::: A Taste of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 05.15.09 :::

"When we remember we are all mad, the mysteries disappear
and life stands explained." Mark Twain


Toby (above) by Kristin Fouquet, one of over a dozen mad swirlin' resident artists being displayed in the Mad Gallery!

Hello our fellow mad ones. And welcome to our weekly taste of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum. We once again have gone and collected mad poetry from the most maddest poets from all corners of this big & blue swirly marble and have showcased them in the Poetry Forum just for you. Here’s just a taste of what to expect when you visit Mad Swirl’s Poetry Forum. The Forum is in flux, it’s a living and breathing, ever evolving and changing entity...so please come by and come by often for the latest swirling additions!

unguided

dark brutal formalism,
butterfly under glass

collide with

talk in library, read in class:
sound meets letter; letter encounters sound,
curtsies, shimmies, and retires—
open mouths and closed eyes
try to find a cure
for loss
that begins in these pages.

yield

to deteriorating memories
capture in a big brown box:
enclose what? (besides meaning)
a jar of genuine dirt
that reveals a defensive shame
to ask why construct to deconstruct
with more than two elevators to serve
and thought about ants and peach pits and death and where the world went when eyes shut.

here is the house. it is green and white.

Jamie L. McDaniel

(3 poems added 05.15.09)

RESURRECTION MAN

I died in the winter of my despair. Yet in
the spring of sacred beginnings, I was reborn.

In the pristine moment of my 1st birth,
Hashem, my G-d, blessed me with
His divine breath, and in a cosmic kiss,

He created my celestial soul, my neshama, and
I came into being too, a human child with flesh
and spirit, nourished by the mysterious soul,
I came into being.

Through the eerie years of unexpected joy and
sorrow, and uncanny coincidences, colliding in the
cosmos of my life,

I was reborn again and again in the spring of holy
creation.

And I imagine that before my final death, I shall
die a thousand deaths on earth, for each day, injustice
and other evils murder my wounded soul, tearing my
flesh too with toxic despair.

Reborn with each magical sunrise, I am Resurrection Man.
But who shall I be when I am dead and dust once more?

Shall I rise from the earth and fly through the mystical air,
mere dust scattered over human existence? Perhaps,
Hashem will bless me with His divine breath, and in a
cosmic kiss, recreate my celestial soul, contained within the

holy sparks of barren dust, blessed and belonging to Hashem,
my G-d. If it is His will, I will drift in the turquoise sky,
seeking redemption and rebirth, yearning for eternal life,
discovering that even dust has a right to be, for it too comes
from Hashem, my G-d.

Mel Waldman

(3 poems added 05.14.09)

BLINK

The world is not the word
The word is not the world

The lamp burns all night
The flowers bloom stealthily

But soon the many colors fade
And light comes under a shade

Money and Youth
One day disappear

Moments of joy and pleasure
Are momentaneous

The whole world itself
One day comes to an end

Three days of life
Pass away in a blink

Only love lasts longer

Ashutosh Ghildiyal

(1 poem added 05.13.09)

DECADENT I AM

Let's fuck and dance
Let's all go apeshit
The sky is falling
Do we really have much to lose tonight?
The past, the present, and the future are one
To ask questions is to put answers under the gun
Let's go to all the places we always wanted to see
Even if we can't find a way to leave, we'll bring it all right here
We have no particular place here
Everything is dangerous
Get used to that
Some of my favorite dangers are alcohol, nihilism, and ideas
Now let's go to Europe
And drink cough syrup
Look around you if you really think you give a shit
And if you think you can say that what I say is to blame
How many people really would be willing to listen to a guy like me
When I talk about things like this?
Let's just fuck and dance and remember when partying was not about sitting down
Or being calm and laid-back or just standing there
Let's bounce off the walls, shit will probably get broken
If we spend too much time worrying about the consequences
We'll be sure to forget that all great things, whether simple or complex
Are measured in the bad
And without suffering and consequence, we would know no exceptional times
And one more line just to make that rhyme

Kyle Segars (as Wyld Kyle)

(2 poems added 05.12.09)

don’t kiss the emperors ring

This is an SOS to the saints

Tho they are all dead

Our world is sick

Stricken with tired aching feet

Mouths that rest slack

Ooh those sorrow’d eyes they bleed

Coloring crimson cheeks

Into a false state of bliss

This is an SOS to the bedraggled

Waiting every month for their dollars

Completely co-dependent upon

A deceitful organization

Ruled by mobsters with dollar guns

And coins fer the eyes

After they suck peoples husks dry

Why o why

Do these shackles of oppression

Hinder them, probing deep inside their memories

Little bells ting their gongs

Humming a tune of farewells

A heavy tune to bring them further down

This is an SOS to the fearful

Who cower in their beds at night

Scanning the midnight skies for fighter jets

& wmo’s

Smothering their faces with the pillows

Like a makeshift gas mask

Waiting for the end to come

Sending this SOS out to the masses

A wakeup call to the order

A new world order

With tattoos just for you

No branding of skins will do

Will not be perpetrated by you

Will not be herded to concentration camps

For special treatments

Will not submit to martial law

Or subtle morse codes through the phones

Or control through tele-screen portals

So this is an SOS for you

To wake and rise

Take to the streets and riot

Take no prisoners

Raise no swords

Load no guns

Sheath the pens and jam the streets

This is an SOS to batter the walls

Heed this call

Pour out the brandy

Melt all the pills

Break the needles and smear the lines

Cause there is no need for chemical confusion

This is our calling and its time to yell

We are sick of it all

Yea its time to say

All there is to say

That has been stifled

By the butt of the rifles

Bled out with rusted bayonettes

Lost in the bunkers of peace

Sucking on the sticks of grease

Torching the meadows slick with oily footprints

Forget about the carbon in the air

Dodge the acid rains

Cut off all yer hair

Tie it up in knots

1000’s of feet of rope

For the greatest tug o war

This nation has ever seen

So yea this is an SOS to the unseen

The sullen ones that just get by

The lonely ones who cry

The broken ones who cannot rise up

The little children

Ooh the little children their clock it ticks the clock

Distorting their enchanted view

So this is an SOS for our little girls and boys

Hiding behind our no-vacancy eyes

They are still spying on us

Waiting for us to remember

Those days that we must sing

Rather than these days where we don’t feel a thing

Yes this is an SOS for everything

We adore

An SOS to open new doors

Slam the old boys in the closets

Hang their gangers on the hangers

& hit the streets

Hit the streets & riot

No longer the quiet

But a raging storm

To ensure our futures

Ohh the children

Let them sing

& not bow to an emperors ring.

John C Sweet

(1 poem added 05.11.09)

storm and bones

big old house with blistered paint,
silent living room full of pictures,
I sit in the rocking chair and rock
back and forth, back and forth,

the sound of the family clock
humming silently in the stillness
and I drink quietly the red wine
tilting back and forth, back and…

old bones against wood,
creaking and squeaking

outside in the dusty back yard
there is the ancient cherry-tree
that stood against the ages and
the axes of my forefathers

suddenly I hear some other noises
and I take a look through the window,
one dark and hairy cloud is crawling
upon the untouched evening sky

and there is the lightening splitting
my paradise regained,
followed by the thunder muffling
the beats of my rusty heart

perfect moment, perfect hour-
the angry fist of the unmerciful storm
hits angrily the green grass outside and
I feel it in my wrinkling body –

old bones against the wind,
creaking and squeaking

O, Tempora!-
the branches of the tree are dancing
among the solitude of the passing time,
one perfect storm which shows me that
our world was created not for us

I think now
that this is the perfect time for someone to die,
no music, no dancing, no laughter,
just the boiling storm and
just this old clock going-
tic toc,

tic toc

tic…

let me be.

Peycho Kanev

(3 poems added 05.10.09)

WRITERS' BLOCK

In nineteen-eighteen
the Spanish influenza
infected everyone in the world,
killing twenty-two million people,
while, at the same time,
World War One wound down
with a measly body count
of eight million.

Nature wins twenty-two to eight.

Authors and poets
spent millions of words
on thousands of pages
describing, reporting
and illustrating the war,
but not on line
mentioned the influenza,
no one published text
until the nineteen-nineties.

Looking back,
I see people marching
in victory parades
wearing white gauze masks
over their noses
and mouths
in the a futile attempt
to protect themselves
from something
they did not have words
to describe.

Kenneth P. Gurney

(3 poems added 05.09.09)

(To order Kenneth's latest book "Writers' Block and other poems" please click here.)

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