The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 02.14.10
"A poem records emotions and moods that lie beyond normal language, that can only be patched together and hinted at metaphorically." Diane Ackerman
Love's Story (above) by painter Ellen McMahill, one of over 20 resident artists currently being displayed in Mad Swirl's eclectic Mad Gallery.
Hello and Happy V-Day to all you lovers out there. Just in case you missed it, here's just a taste of the poetry we featured this week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum...
•••••••••••
Epiphany & Serendipity Collide
As chance dictated, and fate would guide,
I felt the moment you and I and serendipity collide.
Coincidence be damned, I know the push of destiny's hand,
And I feel wisdom's truth
In each subsequent epiphany
I see you, my soular muse,
Come dance, sing, fly with me.
In a mad swirl of wings and words, and breath you sweep
The dust off dreams long-denied and concealed.
The Phoenix rouses me from my sleep,
My cocoon falls away like ashes, and the butterfly is revealed.
L.R. Walker
(added 02.14.10)
editor's note: "We couldn't think of a better choice of poem to have featured in our poetry forum on this day'o'love. Thanks for the poetic revealing of yourself. We dig what we see!" - jo
•••••••••••
Don’t cha just hate it when2
Don’t cha just hate it when some no talent ass clown gets up
on the stage and you know and I know he’s going to suck
like a black hole even before he starts to suck he’s sucking
he’s going to suck so hard his skull is going to implode
and he even knows he’s going to suck and you can see him start
to sweat big salty beads roll down his forehead
his skin starts to look pale and you wish he had tits
so at least you’d have something to look at while he prepares to launch
into one of those 100 mile and hour auctioneer voice monologues
about something inane like how bad he sucks but he didn’t think to
write about that and he wishes he had tits to distract you
from how bad he sucks and before he begins he’s getting cotton mouth
and stops to get a drink of water and he’s sucking so hard
they name a vacuum cleaner after him and he’s wondering about the wisdom
of having a triple espresso with the cheese pizza before getting on
the stage and how much time three minutes really seems like eternity
and he’s wondering if his fly is open because the audience is looking
at him as if he was standing on the stage with his cock out and now he’s just
stand there sucking like a virgin on prom night remembering
how great this poem seemed last night when he wrote it at 4:20 in the A M
but now he even begins to doubt the self referential wit that he thought
would help to carry this thing over he begins to wish he had written it in
verse iambic pentameter or done it as a 130 beat per minute rap
just to baffle the audience with bullshit because he has no substance
he’s not really a poet hell he doesn’t even read he spends most of his time
waiting for his fat assed old lady and her kids to go to sleep so he can log on
to indecent acts dot com and jack off to German Goo girls
before his coyote ugly wife wakes up and seizes his erection
before it does its usual Houdini act and disappears at the sight of her
when he isn’t drunk enough and the lights are on retreating inside
like a turtles head of him when all he really wants is to just once
be able to cum with out the fear of getting her pregnant
because she’s got kids from her first marriage
and they’re great kids they’re so great he figures she got it right
the first time but he doesn’t want to have kids with anyone who has kids
like that now he’s gone off on this scatological tangent and he’s scrambling
to save himself before he bombs like a radical Islamic fundamentalist
then he feels guilty for bagging on the towel head suicide bombers
and he’s doubting the veracity of his own work and he’s wondering how
many people in the audience will have to go look up the definition
of scatological and veracity oh just shoot me now
he’s sucking so hard gods getting a chubby
he hasn’t said a word he’s just standing there sweating with his ass
about to explode and when the three minutes are over they mob him
with faint praise and you forgot that you were just wishing he had tits
now you just wish he could teach your girlfriends to suck like he just sucked
you swear he could suck a cinderblock through a 100 feet of garden hose
he’s forgotten that he was just wishing he had tits because he’s sucking
so hard now he’s gonna have to put out so now he's wishing he had a cunt
we were right and he was right you’ve never even seen porn stars that sucked
so hard he never says a word he just walks off the stage and you applaud
because he sucks so hard he bends light.
Joey Da'rrell Cloudy
(3 poems added 02.13.10)
editor's note: "This one is for all the times when each of us (males) have wished we had tits, for the times when all of us have sucked enough to bend light. Too funny!" - mh
•••••••••••
Time Stitch
I see, I see, said the blind man to the deaf dog
to the assembled throng
of boys that don't belong,
of cabbages and kings
polar bears and whales
places and things
bedtime stories and kinky tales,
the midnight sun and the Mediterranean dawn
the full Biscay moon and faces long gone
museums in the morning drizzle
crashing waves on the shore,
as high as the angels in the Alps
alone at home, angry and poor;
the night train strangers under the northern lights
ill-dressed tourists and carbonated neon brights
what a sad sight
seen by eyes that don't work right
punctured by needles icy cold
to travel a broken cobblestone path, so we're told
cruising railroad stations for rented meat
fine dining and morphine cocktails trying to deny defeat
flying alone in a premier class seat
mountain air saliva he holds in his lip's heat
great towers bathed in whimsy
empty Norman beaches to every side
wandered by husbands desperate for their brides;
interstates and passports
postcards and souvenirs
laughter and bliss
people you can hardly miss
sights so beautiful you feel felt up by God
and shed an atheist's few tears;
I've been to heaven, and it's a lot like Paris.
Adam Henry Carrière
(3 poems added 02.12.10)
editor's note: "Something from a fellow, literary site-monger (worth checking out, see a link on his page). What the blind man sees; a carnival cacophony of all things leading to heaven, to Paris - prepare to be groped by God." - mh
•••••••••••
EXPLAINING THINGS
People have asked me often
Why I hate emos as much as I do
While others
Have often lumped me in with them
And here's why
Because you wanna know so bad
A few reasons, really:
Emos have no passion
They are the residue
That results from forty plus years of passionate subcultures
They are not to be respected as the "last hurrah"
Because it already happened
Even more than my self-destruction
(Which itself connotes at the very least
A basic, individualistic defiance)
They are evident of people getting tired of defiance
They have no fire
And, for you to say I have no fire
You haven't seen me swing a baseball bat
And I don't mean at a ball
They are the stink on the wall
Upset that they haven't been cleaned
Unknowing that they have been
No passion
The carnivals, the grindhouses, the violent shows
Whether real or imagined
Were violent because they couldn't be anything else
Nick Cave wrapping a microphone cord
Around some bitch's neck
Demanding, "Express yourself!"
The emos never felt they were cheated by culture
They felt they were cheated by a watered-down, acceptable version of "love"
And acceptance
Don't get me wrong
I felt the same way
Another reason I hate them
Was I was very similar to them
Years ago
Cutting and burning myself
Listening to the Cure and the Smiths
And I WAS a phone stalker
I never pretended to be
I WAS
I never imagined doing it
But I WAS
And, years later
I understood it was a lost cause
Pathetic, useless, only pissing on my own grave
Never mind about the last nail in the coffin
The emos idolize the behavior I once committed
As iconography
While my mere presence creeps them out
Makes them wanna
Run home
To Mommy and Daddy and church
So, yeah
These assholes, supporting a cultural vacuum
Saying they're the forgotten ones
Never to see their comfortable hypocrisy
As I boil in a room
That was made for living
As it makes me FEEL
That I wanna crush these pretentious little Top-40 pricks
With their scene-friendly, hip, passionless, unimaginative "mentality"
Fuck them
And fuck you if you can't understand that I am outnumbered
And not just some bully
Truly
Get fucked.
Kyle Segars
(3 poems added 02.11.10)
editor's note: "So, we had to check out this 'emo' thing, being evidently very unhip to require the question. The world-wide-web offered a site that was supposed to be the place to learn. It said,'The computers that run www.emo-space.com are having some trouble. Usually this is just a temporary problem, so you might want to try again in a few minutes.' So, maybe this means our unhip-ness is also temporary? Anyway, we Swirlers aren't into taking sides, but do like to throw out a contrary point of view, or two - contrary to the 'other' side of whatever the case may be. Maybe we'll hear the converse statement? Bring it on!" - mh
•••••••••••
The Unofficial History of Fast Food
The witches of Salem
were flame broiled
on a sesame seed
bun
while you went through the drive-thru
demanding extras packets
of ketchup.
The citizens of Dresden were
deep fried
alive
and I won't tell you
of the unspeakable horrors
that went into making
the gravy.
The bathrooms are clean
and the condiments
restocked
and no one would be the wiser
if I wasn't here
telling you this
right now.
Ryan Quinn Flanagan
(2 poems added 02.10.10)
editor's note: "A little twisted and detached from the horrible crimes referenced; just like the perpetrators of same. Perfect!" - mh
•••••••••••
Closets or Classrooms?
The closet is her Narnia,
between wet coats and leather shoes
she can't hear anything.
She retreats here when the mother beast feels like hunting.
Her teeth bared she rips through the apartment.
Carcasses of furniture and toys strewn across the floor
remind her that
the nurturer is also the werewolf.
She feels for the back of the closet
wishing it could fade into forest,
The beast drags her out
and breathes dragon breath and
cascading thorns.
She closes her eyes and pretends.
Pretends,
she has not woken the beast.
It spits and spews,
setting fire to her t-shirt
then sends her to school
where children bare their teeth
and back her into corners,
forcing her to debate whether
the closet or classroom is worse.
She hides her fear in her pockets,
raises her hand in class
and lets the world disappear behind
the right answers.
Chloe Viner
(added 02.09.10)
editor's note: "A sad, fascinating description of a battered child's unique coping skills. Nice!" - mh
•••••••••••
MODERNPOSTMANISMPOEM1
Hunched and needy
Like a baby seagull
I stalk the street
For sustenance
Stepping gingerly
Over
The once
Used
Herbal
Tea bags
And broken needles
That spill from brightening bins
In the dwindling dawns of August
Once I dreamt
Of better days within this
Earthen purgatory
When I was brown and pretty
It was no job
To breathe more freely
But now I stalk the streets
Beneath the laughing mooning ball above
In between the raining drops
By the graffito shuttered shops
Into the maw
The muscled chops
Of
The Royal Mail
62-63 North Road
Brighton
BN1 1AA
The lifers inside
So lifeless with pride
Good Morningly grunt their acknowledge
Let out to their wives at eventide
They are always back here stirring their porridge
Will be two hours yet as a coffee-god’s pet
Before I can summon a smile
I keep my weather-beaten head down
In the back of a Transit
On old copies of goals extra or extra goals
Or made up goals with moving posts
As the red valkyries descend
From the upstairs garage
Into the yard yawning with boredom
Like the back doors cold open wide
Waiting is time
And labour intensive
And work is last on the mind
A beardy they branded Jumanji walks by
And there’s Wazzer sungover again
And Grizzly Badams with his drizzly voice
And desiccated Ruth with a fag at her chin
And are they as desperate or do they prepare
And are they aware and of course do they care
About this all pervasive attitude
The constant twatting platitudes
For that’s all I hear
Somedays
Shaven headed voices
Spitting casual brutalities
From their fascicle
There in an element that never forgives
Closed ranks of a herd
But this pack is bird like
Right wing they are
For a working union
A bundle of sour nazis
Who defend their misguide
With persiflage turning
To vicious whispers
And insult camouflaged by
Supposed camaraderie
Banter they call it
The fuckers
Seriously
Otherdays not
For people can be giving
And love their children
Not unusually
And provision gives dimensions
But even Postman Pat had three
Although that is hard to define
On a flatscreen tv
Don’t you think?
Anthony Murphy
(1 poem added 02.08.10)
editor's note: "The drudgery of life, ideals deflated, how the postman pushes through to our ultimate reward; a flat screen TV and the childrens' smiles. Life is good!" - mh
•••••••••••
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 year, every decade, 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'll be there!
We're Lovin' It!
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
“There are some days when I think I'm going to die from an overdose of satisfaction.” Salvador Dalí
Love's Story (above) by painter Ellen McMahill, one of over 20 resident artists currently being displayed in Mad Swirl's eclectic Mad Gallery.
Hello and Happy V-Day to all you lovers out there. Just in case you missed it, here's just a taste of the poetry we featured this week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum...
•••••••••••
Epiphany & Serendipity Collide
As chance dictated, and fate would guide,
I felt the moment you and I and serendipity collide.
Coincidence be damned, I know the push of destiny's hand,
And I feel wisdom's truth
In each subsequent epiphany
I see you, my soular muse,
Come dance, sing, fly with me.
In a mad swirl of wings and words, and breath you sweep
The dust off dreams long-denied and concealed.
The Phoenix rouses me from my sleep,
My cocoon falls away like ashes, and the butterfly is revealed.
L.R. Walker
(added 02.14.10)
editor's note: "We couldn't think of a better choice of poem to have featured in our poetry forum on this day'o'love. Thanks for the poetic revealing of yourself. We dig what we see!" - jo
•••••••••••
Don’t cha just hate it when2
Don’t cha just hate it when some no talent ass clown gets up
on the stage and you know and I know he’s going to suck
like a black hole even before he starts to suck he’s sucking
he’s going to suck so hard his skull is going to implode
and he even knows he’s going to suck and you can see him start
to sweat big salty beads roll down his forehead
his skin starts to look pale and you wish he had tits
so at least you’d have something to look at while he prepares to launch
into one of those 100 mile and hour auctioneer voice monologues
about something inane like how bad he sucks but he didn’t think to
write about that and he wishes he had tits to distract you
from how bad he sucks and before he begins he’s getting cotton mouth
and stops to get a drink of water and he’s sucking so hard
they name a vacuum cleaner after him and he’s wondering about the wisdom
of having a triple espresso with the cheese pizza before getting on
the stage and how much time three minutes really seems like eternity
and he’s wondering if his fly is open because the audience is looking
at him as if he was standing on the stage with his cock out and now he’s just
stand there sucking like a virgin on prom night remembering
how great this poem seemed last night when he wrote it at 4:20 in the A M
but now he even begins to doubt the self referential wit that he thought
would help to carry this thing over he begins to wish he had written it in
verse iambic pentameter or done it as a 130 beat per minute rap
just to baffle the audience with bullshit because he has no substance
he’s not really a poet hell he doesn’t even read he spends most of his time
waiting for his fat assed old lady and her kids to go to sleep so he can log on
to indecent acts dot com and jack off to German Goo girls
before his coyote ugly wife wakes up and seizes his erection
before it does its usual Houdini act and disappears at the sight of her
when he isn’t drunk enough and the lights are on retreating inside
like a turtles head of him when all he really wants is to just once
be able to cum with out the fear of getting her pregnant
because she’s got kids from her first marriage
and they’re great kids they’re so great he figures she got it right
the first time but he doesn’t want to have kids with anyone who has kids
like that now he’s gone off on this scatological tangent and he’s scrambling
to save himself before he bombs like a radical Islamic fundamentalist
then he feels guilty for bagging on the towel head suicide bombers
and he’s doubting the veracity of his own work and he’s wondering how
many people in the audience will have to go look up the definition
of scatological and veracity oh just shoot me now
he’s sucking so hard gods getting a chubby
he hasn’t said a word he’s just standing there sweating with his ass
about to explode and when the three minutes are over they mob him
with faint praise and you forgot that you were just wishing he had tits
now you just wish he could teach your girlfriends to suck like he just sucked
you swear he could suck a cinderblock through a 100 feet of garden hose
he’s forgotten that he was just wishing he had tits because he’s sucking
so hard now he’s gonna have to put out so now he's wishing he had a cunt
we were right and he was right you’ve never even seen porn stars that sucked
so hard he never says a word he just walks off the stage and you applaud
because he sucks so hard he bends light.
Joey Da'rrell Cloudy
(3 poems added 02.13.10)
editor's note: "This one is for all the times when each of us (males) have wished we had tits, for the times when all of us have sucked enough to bend light. Too funny!" - mh
•••••••••••
Time Stitch
I see, I see, said the blind man to the deaf dog
to the assembled throng
of boys that don't belong,
of cabbages and kings
polar bears and whales
places and things
bedtime stories and kinky tales,
the midnight sun and the Mediterranean dawn
the full Biscay moon and faces long gone
museums in the morning drizzle
crashing waves on the shore,
as high as the angels in the Alps
alone at home, angry and poor;
the night train strangers under the northern lights
ill-dressed tourists and carbonated neon brights
what a sad sight
seen by eyes that don't work right
punctured by needles icy cold
to travel a broken cobblestone path, so we're told
cruising railroad stations for rented meat
fine dining and morphine cocktails trying to deny defeat
flying alone in a premier class seat
mountain air saliva he holds in his lip's heat
great towers bathed in whimsy
empty Norman beaches to every side
wandered by husbands desperate for their brides;
interstates and passports
postcards and souvenirs
laughter and bliss
people you can hardly miss
sights so beautiful you feel felt up by God
and shed an atheist's few tears;
I've been to heaven, and it's a lot like Paris.
Adam Henry Carrière
(3 poems added 02.12.10)
editor's note: "Something from a fellow, literary site-monger (worth checking out, see a link on his page). What the blind man sees; a carnival cacophony of all things leading to heaven, to Paris - prepare to be groped by God." - mh
•••••••••••
EXPLAINING THINGS
People have asked me often
Why I hate emos as much as I do
While others
Have often lumped me in with them
And here's why
Because you wanna know so bad
A few reasons, really:
Emos have no passion
They are the residue
That results from forty plus years of passionate subcultures
They are not to be respected as the "last hurrah"
Because it already happened
Even more than my self-destruction
(Which itself connotes at the very least
A basic, individualistic defiance)
They are evident of people getting tired of defiance
They have no fire
And, for you to say I have no fire
You haven't seen me swing a baseball bat
And I don't mean at a ball
They are the stink on the wall
Upset that they haven't been cleaned
Unknowing that they have been
No passion
The carnivals, the grindhouses, the violent shows
Whether real or imagined
Were violent because they couldn't be anything else
Nick Cave wrapping a microphone cord
Around some bitch's neck
Demanding, "Express yourself!"
The emos never felt they were cheated by culture
They felt they were cheated by a watered-down, acceptable version of "love"
And acceptance
Don't get me wrong
I felt the same way
Another reason I hate them
Was I was very similar to them
Years ago
Cutting and burning myself
Listening to the Cure and the Smiths
And I WAS a phone stalker
I never pretended to be
I WAS
I never imagined doing it
But I WAS
And, years later
I understood it was a lost cause
Pathetic, useless, only pissing on my own grave
Never mind about the last nail in the coffin
The emos idolize the behavior I once committed
As iconography
While my mere presence creeps them out
Makes them wanna
Run home
To Mommy and Daddy and church
So, yeah
These assholes, supporting a cultural vacuum
Saying they're the forgotten ones
Never to see their comfortable hypocrisy
As I boil in a room
That was made for living
As it makes me FEEL
That I wanna crush these pretentious little Top-40 pricks
With their scene-friendly, hip, passionless, unimaginative "mentality"
Fuck them
And fuck you if you can't understand that I am outnumbered
And not just some bully
Truly
Get fucked.
Kyle Segars
(3 poems added 02.11.10)
editor's note: "So, we had to check out this 'emo' thing, being evidently very unhip to require the question. The world-wide-web offered a site that was supposed to be the place to learn. It said,'The computers that run www.emo-space.com are having some trouble. Usually this is just a temporary problem, so you might want to try again in a few minutes.' So, maybe this means our unhip-ness is also temporary? Anyway, we Swirlers aren't into taking sides, but do like to throw out a contrary point of view, or two - contrary to the 'other' side of whatever the case may be. Maybe we'll hear the converse statement? Bring it on!" - mh
•••••••••••
The Unofficial History of Fast Food
The witches of Salem
were flame broiled
on a sesame seed
bun
while you went through the drive-thru
demanding extras packets
of ketchup.
The citizens of Dresden were
deep fried
alive
and I won't tell you
of the unspeakable horrors
that went into making
the gravy.
The bathrooms are clean
and the condiments
restocked
and no one would be the wiser
if I wasn't here
telling you this
right now.
Ryan Quinn Flanagan
(2 poems added 02.10.10)
editor's note: "A little twisted and detached from the horrible crimes referenced; just like the perpetrators of same. Perfect!" - mh
•••••••••••
Closets or Classrooms?
The closet is her Narnia,
between wet coats and leather shoes
she can't hear anything.
She retreats here when the mother beast feels like hunting.
Her teeth bared she rips through the apartment.
Carcasses of furniture and toys strewn across the floor
remind her that
the nurturer is also the werewolf.
She feels for the back of the closet
wishing it could fade into forest,
The beast drags her out
and breathes dragon breath and
cascading thorns.
She closes her eyes and pretends.
Pretends,
she has not woken the beast.
It spits and spews,
setting fire to her t-shirt
then sends her to school
where children bare their teeth
and back her into corners,
forcing her to debate whether
the closet or classroom is worse.
She hides her fear in her pockets,
raises her hand in class
and lets the world disappear behind
the right answers.
Chloe Viner
(added 02.09.10)
editor's note: "A sad, fascinating description of a battered child's unique coping skills. Nice!" - mh
•••••••••••
MODERNPOSTMANISMPOEM1
Hunched and needy
Like a baby seagull
I stalk the street
For sustenance
Stepping gingerly
Over
The once
Used
Herbal
Tea bags
And broken needles
That spill from brightening bins
In the dwindling dawns of August
Once I dreamt
Of better days within this
Earthen purgatory
When I was brown and pretty
It was no job
To breathe more freely
But now I stalk the streets
Beneath the laughing mooning ball above
In between the raining drops
By the graffito shuttered shops
Into the maw
The muscled chops
Of
The Royal Mail
62-63 North Road
Brighton
BN1 1AA
The lifers inside
So lifeless with pride
Good Morningly grunt their acknowledge
Let out to their wives at eventide
They are always back here stirring their porridge
Will be two hours yet as a coffee-god’s pet
Before I can summon a smile
I keep my weather-beaten head down
In the back of a Transit
On old copies of goals extra or extra goals
Or made up goals with moving posts
As the red valkyries descend
From the upstairs garage
Into the yard yawning with boredom
Like the back doors cold open wide
Waiting is time
And labour intensive
And work is last on the mind
A beardy they branded Jumanji walks by
And there’s Wazzer sungover again
And Grizzly Badams with his drizzly voice
And desiccated Ruth with a fag at her chin
And are they as desperate or do they prepare
And are they aware and of course do they care
About this all pervasive attitude
The constant twatting platitudes
For that’s all I hear
Somedays
Shaven headed voices
Spitting casual brutalities
From their fascicle
There in an element that never forgives
Closed ranks of a herd
But this pack is bird like
Right wing they are
For a working union
A bundle of sour nazis
Who defend their misguide
With persiflage turning
To vicious whispers
And insult camouflaged by
Supposed camaraderie
Banter they call it
The fuckers
Seriously
Otherdays not
For people can be giving
And love their children
Not unusually
And provision gives dimensions
But even Postman Pat had three
Although that is hard to define
On a flatscreen tv
Don’t you think?
Anthony Murphy
(1 poem added 02.08.10)
editor's note: "The drudgery of life, ideals deflated, how the postman pushes through to our ultimate reward; a flat screen TV and the childrens' smiles. Life is good!" - mh
•••••••••••
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 year, every decade, 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'll be there!
We're Lovin' It!
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
“There are some days when I think I'm going to die from an overdose of satisfaction.” Salvador Dalí
Comments