::: A Taste of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum 11.20.09 :::
“Take me, I am the drug; take me, I am hallucinogenic.” Salvador Dali
In the Spirit of Coop (above) by psycho painter Johnny O, one of over 20 resident artists currently being displayed in Mad Swirl's color-filled Mad Gallery.
In case you missed it, here's a taste of the yummy poetry we featured this week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum...
COSMIC SCUM
I am lolling sideways
In a minute trickle
Of cosmic scum
Not meaning a goddamn thing
Not moving myself forward
Not moving myself back
Just floating along
Knowing what I am
Like a nasty little amoeba
Not giving a fuck
Feeding on fucking scum
That doesn't mean shit
That feeds on scum
That doesn't mean shit
Feeding on scum
That doesn't fucking mean shit
And so on and so on
Yep
That's pretty much it
Well, wait a minute
I think there's something else
But that it is where the dream is
Never beginning
Never ending
In flux
And, in my dream
All of this means so much
Because it means the world
I'm so deranged
- Kyle Segars
(3 poems added 11.20.09)
•••••••••••
Feeling alone (and completely in control)
I sit alone in a room.
not in complete darkness - but concealed by four walls.
And on those walls hold pretty pictures
lit up by the perfect light -
And the light comes from Pretty lamps.
Purchased from the clearance rack at Target.
But don't tell anyone that, I don't tell anyone that either.
I like people to think i'm doing better than I am.
That I can afford expensive lamps, and pretty pictures.
And i think my eyes are like that too.
They hold light well, and make people think I'm doing better than I am.
That look, was purchased at a very cheap price.
But whats behind it...
was bought ...and it put me out a few bucks.
And I know that if I called him, or anyone... they would come...
cause thats just what people do for girls
(with pretty pictures
and perfect lighting
and target clearance lamps
and bright eyes
and fucked up stuff behind them...)
But I don't call.
I've learned that being alone
is kind of like crying -that sometimes
it can be comforting and sad and painfull
and make you feel human
and I find control in pain sometimes
and thats where I am now
between four walls
Phone on charger
and I'm feeling lonely
and completely in control
(wow, those really are nice lamps)
- S. Bowers Harding © 2009
(added 11.19.09)
•••••••••••
ACOUSTICS
There's a song playing about an under water guy
who controlled the sea and I think about how
difficult it must be to be solely responsible for
something as complex as tides. My hair reeks of
smoke and so do my clothes and my ears ring
because the guitarist isn't aware of how to properly
set his amp for shows in a small venue and don't
they teach musicians about acoustics anymore?
There's whiskey on my breath and rum in my blood
and thoughts about waves in my head and we talk
about modes of all things and how
Interested
Dedicated
Pupils
Love
Modes
And
Learning
and you can't believe my theory teacher taught
me that too we grew up in different states and
wow that drummer was lagging and did you
notice how loud the guitar was? I tell you I wish
you weren't taking me home and you become
quiet like crickets do when they feel threatened.
- Elizabeth Campbell
(added 11.18.09)
•••••••••••
The Poem I Want to Write
I want to write a poem that comes to church
in fishnets, then shouts, “Bullshit!” during the sermon.
I want to write a poem that empties its ashtray
in the neighbors flower bed.
I want to write a poem that steals “Keep off the Grass” signs
and reposts them around golf courses.
I want to write a poem that breaks into houses
just to steal the batteries from remote controls.
I want to write a poem that sneezes while driving
and never takes its foot off the gas.
I want to write a poem that drinks my milk straight from the jug,
and doesn’t rinse the sink after spitting out toothpaste.
I want to write a poem that loudly guesses the weight
of everyone in the ice cream aisle at Kroger.
I want to write a poem that never tips the waitress,
and shuns things like lipstick and chivalry.
I want to write a poem that can open its own damn doors.
- Lesley Doyle
(added 11.17.09)
•••••••••••
a restaurant?
rye salad cooked from Brian’s attitude
booked fried onions fried to
death runs and fried broccoli
baked banners galore.
such a statement, silver lady,
don’t question my attitude,
such a rating riot, dear lady,
who and how are you?
swim down here one day and
you’ll see what menu I’m cookin
up to feed all the neurons and
their ghosts—
but don’t philosophize your
stone centered being, just
wake up and eat, silver lady,
undo your napkin off your lap
to lap up milk covered red
steak singing with heat cooked
raked out greens and please,
please, please
enjoy.
- Benjamin Rathbone
(added 11.16.09)
•••••••••••
My Death Clock Singing
I’ve been dead for 3 days, thru
the putrid
crust of the earth
finding
angels in
the streets
and a drunken
mistress who chews
her own nipples
until they become
raw, RED, & swollen
I’ve been dead
for 3 days
picking at calloused
skin
& blisters
while fat flies
with big
RED eyes and RED asses
sit on my belly
lips cut with aluminum
tops of beer cans
sucking
blood
between my teeth
to tell stories in the gutter
under a street light brighter than
the boiling face of the moon.
- Justin Wade Thompson
(added 11.15.09)
•••••••••••
Lemons
What’s that under your shirt child
Lemons!
Grandad look
I have boobies
Pink and bold
Topped with red rubies
I took them for a stroll
In my grandpa’s garden
Not as big as melons
But as big as they should be
For grandpapa to get angry
And to curse me
Boobies with red rubies
Or lemons fully grown
Tucked under a child’s shirt
Simply don’t belong
- Ariel Child
(added 11.14.09)
•••••••••••
The whole Mad Swirl of everything to come keeps on keepin' on... now... now... NOW! Every second, every minute, every hour, every day, every week, every month, every every EVERY there is! Wanna join in the poetic conversations going on in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum? Then stop by whenever the mood strikes! We're swirling it here 24/7!
Your Mad Swirly Servants,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
“The first man to compare the cheeks of a young woman to a rose was obviously a poet; the first to repeat it was possibly an idiot.” Salvador Dali
In the Spirit of Coop (above) by psycho painter Johnny O, one of over 20 resident artists currently being displayed in Mad Swirl's color-filled Mad Gallery.
In case you missed it, here's a taste of the yummy poetry we featured this week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum...
COSMIC SCUM
I am lolling sideways
In a minute trickle
Of cosmic scum
Not meaning a goddamn thing
Not moving myself forward
Not moving myself back
Just floating along
Knowing what I am
Like a nasty little amoeba
Not giving a fuck
Feeding on fucking scum
That doesn't mean shit
That feeds on scum
That doesn't mean shit
Feeding on scum
That doesn't fucking mean shit
And so on and so on
Yep
That's pretty much it
Well, wait a minute
I think there's something else
But that it is where the dream is
Never beginning
Never ending
In flux
And, in my dream
All of this means so much
Because it means the world
I'm so deranged
- Kyle Segars
(3 poems added 11.20.09)
•••••••••••
Feeling alone (and completely in control)
I sit alone in a room.
not in complete darkness - but concealed by four walls.
And on those walls hold pretty pictures
lit up by the perfect light -
And the light comes from Pretty lamps.
Purchased from the clearance rack at Target.
But don't tell anyone that, I don't tell anyone that either.
I like people to think i'm doing better than I am.
That I can afford expensive lamps, and pretty pictures.
And i think my eyes are like that too.
They hold light well, and make people think I'm doing better than I am.
That look, was purchased at a very cheap price.
But whats behind it...
was bought ...and it put me out a few bucks.
And I know that if I called him, or anyone... they would come...
cause thats just what people do for girls
(with pretty pictures
and perfect lighting
and target clearance lamps
and bright eyes
and fucked up stuff behind them...)
But I don't call.
I've learned that being alone
is kind of like crying -that sometimes
it can be comforting and sad and painfull
and make you feel human
and I find control in pain sometimes
and thats where I am now
between four walls
Phone on charger
and I'm feeling lonely
and completely in control
(wow, those really are nice lamps)
- S. Bowers Harding © 2009
(added 11.19.09)
•••••••••••
ACOUSTICS
There's a song playing about an under water guy
who controlled the sea and I think about how
difficult it must be to be solely responsible for
something as complex as tides. My hair reeks of
smoke and so do my clothes and my ears ring
because the guitarist isn't aware of how to properly
set his amp for shows in a small venue and don't
they teach musicians about acoustics anymore?
There's whiskey on my breath and rum in my blood
and thoughts about waves in my head and we talk
about modes of all things and how
Interested
Dedicated
Pupils
Love
Modes
And
Learning
and you can't believe my theory teacher taught
me that too we grew up in different states and
wow that drummer was lagging and did you
notice how loud the guitar was? I tell you I wish
you weren't taking me home and you become
quiet like crickets do when they feel threatened.
- Elizabeth Campbell
(added 11.18.09)
•••••••••••
The Poem I Want to Write
I want to write a poem that comes to church
in fishnets, then shouts, “Bullshit!” during the sermon.
I want to write a poem that empties its ashtray
in the neighbors flower bed.
I want to write a poem that steals “Keep off the Grass” signs
and reposts them around golf courses.
I want to write a poem that breaks into houses
just to steal the batteries from remote controls.
I want to write a poem that sneezes while driving
and never takes its foot off the gas.
I want to write a poem that drinks my milk straight from the jug,
and doesn’t rinse the sink after spitting out toothpaste.
I want to write a poem that loudly guesses the weight
of everyone in the ice cream aisle at Kroger.
I want to write a poem that never tips the waitress,
and shuns things like lipstick and chivalry.
I want to write a poem that can open its own damn doors.
- Lesley Doyle
(added 11.17.09)
•••••••••••
a restaurant?
rye salad cooked from Brian’s attitude
booked fried onions fried to
death runs and fried broccoli
baked banners galore.
such a statement, silver lady,
don’t question my attitude,
such a rating riot, dear lady,
who and how are you?
swim down here one day and
you’ll see what menu I’m cookin
up to feed all the neurons and
their ghosts—
but don’t philosophize your
stone centered being, just
wake up and eat, silver lady,
undo your napkin off your lap
to lap up milk covered red
steak singing with heat cooked
raked out greens and please,
please, please
enjoy.
- Benjamin Rathbone
(added 11.16.09)
•••••••••••
My Death Clock Singing
I’ve been dead for 3 days, thru
the putrid
crust of the earth
finding
angels in
the streets
and a drunken
mistress who chews
her own nipples
until they become
raw, RED, & swollen
I’ve been dead
for 3 days
picking at calloused
skin
& blisters
while fat flies
with big
RED eyes and RED asses
sit on my belly
lips cut with aluminum
tops of beer cans
sucking
blood
between my teeth
to tell stories in the gutter
under a street light brighter than
the boiling face of the moon.
- Justin Wade Thompson
(added 11.15.09)
•••••••••••
Lemons
What’s that under your shirt child
Lemons!
Grandad look
I have boobies
Pink and bold
Topped with red rubies
I took them for a stroll
In my grandpa’s garden
Not as big as melons
But as big as they should be
For grandpapa to get angry
And to curse me
Boobies with red rubies
Or lemons fully grown
Tucked under a child’s shirt
Simply don’t belong
- Ariel Child
(added 11.14.09)
•••••••••••
The whole Mad Swirl of everything to come keeps on keepin' on... now... now... NOW! Every second, every minute, every hour, every day, every week, every month, every every EVERY there is! Wanna join in the poetic conversations going on in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum? Then stop by whenever the mood strikes! We're swirling it here 24/7!
Your Mad Swirly Servants,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
“The first man to compare the cheeks of a young woman to a rose was obviously a poet; the first to repeat it was possibly an idiot.” Salvador Dali
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