::: A Taste of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum: 03.27.09 :::

(Birth of Insanity by Johnny Olson, one of our mad swirling resident artists in the Mad Gallery)

“Genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood.” T.S. Eliot

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!

SELECTED BY VOICES

Sometimes it is best not to speak.
Speaking could be overrated.
Talking to voices isn’t all that
it is cracked up to be either.

I cannot get respect in this place.
No one believes me that I have
been selected by the voices
to lead this world and save it.

I would walk on water until I
reach the other side of the world.
But I am being watched closely
and I can’t accomplish my goals.

They say I will drown if I try to
walk on water. I don’t know how
to swim. But I have spiritual
advisors who talk to me. They say

I would not drown. They insist
that I save the world by walking
across the sea to the Middle East and
make the enemies friends for life.

Because they do not believe me
in this place. I refuse to speak to
anyone. I refuse to utter a word.
The world is going to end soon.

- Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal

(3 poems added 03.27.09)

WINDOW OF MIRACLES

Looking out my high bedroom window, above the city,
I watch a gold ball of light emerging and spreading and
rising in the east.

Wearing a celestial smile, I open my window of miracles,
and let yellow-gold waves of light sail through, caressing
the potted plants on the windowsill and blessing me in the

mad swirl of dawn with its heat and beauty and vision.
Elated, I gaze through my magical window and feast on
the mind-expanding panorama before me.

Bathing in the kaleidoscopic light of the sun, I taste the
glorious heat of the sun and its luscious colors of hope-
yellow, gold, yellow ocher, saffron, chartreuse, banana

and lemon; orange, ocher, apricot and tangerine; purple,
amethyst, lilac, violet and plum; and the fluid hot colors
anoint my face with love.

I see Mother’s gold eyes gazing at me from Heaven, her
lips whispering: I believe and I let the joy of the new
season enter and kiss my soul.

- Mel Waldman

(2 poems added 03.26.09)

Billie Blues Part 5

Consumerism’s got the best of me in spite of my fighting so hard to maintain the good thinks in life. I keep fighting a losing battle. I want to believe the best things in life are free but I get stopped in my tracks.

Buy buy buy they implore, while I have nothing left to buy with except very extended credit debts. I’m outta cash supply, debts mount easily. Buy, buy, buy, come read poetry. Buy a glass of wine. You can’t sit there and read. You’ve got to pay your dues too. Don’t forget the entrance fee. Cough it up.

Tons of paper discarded daily senselessly. No one could be so sad. Trees ask me to tell them why they’re born to be discarded they wail about their senseless lot, they live to be - they ask me if I know why it’s like this, what’s all this suffering for? I cry. I cry.

Lights on in every room whether you’re home or not to keep the burglars away. In Harlem Mexicans crowded 3 families to each apartment while we pay taxes to build another Yankee Stadium right next to the one already there. The rich pay more for private boxes while Mexicans live in NYC barracks, 20 in a 3 room apt, barely able to pay the rent. Please I beg you give the poor some of my taxes instead I plead. They turn a deaf ear. Please, please?

I sit in my room looking out at the rain, no one could be so sad. Gloom everywhere, I sit and I fear, I don’t know what the world is coming to.

Kill canned hunts. WTF, what kind of concept kills caged animals for a few dollars from the rich? I can’t wait. I want to kill hunters; torture them watch life slowly drain from them, their heads lolling to one side. I place their head on my lap. Take a pic too, like they do to the lioness bleeding from her mouth, trying to feed her cubs behind the fence, teats full of milk. Make them like quarry, my pray, another trophy.

You can’t hide from the ugliness I try to hide I do, I do. I can’t take much more.

I sit in my chair filled
Filled with despair.
No one could be so sad.
gloom everywhere, I sit and I stare. What’s the state of the universe? Is there anybody out there?

The ugliness all a glow, picture show for family. Bring up your moohlah! We got yours here. Worse than Sodom & Gomorrah. My soul’s for sale. Name your price! Sold to the devil at the crossroads!

This revolution will not be televised; will not put the shine back on your teeth. Civil rights gone, lives tapped into by government, someone’s in control somewhere. Not me, hey, I’m all alone in here waiting for the pain to go away. I sit in my chair full of despair, no one could be this sad.

I cry to trees. They hear my pleas. No one else does.

Please! Please. Is there anybody out there?

- Joy Leftow

(2 poems added 03.18.09)

Shooting Midgets from a Catapult and Watching Our Teacher Tap Dance Nude

I woke up late today
The alarm clock had grown arms and legs and ran away
Scratching my testicles and stumbling into the kitchen,
I found an alligator eating my Cheerios

There was no time to fight him,
so I took off my nightgown and slipped into some edible panties,
red tights, a green tutu, retro basketball jersey, and funky tennis shoes

I brushed my teeth and put my hair into pig tails
Then I stepped out the door
and mounted the unicycle I ride to school
After giving a stranger the finger, I took off onto the highway
(The” Miami Vice” theme song played in my head)

Upon arrival at school,
I saw Tiger Woods out on the front lawn
with a neck brace on,
shooting midgets from a catapult

A group of mimes were next to him,
involved in a limbo contest

Behind them was a three legged homosexual donkey called “Rufus,”
chasing a rogue peacock in circles like a loon,
whilst singing Lady GaGa’s “Poker Face”
completely out of tune

Inside the school, a roaming pack of football players,
in pads and helmets, tackled random people throughout the hallways,
as two cheerleaders named “Buffy” followed, waving pompoms,
and chanting the school fight song

As I walked into class,
I noticed that our teacher, Mr. Schlomsky, wasn’t there yet
Everyone looked puzzled…
When out of the blue, without warning,
Mr. Schlomsky fell through the ceiling and landed perfectly on his feet
(Totally perpendicular to the podium!)

A balding, obese and hairy Polish man of 5’2,
he was entirely naked except for a large pair of Versace sunglasses,
Polka-dotted bowtie and large red clown shoes

He looked around the room and didn’t say a word for about thirty seconds
And then
Burst into a fiery lecture about Confucius,
which was peppered with Russian curse words,
spastic hand and arm motions,
and brief outbursts of tap dancing

At the conclusion of the lecture,
he juggled pineapples,
and I stood up and applauded

Mr. Schlomsky then shapeshifted into a pterodactyl and flew out the window

After class, I saw Tiger Woods riding away on my unicycle,
giving me the finger and throwing golf balls at pedestrians

I tried to hail a taxi, but they were all full
Fortunately the baboon that lives in my closet, Fred,
was driving an ice cream truck nearby,
so I pole-vaulted onto the roof of the vehicle and surfed it all the way home
I hoped that alligator wasn’t still in my kitchen because I was hungry and needed something to eat.

- Newamba Flamingo

(3 poems added 03.24.09)

A Handle

You live a certain number of years
With a guarantee nothing inside
Will come to devour you,

The first twenty or so,
And you can trust the body,
The ones above and before you
Do the grinding instead.

After you leave them,
The body becomes more independent too,
Until it is free of your own wishes.

Nature’s dice become weighted
Slightly more each year,
Rolling out a fate
And slowly cheating
To get the desired result.

- Ben Nardolilli

(3 poems added 03.23.09)

Celluloid Angel

To be a wonder girl
she wears a wonder bra
isn’t a bore
bothering with how it cuts her up inside
the fabric so tight it eats her outside in

Her perfection grinds
up tight thighs

To get those precise lines,
she removes unnecessary ribs,
so she can squeeze into
bruise elastic pants

Then hobbles
on high heels
so when she runs
she is always caught

Achieve dreams
of wedding cake defection
she adheres her Velcro breasts
up to the neck
to prevent sagging to the knees

She was a perfect film roll
but for her defiance
smeared expression
screwed up
her plastic perfect complexion

Optimization
of all
biotic components,
is the only commandment
worth this dance with madness

Rake rust

nails
over flesh stretched

Slice precise lines

Corsets are in!
in all the common corpse sizes
from 28 inches to 16
breathing is an inconvenience
besides, her voice
barely a whisper
is sexier

Communication is enhanced
by the accompanying silence
of consenting cooperation

Men age better you know
because their souls
do not have so many holes
their stomachs are not torn-up
a terrain of acidic I can’ts
they do not regularly gargle with Cutex
their mouths reaching the perfect blue bruise

Fulfill the part
of the wanton waif,
no struggle, no waste

The gag will soften,
mold to her mouth’s folds

The goal: congenial control

Remember
to submit
is bliss

Alluring,
she can be
(Only Obey me)
with simply
a quick slap/jolt
to restore
to restart the system—

Zap back
to the trance-tripping
swirls of eyes
that cry sentimentality

I will tell you how to be

Those swan women
broke their backs
on corrosive corsets
rise crippled but cute
from the grave because the dead
are more compliant models
than the living dead

The weepy look
is in—
Navy smear
the eyesockets

The spring collection
is beaten and bruised
the already tasted
the already raped
hey, baby you want a date?

You pout
like a doll
sprawled,
seductively

Mash mercury
into your face power
to achieve the hue of holiness

Keep those
lids
lifeless

Never look
like you don’t want me

You, celluloid angel
can scrape away your birth-mask
become who you want to be
or how you want to be seen

Fatten
your lips,
Bliss
and bloodfull
become
so succulent

Remember,

Beauty is only Aggression
(Submission)

- Andrea DeAngelis

(3 poems added 03.22.09)

Death Gossip

Love doesn't kill us.
Only death does that.
Love is a very tough bird.

She can live in cities,
in the desert,
in a morgue.

When death kills a branch,
she is the tree.
When death takes the tree,
she's the forest.

Love is a very tough bird.
And when she croons
there is a moment-
when time itself forgets which way to go.

- Tess Hunt

(3 poems added 03.21.09)

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