::: A Taste of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 06.05.09 :::
"Come voyeur my poems / Feel free, I feel free." Carrie Latet
"The Fall of Happiness" (above) by Christian Millet, our newest swirlin' resident artist being displayed in the Mad Gallery!
Who's got a hankerin' for some tasty poetic vittles? Good, because Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum is pippin hot and best eaten hungry. Come get you a samplin' of this swirling variety of collected mad poetry from the most maddest of the mad poets from all corners of this big and blue swirly marble and have showcased them in the Poetry Forum just for you. Here’s your weekly 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 often for the latest swirling additions!
fast exit
we’ll make a fast exit
i promise
so quick and painless
and our bank account
won’t even feel it.
we’ll let them feel good about it
slap us on the back
and give us those eyes
then we’ll run
far away
to the bar
to a fine restaurant
or just into the street
free for the moment
rich for a moment
tomorrow won’t matter
we’ll just look at the gray pavement
and the dumb faces
waiting on their crinkling pink papers
with a sigh of relief
because then at least it’ll be over
then we’ll hide the bills
we’ll make sure to stock
the liquor cabinets good
before we settle
in for the long haul
it’ll go so easily
it’ll be a fast exit
a mad dash out the door
i tell you
we won’t even let them finish
their sentence before we’re gone
we won’t hang around for
their empathy and promises
we’ll laugh like jackals
all the way to the end of brooklyn
we’ll smile like fools
we’ll be the happiest idiots
they’ve ever seen
free
two giddy twits galloping
like track horses toward the fast exit.
John Grochalski
(3 poems added 06.05.09)
Café Neo
So there we sat on the deck of the Café Neo,
two red-winged starlings showing up,
and the mist rolling in from the rocks across the way.
I pushed my bag, ready to spill its fullness,
under my spindly chrome chair
so that it could give nothing away.
You showed me your Web site,
brimming with complexities,
awkwardly brushing dust from the laptop screen.
I held the Windhoek lager coolly erect in my hand.
Your green eyes sized me up.
The combatative clink of bottle necks.
You pointed to the lighthouse, explaining how it beams code
to the ships beyond Robben Island,
warning them of danger on the reefs.
We ate plump olives,
dipped triangles of warm pita bread in hummus,
tried the tzatsiki.
With you, I felt like a small girl,
back from exploring,
safe, but not free, on her father’s lap.
Your voice hummed like a ship's engine,
as you showed me a photograph of your mother,
her face wry with an unknown sadness.
You signed the bill,
carefully, as if writing poetry.
We kissed goodbye.
Walking to my car, I saw a Cape Owl
dive from the haze of a rooftop,
deflecting a seagull.
Sarah Frost
(3 poems added 06.04.09)
The Life of Sparrows
They dive in cursives
from a life of leaf shadows.
There is insect hunting
and grey turns through out
these dense branch mazes;
we have hidden there weather or not
the memory remains of cradles
higher in breezes, and the knots
and elbows wrapped together,
the ivory and honey of our skins
draped like snakes or silk in as much sunlight
as the leaves would allow
through their small twirling geometries.
We spoke to sparrows then
and were not concerned with Rome
or barbaric machines operating on lunatic oils.
Before this life began
we had long days of years
watching small creatures build small lives
out of dried grass and Dixie cup fragments,
the adult cups that explode on the horizons
of sick, grandiose orange and low blood moons.
The blueness of the old sky
was once represented in the small egg-flake
pretending to give the nest it’s purpose,
purpose pretending to give the nest to us:
a sweet innocent, ignorant drink.
Now, I drink your dirty knees in those branches
and cry hard in the morning
and chase the life of sparrows
across fields and fields of white noise,
like forge hammers beating out my place,
but always in teasing distances I want to touch,
and I know the terrible distances of the lives of others
and I grieve for the terrifying distances we’ve yet to go.
Heath Aught
(1 poem added 06.03.09)
being part of society
you must
stamp things, sign them,
count, subtract, categorize
when does it end?
can't we just let it all go?
do what you want when you want?
wait--sign here!--now you can
at least, till the notary gets here
then you'll need to be fingerprinted
have your blood taken, stool sampled
show ID and your good to go again
till the magistrate arrives, then they'll
flog you, tickle you, and publicly heckle you
till the president comes
at which point you'll need to lawyer up
to ask for a pardon
or lobby to ask for a revolution
backed by people who are tired
of stamping, signing, and counting
things for other people
they will overthrow the notary,
the magistrate, and the president
and replace them with new posts
with new names
who can't wait to make those overthrown
start signing, stamping, and counting their things
while you create an excel inventory of it
Ra! Gabriel
(3 poems added 06.02.09)
HE'S DYING
Chris reeks of urine. Bleeding needle marks turned his arms blue.
His eyes are glazed and he shows no emotion. Heroin has taken
its toll. He's unaware that I'm there.
He's dying.
Dying slowly dose by dose. He begins to shake and quiver. He
needs another fix. The methadone will stop the shakes but it is
as bad as the real stuff. I inject a syringe full. Serenity returns
in just a few seconds. Eyes closed and he smiles; not realizing
He's dying.
Usually we try to wean the user off-detoxify. Not Chris. He's burned
out his brain and his kidneys are failing. He looks ghastly pale and
his eyes are yellow. He doesn't respond to sound or light. He sits
like an amorphous lump of clay waiting to be returned to the earth.
He's dying
Once a businessman whose partner stole him blind. He never
recovered. He has robbed, stolen, begged and borrowed. He's
burned every bridge in town. He lived in a fleabag hotel and
survived on an SS check. His family disowned him. His wife has
remarried. He is now too far gone to cry. The deep tragedy is
that nobody cares
He's dying.
Mike Berger
(3 poems added 06.01.09)
Goodbye Blue Sky
Blue Eyes still think about Blue Sky
A meltdown lifetime ago
Stranger dancing
Sundress stroll
Sauntering seduction
Water wells invent music
Starving notes
Kissing chords
Carved curved back
Smooth cool lover sculpture
Staring 3 by 3
Terrific terrible tease
Strict rules and nothing plays
Silence daylight
night is speaking
drumbeats and drunkenness
Freedom has nothing
but will
costs nothing
but courage
is nothing
but solitude
misty-eyed memories
molding protein
long gone lady luck
lucid lover
listening water forgives
is forgiveness
ask the dry tongue
Goodbye yellow yesterday
Goodbye Blue Sky
Goodbye.
Desmene M. Statum
(1 poem added 05.31.09)
Blasphemy
He
hung by his penis, wrists, and ankles.
She
hung by her nipples, neck, and toes.
And all the sidewalk traffic that night
either laughed, giggled or chuckled under their breath
at the uncommon sight.
The bachelor party quintet
pulled their beaten-up, gray ’84 Chevy van
to a dead stop by the curb
and jumped out
to gawk, snicker and guffaw until
the gray hair wiggled her walker close,
bowling over one of the drunkards
against the public display case.
“It’s SICK, SICK, SICK
I say,” of which she did quite loudly,
Her brown, patched fist
pounding out each word
to a quick, symphonic cadence
against the thin vibrating barrier
separating herself
and the others
from the horror of it all.
Gaining moral certitude,
physical exactitude
the humped back one
preached to the growing sidewalk congregation,
converting many to her point of view
until three glass bottles
Pilsner’s finest beer
were thrown by the earlier heretics.
Two exploded by her pigeon toed feet
soaking wrinkled hosiery;
the other shattered
the clear curtain
separating art
from life.
And if one were to look ever so closely
beyond the jeering and applause from the crowd,
one could detect
faintly and ever so slightly
both faceless, life-size
paper machete mannequins in the display windows
smiling...
Joseph D. Di Lella
(1 poem added 05.30.09)
MmmMmmMad! Now that’s some good eatin’! This poetic place is ALWAYS a'hoppin'! Now with over 100 poets (and growing everyday), Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum is truly a poetic voice to be reckoned with. Check it out...right...NOW! You won't regret it. We promise.
To view the entire Poetry Forum archive please click here.
Let these mad ones know what you think! Leave your comment right here.
"The Fall of Happiness" (above) by Christian Millet, our newest swirlin' resident artist being displayed in the Mad Gallery!
Who's got a hankerin' for some tasty poetic vittles? Good, because Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum is pippin hot and best eaten hungry. Come get you a samplin' of this swirling variety of collected mad poetry from the most maddest of the mad poets from all corners of this big and blue swirly marble and have showcased them in the Poetry Forum just for you. Here’s your weekly 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 often for the latest swirling additions!
fast exit
we’ll make a fast exit
i promise
so quick and painless
and our bank account
won’t even feel it.
we’ll let them feel good about it
slap us on the back
and give us those eyes
then we’ll run
far away
to the bar
to a fine restaurant
or just into the street
free for the moment
rich for a moment
tomorrow won’t matter
we’ll just look at the gray pavement
and the dumb faces
waiting on their crinkling pink papers
with a sigh of relief
because then at least it’ll be over
then we’ll hide the bills
we’ll make sure to stock
the liquor cabinets good
before we settle
in for the long haul
it’ll go so easily
it’ll be a fast exit
a mad dash out the door
i tell you
we won’t even let them finish
their sentence before we’re gone
we won’t hang around for
their empathy and promises
we’ll laugh like jackals
all the way to the end of brooklyn
we’ll smile like fools
we’ll be the happiest idiots
they’ve ever seen
free
two giddy twits galloping
like track horses toward the fast exit.
John Grochalski
(3 poems added 06.05.09)
Café Neo
So there we sat on the deck of the Café Neo,
two red-winged starlings showing up,
and the mist rolling in from the rocks across the way.
I pushed my bag, ready to spill its fullness,
under my spindly chrome chair
so that it could give nothing away.
You showed me your Web site,
brimming with complexities,
awkwardly brushing dust from the laptop screen.
I held the Windhoek lager coolly erect in my hand.
Your green eyes sized me up.
The combatative clink of bottle necks.
You pointed to the lighthouse, explaining how it beams code
to the ships beyond Robben Island,
warning them of danger on the reefs.
We ate plump olives,
dipped triangles of warm pita bread in hummus,
tried the tzatsiki.
With you, I felt like a small girl,
back from exploring,
safe, but not free, on her father’s lap.
Your voice hummed like a ship's engine,
as you showed me a photograph of your mother,
her face wry with an unknown sadness.
You signed the bill,
carefully, as if writing poetry.
We kissed goodbye.
Walking to my car, I saw a Cape Owl
dive from the haze of a rooftop,
deflecting a seagull.
Sarah Frost
(3 poems added 06.04.09)
The Life of Sparrows
They dive in cursives
from a life of leaf shadows.
There is insect hunting
and grey turns through out
these dense branch mazes;
we have hidden there weather or not
the memory remains of cradles
higher in breezes, and the knots
and elbows wrapped together,
the ivory and honey of our skins
draped like snakes or silk in as much sunlight
as the leaves would allow
through their small twirling geometries.
We spoke to sparrows then
and were not concerned with Rome
or barbaric machines operating on lunatic oils.
Before this life began
we had long days of years
watching small creatures build small lives
out of dried grass and Dixie cup fragments,
the adult cups that explode on the horizons
of sick, grandiose orange and low blood moons.
The blueness of the old sky
was once represented in the small egg-flake
pretending to give the nest it’s purpose,
purpose pretending to give the nest to us:
a sweet innocent, ignorant drink.
Now, I drink your dirty knees in those branches
and cry hard in the morning
and chase the life of sparrows
across fields and fields of white noise,
like forge hammers beating out my place,
but always in teasing distances I want to touch,
and I know the terrible distances of the lives of others
and I grieve for the terrifying distances we’ve yet to go.
Heath Aught
(1 poem added 06.03.09)
being part of society
you must
stamp things, sign them,
count, subtract, categorize
when does it end?
can't we just let it all go?
do what you want when you want?
wait--sign here!--now you can
at least, till the notary gets here
then you'll need to be fingerprinted
have your blood taken, stool sampled
show ID and your good to go again
till the magistrate arrives, then they'll
flog you, tickle you, and publicly heckle you
till the president comes
at which point you'll need to lawyer up
to ask for a pardon
or lobby to ask for a revolution
backed by people who are tired
of stamping, signing, and counting
things for other people
they will overthrow the notary,
the magistrate, and the president
and replace them with new posts
with new names
who can't wait to make those overthrown
start signing, stamping, and counting their things
while you create an excel inventory of it
Ra! Gabriel
(3 poems added 06.02.09)
HE'S DYING
Chris reeks of urine. Bleeding needle marks turned his arms blue.
His eyes are glazed and he shows no emotion. Heroin has taken
its toll. He's unaware that I'm there.
He's dying.
Dying slowly dose by dose. He begins to shake and quiver. He
needs another fix. The methadone will stop the shakes but it is
as bad as the real stuff. I inject a syringe full. Serenity returns
in just a few seconds. Eyes closed and he smiles; not realizing
He's dying.
Usually we try to wean the user off-detoxify. Not Chris. He's burned
out his brain and his kidneys are failing. He looks ghastly pale and
his eyes are yellow. He doesn't respond to sound or light. He sits
like an amorphous lump of clay waiting to be returned to the earth.
He's dying
Once a businessman whose partner stole him blind. He never
recovered. He has robbed, stolen, begged and borrowed. He's
burned every bridge in town. He lived in a fleabag hotel and
survived on an SS check. His family disowned him. His wife has
remarried. He is now too far gone to cry. The deep tragedy is
that nobody cares
He's dying.
Mike Berger
(3 poems added 06.01.09)
Goodbye Blue Sky
Blue Eyes still think about Blue Sky
A meltdown lifetime ago
Stranger dancing
Sundress stroll
Sauntering seduction
Water wells invent music
Starving notes
Kissing chords
Carved curved back
Smooth cool lover sculpture
Staring 3 by 3
Terrific terrible tease
Strict rules and nothing plays
Silence daylight
night is speaking
drumbeats and drunkenness
Freedom has nothing
but will
costs nothing
but courage
is nothing
but solitude
misty-eyed memories
molding protein
long gone lady luck
lucid lover
listening water forgives
is forgiveness
ask the dry tongue
Goodbye yellow yesterday
Goodbye Blue Sky
Goodbye.
Desmene M. Statum
(1 poem added 05.31.09)
Blasphemy
He
hung by his penis, wrists, and ankles.
She
hung by her nipples, neck, and toes.
And all the sidewalk traffic that night
either laughed, giggled or chuckled under their breath
at the uncommon sight.
The bachelor party quintet
pulled their beaten-up, gray ’84 Chevy van
to a dead stop by the curb
and jumped out
to gawk, snicker and guffaw until
the gray hair wiggled her walker close,
bowling over one of the drunkards
against the public display case.
“It’s SICK, SICK, SICK
I say,” of which she did quite loudly,
Her brown, patched fist
pounding out each word
to a quick, symphonic cadence
against the thin vibrating barrier
separating herself
and the others
from the horror of it all.
Gaining moral certitude,
physical exactitude
the humped back one
preached to the growing sidewalk congregation,
converting many to her point of view
until three glass bottles
Pilsner’s finest beer
were thrown by the earlier heretics.
Two exploded by her pigeon toed feet
soaking wrinkled hosiery;
the other shattered
the clear curtain
separating art
from life.
And if one were to look ever so closely
beyond the jeering and applause from the crowd,
one could detect
faintly and ever so slightly
both faceless, life-size
paper machete mannequins in the display windows
smiling...
Joseph D. Di Lella
(1 poem added 05.30.09)
MmmMmmMad! Now that’s some good eatin’! This poetic place is ALWAYS a'hoppin'! Now with over 100 poets (and growing everyday), Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum is truly a poetic voice to be reckoned with. Check it out...right...NOW! You won't regret it. We promise.
To view the entire Poetry Forum archive please click here.
Let these mad ones know what you think! Leave your comment right here.
Comments