sea. I walk out along
them, amid bodies, and follow a narrow
path winding miles around the Gulf coast.
I want to pick them up in a heap and throw
them back home but my eyes are already sore,
stung by the mist in the air and my delicate
hands would swell. And down the crusted shore,
I want to see that this swath of reddish-blue
sea has left me a pattern, that the path
of bodies is a map or has mystical clues
to a recondite order. But the math
of it is unravelled chaos theory,
chained events that spin adrift
from golden ratios of pearly
nautilus shells, into a death
reaction, somehow naturally
explained in terms of a wealth
of algae, an algal bloom. A cloud
of death in the water. As for myself,
I shouldn’t swim, I can’t touch, I won’t
give back. This Red Tide. The creatures
bake in the sun while I wait for the foam.
- laura zawistowski
(added 03.12.09)
INDIGESTION
A bad dream pastes
a collage of magazine images
on the moon, backlit
designer names
from a stellar platform,
but dims all the romance
around the world.
A woman tries to wake
from the mind’s
imaginative subconscious,
clean the sable brush of light
painting the inside canvas
of her rapidly moving eyes.
There is nothing wet
about this rain
of designer labels,
the monochrome multitude
of Ford model faces,
the craters that cup
bare breasts.
A woman holds
her breath in sleep,
tosses off the covers,
crosses legs,
beats her pillow,
then smothers it
against her belly.
- kenneth p. gurney
(3 poems added 03.11.09)
END OF THOUGHT
Hounding subliminal sensations
Vague undercurrents of feeling
Confusing concurrent creations
Storming sea of sorrow unappealing
Definitions, conclusions, conceptualizations
Twisted, limited, illusory projections
Continuous, continuing, continual complications
Imitative, burlesque, counterfeit intimations
Timeless sorrow, the bondage of man
Ignorance without a beginning
Unlimited chaos without a plan
An injured bird without a wing
Recognition
Familiarity
Projecting the unknown
Of its own knowledge
Imitation, solidarity
Like a nameless clone
Never original, and never free
From its own inherited bondage
The end of brain
Is the end of thought
Sane, insane, both caught in its chain
The mind of man in its network fraught
The end of thought
Thought can never see
Beyond it's self-created frontiers
It can never be
- ashutosh ghildiyal
(1 poem added 03.10.09)
Dissected
seamlessly blended
slowly gliding
fall like flashes
reveals your anger
and joy
your power has limits
no utopian goodness
it’s ironic salvation
dissected in the dish
so smooth and mellow
aged like bourbon
in a burned barrel
life and vitality
a warrant at the door
the hungry partner
rich with secrets
elbowed hard
back to life
irresistible breaking out
the curious gather
around the fire
made out of anguish
sprouting up like seedlings
irritated by the odd
accepted by the fading
the sun goes down
around your ankles
working out the bizarre
encapsulating it all
within the cold stare
the green sponsor
pours the beer
Capitalist Reichstag
on F street
hip hop wars
throwing out rhymes
pronouns bleeding
in the streets
blood on your carpet
the Mercedes rolls
this took a turn
you couldn’t predict
your cards given away
to pay the bills
for Homer’s adventures
I came across a friend
who once was a monster
now he sells betting tips
at the track
and lives with his mother
the lost boys never grow up
- glen lantz
(3 poems added 03.09.09)
To the Future
1.
I can't believe it's January already
and I sure as Hell
can't believe it's 2009
Where are the flying cars?
robot servants?
food tablets?
Where is the future?
I fully expected the space age
the computer age
the electronics age
to be more fancy than this
It's been 2000
for almost a decade already
and the world doesn't feel
significantly different
from the late 70s
or early 80s
That era
seemed much more futuristic
and by that I mean
they knew what the future
was going to look
and sound
and feel like
They could imagine
a world of tomorrow
2.
Maybe the difference
is me
Back then
everything was new:
ideas images sounds technology
they all sparkled and popped
radiated that uranium glow
that we all expected we'd see
some morning
when we looked out our windows
The future
then
was being born before our eyes
developing
grabbing towards
and catching
tomorrow
So now we're here
the morning after has finally arrived
and computers and electronics
syth pop and blue hair
space shuttles and satellite communications technologies
all seem so familiar
That new computer smell is gone
the hair dye has faded
Dick Tracy's wrist communicator
seems like a toy
you could buy at Radio Shack
3.
What's new?
where's the sparkle?
who's reaching towards the future now?
and what will it look like?
My fear
although it's not fair to call it that
is that it'll look
a whole Hell of a lot
like today
New gadgets and gizmos
faster bit transfer rates
slightly better medical treatment
(for those who can afford it)
but the same old people
doing the same old things
killing time
waiting for something new to appear
and make their lives more exciting
And I'm one of them
- richard f. yates
(3 poems added 03.08.09)
out Of control
when you want so much and are just doing your best when you see things there that no one else does when you keep tripping or banging into walls but keep on going because you know it’s worth it people say it’s the journey that matters but of course the destination does too or what’s the point when you’re too real for anyone to comprehend when you’re passionate to the point of self-indulgent excess when a bar of music speaks more than a day’s worth of human conversation when all of life is focused on a single point that is
- jess c scott
(3 poems added 03.07.09)
We're telling you, this poetic place is hopping! Now with over 90 poets (and growing everyday), Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum is truly a poetic voice to be reckoned with. This massive online collection features some of the maddest poets from all over this big blue marble of ours. Check it out...right...NOW!
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