The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 07.03.10
“We are the facilitators of our own creative evolution.” Bill Hicks
3Mar 27 CIM 27 (above) by mad painter David Arthur-Simons , one of over 20 artists currently coloring the virtual walls in Mad Swirl's eclectic electronic collective Mad Gallery.
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste of the poetry we featured this week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum...
•••••••••••
Abandoned
Abandoned in the desert
I dream rescues,
while smiting the sand
strips the shimmering flesh
from my rejected bones.
Where is the guide?
Wagon master of the soul's journey
fording rivers,
repelling ambushes,
then leaving me behind,
a companion to the voyage
who turned the wheel
harder than anyone,
but questioned the road.
Gary Beck
(1 poem added 07.03.10)
editor's note: This is a great opening to a collection by one of our Contributing Poets, Gary Beck - "Expectations". Check out our review and a link to where you can get a copy for yourself. It's a heavy read! Keep your hands on the wheel. - mh
•••••••••••
With Friends Like These (Drinking Alone)
"Why don't you stay and have a beer?"
I asked.
But
The door closed & I sat there in the kitchen. Hearing:
His dragging gait cross the pebbled ground.
That metal creak of car door.
Cough of ignition.
I tapped out a cigarette watching his headlights
paint the kitchen wall & dim.
We used to be close.
& then time came making a mess of things
That cruel sister of space,
Distance.
It's been a long time coming.
I hefted my weight. Pushing up from the table.
Walked in the dark and found the radio.
I reached over and opened the refrigerator.
Sighing out, thought
Fuck It,
Grabbing another one.
Jay Ligon
(added 07.02.10)
editor's note: Loved this one! So vivid; could smell the cigarette smoke, hear the gravel crunch, fell the emptiness that comes from succumbing to our own apathy. - mh
•••••••••••
AT THE END
I taste the summer salt
on your lips.
You reflect heat for thermals
so your hawk soars higher.
I hold you
tighter than pain.
Your passion
ignites the setting sky.
I glide on the dream
of your billowing wind.
You strike, rip me apart,
eat my raw emotions.
Consumed, I lie
in an acoustic shadow.
Sated, you curl
into the folds of time.
Kenneth P. Gurney
(3 poems added 07.01.10)
editor's note: Wow! I would definitely smoke after that. "Baby, after you consume my soul; I'm too far spent to stop, drop and roll." Thanks, Kenneth! I think I can roll over and go to sleep now. (More from Kenneth P. Gurney on his page; some more Delphi musings and another "love" poem.) - mh
•••••••••••
The Misanthrope’s Declaration
I have convened with myself to condemn
the so-called goodness of my fellow man.
It’s more like a bad joke about rats
who grow fat with amusement
at the misfortune of others,
while squeaking loudly
at someone else for their own troubles.
I can’t tell the difference between rats and men,
or petulant children.
They all seem the same,
thinking their difficulties are paramount.
The world flows much better
without the constant whining.
They need to get over themselves
and shut up, because they’re going to find out
that the goodness of their fellow man
is a joke that should catch them unaware
so everyone can laugh at them,
and they can leave me the hell alone.
Ignacio J. Fontan
(added 06.30.10)
editor's note: It's a damned annoying thing, these petulant children - grown men making me tired," he said, while looking in the mirror to pick his sharp teeth with the tip of his spindly tail. Good one, Ignacio! - mh
•••••••••••
My Mecca
Your wounded deviancy
Youth tarnished from infancy
All good things come with a price
Nothing beautiful without suffering
Born from a brain aneurism
Suckled at the inverted nipple
Crawled on the matted carpets
Walked on semen trails
Fucked in the daybed
Sucked the cock of the non-convicted
Sucked the cocks of several since
Still most pure Ivory skin
Most sanctified lips
Most clean mountaintops
Mostly harmless hankering
For a forbidden fruit
Or at least a well made meal
Never fully even but somehow equal
Perfect incompatibility
Extrasensory perceptions
But never actual sightings
Withholding evidence
Keeps the passion alive
Conspiracy theories of pleasure
New Mexican deserts of pain
This is where I breathe.
It’s everywhere I’ve been.
14-year-old hand holding delight
And the evolution of the sun
Into what it has become
Gravitational centrifugal
Binding glue
Codependency with a twist
Coiling masses frame
Star struck eyes of adoration
Twinkling pointed diamond
Cheekbones pink and freckled
Purest smile of prayer
Dedicated to me in the name of Saint Bernadette
Angelic arsenal of self-destruction
I say I’m better and laughter trails from our tongues
Intertwining in the atmosphere
From a satellite of the moon
I to you
Some may walk a million miles
But to my Mecca
I pilgrimage on weakened knees
Perfection nearly attainable
As far as I can see
Silhouettes face the light together
Shoulders square
Ready to take on the journey
Lilly Penhall
(added 06.29.10)
editor's note: If you invent your sin, you can perscribe your penance - how far can you crawl on naked knees? Be the Goddess and watch us worship. - mh
•••••••••••
Southern Meal
You only ever lived in a place where they eat steak for dinner.
Where the cows cover the distance dumbly, deadly
From the stockyards to your white lined dinner plate.
A ruthless ceremony of slaughter drowned out by the din,
Bleeding through fake wood paneled walls, of the TV
And something about this, that or the other smothers the screaming
Of black patched livestock splayed out
In a bloody Rorschach, rare.
Landon K. Brown
Copyright ©2010
(1 poem added 06.28.10)
editor's note: Come on, there's more here than just a vegetarian statement. How do you like your social victories, your conversational triumphs? (There is more indeed from Landon Brown. See his new page in our growing list of Contributing Poets.) - mh
•••••••••••
Pedophile Redefined
The girl with the knee holes
is dating the man with the broken zipper,
said the tailor. She is 16, he was born
in ’87 or was it ’78? A dreamboat, a kissable
canoe, her battleship. She knows him soooo
well, she could fill out a Myspace survey
for him. Favorite color: yellow. First crush:
Madonna Favorite actor: Vin Diesel
Tonight, she is finally letting her parents
meet her prince charming. The timing is purrrfect
said her cat. November 27th, her Dad’s birthday and
exactly three months since their first kiss, outside
the pool hall in between cigarettes. She told him
to wear his good pants.
What I know that she doesn’t know:
Her mom will shout, “The sky is falling!”
when she sees the boyfriend’s cumulus
moustache and airy blue eyes.
Her dad will whisper three words:
baby…whore…gun.
Fast forward: she is crying, big tears
and the boyfriend is stoned, driving
his white ’94 Volvo down a crowded
highway. The “Welcome to Indiana” sign
shouts in her mirror. No I’m not, she pounds
on the dashboard.
Tyler Gobble
(added 06.27.10)
editor's note: Aim high, ladies! Make Mom and Dad proud! But, when that doesn't work, there's always the state line. - 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 here...
Frantically Facilitatin',
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
3Mar 27 CIM 27 (above) by mad painter David Arthur-Simons , one of over 20 artists currently coloring the virtual walls in Mad Swirl's eclectic electronic collective Mad Gallery.
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste of the poetry we featured this week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum...
•••••••••••
Abandoned
Abandoned in the desert
I dream rescues,
while smiting the sand
strips the shimmering flesh
from my rejected bones.
Where is the guide?
Wagon master of the soul's journey
fording rivers,
repelling ambushes,
then leaving me behind,
a companion to the voyage
who turned the wheel
harder than anyone,
but questioned the road.
Gary Beck
(1 poem added 07.03.10)
editor's note: This is a great opening to a collection by one of our Contributing Poets, Gary Beck - "Expectations". Check out our review and a link to where you can get a copy for yourself. It's a heavy read! Keep your hands on the wheel. - mh
•••••••••••
With Friends Like These (Drinking Alone)
"Why don't you stay and have a beer?"
I asked.
But
The door closed & I sat there in the kitchen. Hearing:
His dragging gait cross the pebbled ground.
That metal creak of car door.
Cough of ignition.
I tapped out a cigarette watching his headlights
paint the kitchen wall & dim.
We used to be close.
& then time came making a mess of things
That cruel sister of space,
Distance.
It's been a long time coming.
I hefted my weight. Pushing up from the table.
Walked in the dark and found the radio.
I reached over and opened the refrigerator.
Sighing out, thought
Fuck It,
Grabbing another one.
Jay Ligon
(added 07.02.10)
editor's note: Loved this one! So vivid; could smell the cigarette smoke, hear the gravel crunch, fell the emptiness that comes from succumbing to our own apathy. - mh
•••••••••••
AT THE END
I taste the summer salt
on your lips.
You reflect heat for thermals
so your hawk soars higher.
I hold you
tighter than pain.
Your passion
ignites the setting sky.
I glide on the dream
of your billowing wind.
You strike, rip me apart,
eat my raw emotions.
Consumed, I lie
in an acoustic shadow.
Sated, you curl
into the folds of time.
Kenneth P. Gurney
(3 poems added 07.01.10)
editor's note: Wow! I would definitely smoke after that. "Baby, after you consume my soul; I'm too far spent to stop, drop and roll." Thanks, Kenneth! I think I can roll over and go to sleep now. (More from Kenneth P. Gurney on his page; some more Delphi musings and another "love" poem.) - mh
•••••••••••
The Misanthrope’s Declaration
I have convened with myself to condemn
the so-called goodness of my fellow man.
It’s more like a bad joke about rats
who grow fat with amusement
at the misfortune of others,
while squeaking loudly
at someone else for their own troubles.
I can’t tell the difference between rats and men,
or petulant children.
They all seem the same,
thinking their difficulties are paramount.
The world flows much better
without the constant whining.
They need to get over themselves
and shut up, because they’re going to find out
that the goodness of their fellow man
is a joke that should catch them unaware
so everyone can laugh at them,
and they can leave me the hell alone.
Ignacio J. Fontan
(added 06.30.10)
editor's note: It's a damned annoying thing, these petulant children - grown men making me tired," he said, while looking in the mirror to pick his sharp teeth with the tip of his spindly tail. Good one, Ignacio! - mh
•••••••••••
My Mecca
Your wounded deviancy
Youth tarnished from infancy
All good things come with a price
Nothing beautiful without suffering
Born from a brain aneurism
Suckled at the inverted nipple
Crawled on the matted carpets
Walked on semen trails
Fucked in the daybed
Sucked the cock of the non-convicted
Sucked the cocks of several since
Still most pure Ivory skin
Most sanctified lips
Most clean mountaintops
Mostly harmless hankering
For a forbidden fruit
Or at least a well made meal
Never fully even but somehow equal
Perfect incompatibility
Extrasensory perceptions
But never actual sightings
Withholding evidence
Keeps the passion alive
Conspiracy theories of pleasure
New Mexican deserts of pain
This is where I breathe.
It’s everywhere I’ve been.
14-year-old hand holding delight
And the evolution of the sun
Into what it has become
Gravitational centrifugal
Binding glue
Codependency with a twist
Coiling masses frame
Star struck eyes of adoration
Twinkling pointed diamond
Cheekbones pink and freckled
Purest smile of prayer
Dedicated to me in the name of Saint Bernadette
Angelic arsenal of self-destruction
I say I’m better and laughter trails from our tongues
Intertwining in the atmosphere
From a satellite of the moon
I to you
Some may walk a million miles
But to my Mecca
I pilgrimage on weakened knees
Perfection nearly attainable
As far as I can see
Silhouettes face the light together
Shoulders square
Ready to take on the journey
Lilly Penhall
(added 06.29.10)
editor's note: If you invent your sin, you can perscribe your penance - how far can you crawl on naked knees? Be the Goddess and watch us worship. - mh
•••••••••••
Southern Meal
You only ever lived in a place where they eat steak for dinner.
Where the cows cover the distance dumbly, deadly
From the stockyards to your white lined dinner plate.
A ruthless ceremony of slaughter drowned out by the din,
Bleeding through fake wood paneled walls, of the TV
And something about this, that or the other smothers the screaming
Of black patched livestock splayed out
In a bloody Rorschach, rare.
Landon K. Brown
Copyright ©2010
(1 poem added 06.28.10)
editor's note: Come on, there's more here than just a vegetarian statement. How do you like your social victories, your conversational triumphs? (There is more indeed from Landon Brown. See his new page in our growing list of Contributing Poets.) - mh
•••••••••••
Pedophile Redefined
The girl with the knee holes
is dating the man with the broken zipper,
said the tailor. She is 16, he was born
in ’87 or was it ’78? A dreamboat, a kissable
canoe, her battleship. She knows him soooo
well, she could fill out a Myspace survey
for him. Favorite color: yellow. First crush:
Madonna Favorite actor: Vin Diesel
Tonight, she is finally letting her parents
meet her prince charming. The timing is purrrfect
said her cat. November 27th, her Dad’s birthday and
exactly three months since their first kiss, outside
the pool hall in between cigarettes. She told him
to wear his good pants.
What I know that she doesn’t know:
Her mom will shout, “The sky is falling!”
when she sees the boyfriend’s cumulus
moustache and airy blue eyes.
Her dad will whisper three words:
baby…whore…gun.
Fast forward: she is crying, big tears
and the boyfriend is stoned, driving
his white ’94 Volvo down a crowded
highway. The “Welcome to Indiana” sign
shouts in her mirror. No I’m not, she pounds
on the dashboard.
Tyler Gobble
(added 06.27.10)
editor's note: Aim high, ladies! Make Mom and Dad proud! But, when that doesn't work, there's always the state line. - 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 here...
Frantically Facilitatin',
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
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