::: A Taste of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum 09.04.09 :::
“The only thing that can save the world is the reclaiming of the awareness of the world. That's what poetry does.” Allen Ginsberg
Self-Portrait (above) from the mad mind of Christian Millet, one of over 20 resident artists hanging in Mad Swirl's Mad Gallery!
Mad Swirl's heart is still Beat-in' after this past 1st Wednesday's Night of Beat-itudes. If you were there, you just might still feel the Beat-ness of the scene that was at our mad swirling Open Mic. If not, well, we'll do what we can to give you the next best thing to seeing our Beat-ness and that's reading our Beat-ness!
Calling all you chick-sters & daddy-o's out there, do you know what today is? Today is the day we dig on this groove that moves us and spread the mad, Mad Swirlin' Poetry Forum word to all you hipsters out there. Can you dig? No really, we mean it, can you dig it? We know that you can...
go...Go...GO!
•-•-•-•-•-•-•
The Whozit's Who Knowszit
The Whozit's who knewzit don't knowz it no more.
The Theyzit's have done it and stolen the door.
The Themzit's have moved Therezit's to some faraway shore
while the Wezit's can sees it when knocked to the floor.
The secret to the Wezit's is written on walls
penned by the Whozit's who wants justice for all.
The Theyzit's and Themzit's never heed to the calls.
The Wezit's sit patiently while the walls start to fall.
The door, you see, that Theyzit's have stolen
sits closer to the Wezit's the more that they're growing.
For the Wezit's and Uszit's must bridge to Therezit's door.
If not, the Whozit's who knewzit will never knowz it no more
'cos the Theyzit's will take it and destroy the it for sure.
The click clock tick tock mocks as the Uszit's chase time,
the Wezit's find keys to melt and to mold
in rhythm's and rhyme's.
Amazing things these Wezit's'n'Uszit's will find
while crawling and clawing and gnawing their minds.
And the secret gets closer
and the shore grows nearer
and the route is clearer
and the time is dearer
and never ever fearer
the Super Wezit's'n'Uszit's are herer
to display the new day!
As for the Theyzit's and the Themzit's?
Well they'd bestest find a new way.
Johnny Olson
(1 poem added 09.04.09)
NEXT DOOR
You're next door.
I can't heal.
You're next door.
I can't feel.
I can't write.
I can't move.
I can't mourn.
When you're feeling too hollow
to sleep or to pray,
and it ruins your day-
Please don't call me.
When you start aching
the way that you do,
For something that's real
you can burrow into-
Please don't call me.
You hand me your grief
when you find it's too heavy,
and you leave it inside me to grow.
It isn't a gift,
it's a torture device
and it renders me hollow and slow.
I have done it again
and again and again-
And I'm crazy,
I'll do it once more.
So please-
Please don't call me.
It's the last thing I'll ask.
Please don't call me when you are Next Door.
Tess Hunt
(1 poem added 09.03.09)
I GIVE OUT
I give in to everything
You all have me again
There is never only one
But a multitude
A legion that wills
Against mine
And what am I
A natural force
A fiery ball
A fall guy
And a fool
All of this
I never give up
For hope is the god
Who fucks like jesus
As rampant as mohammed
And other prophets from nothing
That prosper in the desert
Of our ever shrinking dreams
Anthony Murphy
(added 09.02.09)
LIFE IN THE SLOW LANE
puffed up slow brain
light the little pathways through burned out nerves
through worn out eyes
watching clumsy hands
reach out pour drink lift
lap like a worn out mongrel dog
the infinite coolnes of the liquid
the infinite slowness of everything
everything slow and gray
lift cup drink
as you strain through the dust
and slumber of a thousand forgotten years
all the waste
the waste
the waste
lift cup
drink till its gone
till every drop is gone
Joshua Weir
(1 poem added 09.01.09)
Angel
for Sophia Rose
The Labor & Delivery room was typical:
institutional white, stark, and bleach
clean. My heavy heart sank deeper
into the mattress as I thought of my baby.
Weightless. Lost. Floating in my womb
like a ghost ship in the Bermuda Triangle.
The umbilical chord a lifeline between her
and the promise of life. Of rescue.
But the SOS came too late. Where there was
once a sea of amniotic fluid, there was now
an empty cavern. The nurse told me in a
whisper, after the doctor left with silence
in his pocket, that he saw two little feet.
Dangling. Suspended with nothing to hold on
to. I had always believed in angels. Just
never thought I would hold one in my arms.
Watch her tiny chest flutter one last time.
Sandy Benitez
(added 08.31.08)
Odobenus rosmarus
(The Walrus)
“I told you about the walrus and me-man
You know that we're as close as can be-man.
Well here's another clue for you all,
The walrus was Paul.”
The fading 60s legend sheds his skin
Wriggling the scarred leathery flesh
Down past his shoulders.
Once his arms are free it goes faster.
The thick wrinkled hide
Comes off like a wetsuit
Which I suppose, in a way,
It is. He spreads the mysterious skin
Upon the moon-lit sand
Like a camper
Preparing to roll his sleeping bag
Into as tight a package as possible
Which he does, but first the tusks
Hanging like monstrous fangs
From his upper jaw.
He grips first the left in both hands,
Unseats it with a practiced jiggle.
The right takes a bit more work
Before it too slides out
With a soft wet sucking sound.
The roots go deep.
Now's the worst bit,
Yanking out the stubborn
Quill-thick whiskers drooping
Over his mouth.
Even with near threescore years
Worth of practice, he can't help
Whimpering with the agony.
But he can't shave this moustache
It needs be plucked by hand
For that is the nature
Of the Selkie-folk's inborn
Magic: pain and loss.
He rolls his tusks and Whiskers
Inside his fin-footed skin
Binds it with some dried seaweed
And rises to his feet the man
We all think we know
Sadness lurking deep in his watery eyes.
Max Earl Blair
(1 poem added 08.30.08)
Birth of a Monster
Below the stars are hubris veins of man.
Cement of guidance lost within a race
of progress. Business rules, money from blood.
Tycoons of oil to build an empire vast.
Corruption thrives as norm. The people yield.
The sky above is being scraped by steel.
The veins of earth, pollution taints and blights.
Like clockwork, trees begin to drop and burn.
The sky then falls from weight of acid rain.
But last to die is all the earth and life.
Machines all rule with cogs and wheels and teeth.
They send a signal under man’s estate.
A demon breathes within the earth alive.
Its mouth now open swallows man above.
The sun will melt the wax of our sole wings.
Justin Rose
(added 08.29.09)
•-•-•-•-•-•-•
Can you feel the Beat? Then our job here is finished...for now!
But this whole Mad Swirl of everything to come keeps beginning... now... now... now! Every second, every minute, every hour, every day, every week, every month, every every EVERY there is! Just point your thumb down that road and catch a ride to this swirling madness whenever you get the urge to howl. This Beat-en path to the poetic conversations going on in the Poetry Forum is always a-hoppin'!
yes...Yes...YES!
Johnny O
Chief Mad Daddy-o
MH Clay
Poetry Editing Mad Hep Cat
“You're a genius all the time.” Jack Kerouac
Self-Portrait (above) from the mad mind of Christian Millet, one of over 20 resident artists hanging in Mad Swirl's Mad Gallery!
Mad Swirl's heart is still Beat-in' after this past 1st Wednesday's Night of Beat-itudes. If you were there, you just might still feel the Beat-ness of the scene that was at our mad swirling Open Mic. If not, well, we'll do what we can to give you the next best thing to seeing our Beat-ness and that's reading our Beat-ness!
Calling all you chick-sters & daddy-o's out there, do you know what today is? Today is the day we dig on this groove that moves us and spread the mad, Mad Swirlin' Poetry Forum word to all you hipsters out there. Can you dig? No really, we mean it, can you dig it? We know that you can...
go...Go...GO!
•-•-•-•-•-•-•
The Whozit's Who Knowszit
The Whozit's who knewzit don't knowz it no more.
The Theyzit's have done it and stolen the door.
The Themzit's have moved Therezit's to some faraway shore
while the Wezit's can sees it when knocked to the floor.
The secret to the Wezit's is written on walls
penned by the Whozit's who wants justice for all.
The Theyzit's and Themzit's never heed to the calls.
The Wezit's sit patiently while the walls start to fall.
The door, you see, that Theyzit's have stolen
sits closer to the Wezit's the more that they're growing.
For the Wezit's and Uszit's must bridge to Therezit's door.
If not, the Whozit's who knewzit will never knowz it no more
'cos the Theyzit's will take it and destroy the it for sure.
The click clock tick tock mocks as the Uszit's chase time,
the Wezit's find keys to melt and to mold
in rhythm's and rhyme's.
Amazing things these Wezit's'n'Uszit's will find
while crawling and clawing and gnawing their minds.
And the secret gets closer
and the shore grows nearer
and the route is clearer
and the time is dearer
and never ever fearer
the Super Wezit's'n'Uszit's are herer
to display the new day!
As for the Theyzit's and the Themzit's?
Well they'd bestest find a new way.
Johnny Olson
(1 poem added 09.04.09)
NEXT DOOR
You're next door.
I can't heal.
You're next door.
I can't feel.
I can't write.
I can't move.
I can't mourn.
When you're feeling too hollow
to sleep or to pray,
and it ruins your day-
Please don't call me.
When you start aching
the way that you do,
For something that's real
you can burrow into-
Please don't call me.
You hand me your grief
when you find it's too heavy,
and you leave it inside me to grow.
It isn't a gift,
it's a torture device
and it renders me hollow and slow.
I have done it again
and again and again-
And I'm crazy,
I'll do it once more.
So please-
Please don't call me.
It's the last thing I'll ask.
Please don't call me when you are Next Door.
Tess Hunt
(1 poem added 09.03.09)
I GIVE OUT
I give in to everything
You all have me again
There is never only one
But a multitude
A legion that wills
Against mine
And what am I
A natural force
A fiery ball
A fall guy
And a fool
All of this
I never give up
For hope is the god
Who fucks like jesus
As rampant as mohammed
And other prophets from nothing
That prosper in the desert
Of our ever shrinking dreams
Anthony Murphy
(added 09.02.09)
LIFE IN THE SLOW LANE
puffed up slow brain
light the little pathways through burned out nerves
through worn out eyes
watching clumsy hands
reach out pour drink lift
lap like a worn out mongrel dog
the infinite coolnes of the liquid
the infinite slowness of everything
everything slow and gray
lift cup drink
as you strain through the dust
and slumber of a thousand forgotten years
all the waste
the waste
the waste
lift cup
drink till its gone
till every drop is gone
Joshua Weir
(1 poem added 09.01.09)
Angel
for Sophia Rose
The Labor & Delivery room was typical:
institutional white, stark, and bleach
clean. My heavy heart sank deeper
into the mattress as I thought of my baby.
Weightless. Lost. Floating in my womb
like a ghost ship in the Bermuda Triangle.
The umbilical chord a lifeline between her
and the promise of life. Of rescue.
But the SOS came too late. Where there was
once a sea of amniotic fluid, there was now
an empty cavern. The nurse told me in a
whisper, after the doctor left with silence
in his pocket, that he saw two little feet.
Dangling. Suspended with nothing to hold on
to. I had always believed in angels. Just
never thought I would hold one in my arms.
Watch her tiny chest flutter one last time.
Sandy Benitez
(added 08.31.08)
Odobenus rosmarus
(The Walrus)
“I told you about the walrus and me-man
You know that we're as close as can be-man.
Well here's another clue for you all,
The walrus was Paul.”
The fading 60s legend sheds his skin
Wriggling the scarred leathery flesh
Down past his shoulders.
Once his arms are free it goes faster.
The thick wrinkled hide
Comes off like a wetsuit
Which I suppose, in a way,
It is. He spreads the mysterious skin
Upon the moon-lit sand
Like a camper
Preparing to roll his sleeping bag
Into as tight a package as possible
Which he does, but first the tusks
Hanging like monstrous fangs
From his upper jaw.
He grips first the left in both hands,
Unseats it with a practiced jiggle.
The right takes a bit more work
Before it too slides out
With a soft wet sucking sound.
The roots go deep.
Now's the worst bit,
Yanking out the stubborn
Quill-thick whiskers drooping
Over his mouth.
Even with near threescore years
Worth of practice, he can't help
Whimpering with the agony.
But he can't shave this moustache
It needs be plucked by hand
For that is the nature
Of the Selkie-folk's inborn
Magic: pain and loss.
He rolls his tusks and Whiskers
Inside his fin-footed skin
Binds it with some dried seaweed
And rises to his feet the man
We all think we know
Sadness lurking deep in his watery eyes.
Max Earl Blair
(1 poem added 08.30.08)
Birth of a Monster
Below the stars are hubris veins of man.
Cement of guidance lost within a race
of progress. Business rules, money from blood.
Tycoons of oil to build an empire vast.
Corruption thrives as norm. The people yield.
The sky above is being scraped by steel.
The veins of earth, pollution taints and blights.
Like clockwork, trees begin to drop and burn.
The sky then falls from weight of acid rain.
But last to die is all the earth and life.
Machines all rule with cogs and wheels and teeth.
They send a signal under man’s estate.
A demon breathes within the earth alive.
Its mouth now open swallows man above.
The sun will melt the wax of our sole wings.
Justin Rose
(added 08.29.09)
•-•-•-•-•-•-•
Can you feel the Beat? Then our job here is finished...for now!
But this whole Mad Swirl of everything to come keeps beginning... now... now... now! Every second, every minute, every hour, every day, every week, every month, every every EVERY there is! Just point your thumb down that road and catch a ride to this swirling madness whenever you get the urge to howl. This Beat-en path to the poetic conversations going on in the Poetry Forum is always a-hoppin'!
yes...Yes...YES!
Johnny O
Chief Mad Daddy-o
MH Clay
Poetry Editing Mad Hep Cat
“You're a genius all the time.” Jack Kerouac
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