::: A Taste of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum: 03.20.09 :::

(Amy by Jon Marquette, one of our mad swirling resident artists in the Mad Gallery)

“A poet looks at the world the way a man looks at a woman.” Wallace Stevens

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!

starbucks: five of them

"fuckin this" and "fuckin that"
they show the world
they are nearly men
by fucking everything...

"mom..." says one,
sheepishly on his cell
"can josh sleep over?"

they're playing with a lighter now
melting things
straws
cups
laughing in their almost grown voices

boys and fire
boys and their bobbing knees

they are silly
in their newly birthed
not yet broken in
manliness
new adams apples
legs skinny hairy
angular sharp
corners
goofy laughs
eating ice
loudly
crunch crunch
melting things,
burning things

they are annoying
they are loud.
they are children
playing with fire.

i want to tell them
"grow the fuck up"
stupids.
i scowl at them
i want
to tell on them.

do they think i'm pretty?

- Lisa Olson

(2 poems added 03.20.09)

TO INNOCENCE

Innocence, you have left me long ago.
Experience leaves too many marks!
Not long ago, did I delight in your sunshine;
Now, I drown myself in memories,
Problems, sorrows, and worries,
That I don't even know are mine.

Not long ago, did I with your eyes,
See the dancing leaves and feel
The perfumed wind all over my being.
Where is that sense of tender joy?
Where is that unburdened ecstasy?
Tis’ lost somewhere beneath this
Mass of knowledge that I can't peel.

O innocence, since I lost you,
I have known time.
You left me, and I started
Thinking of the yesterdays and
The tomorrows, the endless continuity,
To which I never gave a dime,
When, O innocence, I had you.

Beauty has shunned me,
Intellect I have cultivated,
Love I have formulated,
The skies I have analyzed,
And to beauty, to simplicity,
I have died.
I have become hard, O innocence,
And you, the elixir, have left me.

Where is the music, where is the flight?
Nowhere do I see it, but only in the dead past.
I am tired of reviving from the ashes
Of yesterday that which is no more.
Is this going to be a never-ending cast,
Set in iron, which struggling,
I am doomed forever to fight?

O innocence, sing a song to me.
Let me hear that music once again.
Let me die and be born again,
So that I with unclouded brain
And unblemished eyes, behold thy glory
And in that eternity, forget the numbing pain.

Let it rain like it has never before,
And wash my senses clean.
Let me take a flight once again,
Let me die to the past,
To the thousand yesterdays.
Let me break this chain
And be with you again.

- Ashutosh Ghildiyal

(1 poem added 03.19.09)

Bluetry Coming Full Circle I Smell Smoke

I'm blown away in the smoke of my mind created by the smoke of the eye mind of your mind I'm gonna take a sip of that southern smoked cooking, finger lickin' chickin charcoal broiled smoke embers rising from ashes I'll meet you there after I get me some smoked salmon mr brant, i love me some smoke dreams, with perfect seams, flawless rising in silver swirls

Frenetic – full of poetic madness I arise out of smoke slowly rising flowing from discarded disregarded embers of burned words into mad repetitive self perpetuating silver swirls.

My bluetry emerges at that speak-easy softly lit smoky lounge on the left where the mood is set with red and orange burning embers candle lights giving off smoke rising in silver swirls.

The crowd inhales my words and exhales patchouli oil scent silver swirls of smoke rising.

Wow, I’m on a roll – jelly-roll - my bluetry spell has taken its toll, let the good times roll, and forget about sorrow or tomorrow, think about today. I'm too busy, come tomorrow there's a lot more networking to do, lost in a series of masquerades, delusions to who I am allusions and illusions - let er rip for old times sake daddy sing me those blues tonight!

Under the magnolia tree I fell skinned my knee, the sky ripped open clouds burst and the street went up in smoke I thought I must’ve toked some real good stuff because next thing I knew whole city was up in smoke and I was with a chartered band going nowhere fast but an open wound read my prayers going somewhere those blues those blues were wailing, the trombone feels my blow as my words flow to slow the utterance of my soul, the whole world is up in smoke unless you stop try the tracks we’re on. I’m sorry I gotta move on – all this smoke is getting in the way of my living.

Living aggrieved in poetic frenzy- I give my life away up in smoke going once twice sold, I can’t capitulate capitalize civilize cooperate encapsulate, insulate any more, just let go let the good times roll you can’t always get what you want and if you try sometimes you may just find what you need and so lady smoke had her way with me, she got to me finally in my ever evolution I keep searching for solutions. I just need someone to love, fit me like a glove, turn down that candle now it’s giving off too much smoke I can’t inhale, I wanna make some love now, and play those blues in the background while I wait put my life on hold sit here waiting for you to get your shit together and taken aback by constellation of fate I’ll read the emancipation proclamation to see if I understand you I’m a jew you know and they been trying to eliminate jews a long time from the main stream

Keep all us quiet with our little asses fighting each other to keep our masses down, we stay redundant reducible to molasses while the conspiracy roars in my ears we keep fighting one another instead of taking their asses down a notch or two I’m so blue I can’t breathe. All that smoke – the whole world is up in smoke, not a joke, up in smoke.

- Joy Leftow

(1 poem added 03.18.09)

Not Quite Right in the Head

Why does the young man
with Turrets Syndrome
spit, curse and shout
forcing the old women on the street corner
to recoil and run for safety?

Why does the senile dog
with a limp
growl, bark and chase
the mail carrier only
performing her daily job?

Why does the teenager
diagnosed with AIDS
slit her wrist
bent over the sink
one hand in cold water
the other on her belly
rubbing the protruding toes
of her unborn baby boy?

More importantly
who elects to write about the incidents
defending or condemning
the acts
of mental
and physical
atrocities?

The Savior?

The Sinner?

The Doctor?

The Lawyer?

Who has the insight
placing flesh and blood
for the meaty, tasty appeal
of human or animal suffering?

The Absolvers?

The Manipulators?

The Healers?

The Litagators?

The tellers
of the stories
by pen
by tongue
through airwaves
electronic media
and entertainment arenas
are they the experts
in their fields
or are they simply
the ones
who are truly
not right in the head?

- Joseph D. Di Lella

(3 poems added 03.17.09)

Base deepened blue

Heavy lidded presses at the board whilst listening to the tunes that move
The ones with those special deepened lines that pulse
Base deepened moves
Bass deepened thumps
Those lines of familiar dark
Always lead me to a peaceful slumber
A slumber of the thoughts that have always brimmed
With so much air glow filled
Chest twinkle stars
Oh how they light
Inner flash of spark
They sparkle my sky of darkened loss
The cold chilled night bright
The devouring inward bite
No use this struggled denial fight
Let the base roll right on through
This has been the way and this has always been the hope that has carried me through
Through
Those nights
Blocking the view of whatever it was
Always worried me so and this hope of the lipped touch
Brought me to the blue of it
The blue
Vivid
The green
The lashed sight
Don’t blink
Pierce through my base fluid moves before dream sink
Touch my silken gown
I know that those (always) are what draws this
Dipped in to cooled clear mountain water
Taste of cleaned earth
Caught beneath the fresh spring stream
The moments of multiple sigh
Sighs
The blue of you

- Nic St. James

(3 poems added 03.16.09)

Sugar’d street junkie ghost makers

Sugar don’t call me sugar, ‘cause I will rott yer tongue, drill tiny little holes in yer teeth.

& run away naked down tha street shouting for a fix.

Filling up tha holes in my arms with tha mess you left behind,
my fingers will stick in tha glue, spat from yer worthless gums.

Fingering tha flesh, puss oozes, I am suddenly scared feeling how empty I am

inside. Junkie ghost eyes cry, ladadadadada day wasting away in the oil stain’d roads

Waxy lights drop their goo searing my eyes that stare at the man with half a face
hanging from the pole, whispering jonny jonny its time to go.

So baby don’t call me sugar, melting in that street licking me with yer putrid tongue
trying to clean me from tha resin of the gun plunged into tha veins, tha rosebeat of sap

Pools in its fluid hue, blocking tha flow of junk and I withdraw from tha street
following tha yellow lines to tha hollow of my heart, jumping round

Holy hound hungry & tha pusher laughs under tha awning, his boy body
with haunches of steel, shimmer shimmer stealing all tha trace of light, tha half faced man

Reaches out his hand, whispering what yer seeing is tha result of patchwork blends,
coke n valium racing through yer cage. So sugar don’t try to steal my post traumatic dreams.

She rotts at tha seams, spilling her effects all over the place all she does is cry,
sucking me dry my husk only knows how to wander anyone can make him for a ghost.

If you follow him you will find yer steady connection, he only disappears after fixing up
filling tha husk with air he sits next to me in his ghost form, smiling & I feel sick.

Like someone wets their fingers snuffing out my wick my tears harden in their waxy spills,
remaining where they are, so sugar go get tha pennies in tha jar & lets suck on tha copper,

Shocking tha mercury teeth sending its waves to our groins, we climax
spurting our essence all over tha room rolling sliding laughing, then it comes down

& out in yellow’d throat gases, silencing tha air, so its time to kiss my mouth kisses
her rotten lips all over her face, stealing my sugar back drooling it into the spoon,

heating it all up all over again.

& winter will come stealing our memories, she still loves to kiss me
until we come again drowning while tha half faced man laughs kicking the can,

& we watch out tha thousand of windows & the ghost walks away,
cool & luminous, phone ringing junkies singing for some sugar, yea its an easy score

- John C Sweet

(3 poems added 03.15.09)

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