The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 10.16.10
“Throughout the centuries there were men who took first steps,
down new roads, armed with nothing but their own vision.” Ayn Rand
untitled (above) by photographer Edward Lee, 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...
•••••••••••
THE APOLOGY
Ever get the feeling you’re
apologizing constantly to
somebody for something?
Curious isn’t it?
Even worst,
why the hell is that?
I’m not sure, but I could swear
I don’t remember
being anywhere doing anything
so wrong so many times that I
should just
blanket apology the universe.
The confusion of why I should
give a damn what people think
is short-circuiting the few nerve
endings I have left, so my shrink
suggested sending a short
questionnaire, wherein I could
just ask for a list of offenses, real
or imagined.
Based on results I could insult
myself publicly into reclusive
coma status; persona non gratis
myself into isolation exile.
Shrink says it might be fun.
Joseph Roque
(3 poems added 10.16.10)
editor's note: And while we're at it, let's ask for a reciprocal questionnaire; a little tit for tat, this for that. We all have something to aplogize for, so let's start with your apologies to us!!!! (Two more great little jabs from Joe on his page - check'em out!) - mh
•••••••••••
I want
The desire in my heart is selfish.
these beg:
food, clothes, accessories, jewelry, sex, whore
I want, you see.
I want everything around me.
when I have seen something
I want, why don’t you see?
I just want to pluck the flower
in anyone’s garden.
My wants create
a desire
and those desires haunt me
to perform an action
these actions can result
in great consequences
an unexpected
outcome of my wants and desires
you see.
but there is a holy gap in these wants.
Santosh Kalwar
(added 10.15.10)
editor's note: It's gap theory in a new light. Equilibrium; the movement of matter from areas of high concentration into areas of low concentration. Concentrate on what you want and fall into the gaps - wholey, holey, holy! - mh
•••••••••••
Advice
Please don't you look at a lady when you
sit in a room in front of her. Pick up a newspaper.
You know what people will say:
such looks are devouring.
Don't you shake hands for long.
To talk, go in front of her, say please excuse me.
You know what people say of harassment.
it can come with a hefty fine.
Don't you enter a lift alone with a lady.
Take the steps while she goes on the lift.
Admiration: I like your this, I like your that
please keep to yourself.
Hugging should be avoided at all cost.
The same advice goes, the other way round.
Only in Eden people played together
without shirts, without misinterpretation of intent
Emmanuel Jakpa
(added 10.14.10)
editor's note: And you thought it was that hair that grows from the mole on your neck. It's not about your looks, but your "looks" are what they notice. Look well! - mh
•••••••••••
Metaphorical Meat Map
A metaphor is a meat map.
It’s meaty and it taps the meter.
Get up. Let up. Set up. Eat up.
The medal is on the mat mate.
I’ll meet ya at the moat with tape ;
dap in the mad and made-up.
The media is the metaphor.
Step to the tip top.
James Jason Dye
(1 poem added 10.13.10)
editor's note: Test your metal, bless the mettlesome, stomp the pedal some, peddle your goods - it's all supposed to mean something else. I think it's the media, too. Thanks, James! - mh
•••••••••••
Glob of Peanut Butter on My Throat
I once knew an electrician
who wanted to suck
a glob of peanut butter
from my throat.
He thought the richness of the cream
would bury him like shelter.
He thought the thickness of it
would keep him protected,
like a baby between two large breasts.
He thought the sweetness of it
would spread 'round him warm,
like sunlight hitting a rock.
He thought the dryness of it
would clothe him and keep him safe
from the great storm.
But he was never safe,
and he was already a misery of damage,
with lightning curved eyebrows,
oil caked fingernails,
and his cheeks, burnt black
from too much and too hard a shock.
I fearfully used to watch his hands,
powerful and bewitched,
on my legs as cracks of
electric pain shot numbly
up up up.
He crawled inside a cave
three years ago,
away from the crashes,
away from the lights,
away from the floods.
No one has seen him since.
Sometimes I wait outside the cave
to lure him
with a glob of
peanut butter on my throat.
He never answers.
I wonder how black he is now.
April Michelle Bratten
(added 10.12.10)
editor's note: The roots of attraction spread to strange strata, leaching odd nourishments from the base and the mundane. Peanut butter, throats, caves; love defined, never understood. We sit by dark caves awaiting love's return to the light, while the roots love darkness. - mh
•••••••••••
Rise and Shine, Einstein
Albert awoke an hour before a lecture.
Coffee aroma escaped the percolator.
Steaming, he sipped and began to ponder,
allowing an excellent brain to spar with existence.
Up on the pot to make a morning drop, in
Austrian tongue, Albert talked ‘aloud,
genius echoed off ceramic tile and around
the brilliant polished porcelain potty bowl.
In the shower, suds'd and naked, nipping
at the known universe as a child pokes
air holes into a frog-filled jar, letting life in.
Al applied science to his foggy mirror,
he couldn’t see his pasty grey frame dripping
as pink lips mumbled against a toothbrush neck —
fact, from coerced science blew
from Bundesrepublik’s best brain.
There, his finger squeaked-out that E,
which represents the energy in body;
the C speed of M’s mass made Al squeal in dignified satisfaction.
And at the subscript, reality opened like a crypt.
Stepping back, heels plopped in soapy puddles
sleeping on the bathroom floor.
Al watched discovery drip down the mirror
in streaks like stretch marks.
Al quick-shaved his chin and combed his moustache
to look like a hairy white always-curved smirk.
Off to work; out the door into a world,
a universe a little less mysterious — only —
without a pair of pants around his white legs
to keep the neighborhood kids from pointing and laughing
at crazy old man Einstein.
Tyler Malone
(2 poems added 10.11.10)
editor's note: Who knows what flashes of genius have graced us all dripping down a steamy mirror or swirling down a porcelain bowl? (Read another good one from Tyler on his page.) - mh
•••••••••••
Cold Reflection
A cold reflection on a mirror pavement wet with rain,
I wink my violet eye,
My collar high against the wind.
A dried out roll-up on an empty stomach;
Any comfort, as I roam the streets.
A willing conscript to sign in rhesus positive
For some fleeting belletrism,
I chase the success envy believes me to be,
Like a marionette without strings,
Drowning in this lazy river
Of tepid ink.
A heartbeat flicker like a wasp in a jar:
An alternatina teenager
In tyrannic nothing-dresses.
I court a frankenstitched friendship,
kiss her sweet-sweat neck
She somehow avoids arrest.
The laughter of sidemen from behind their instruments
As i consult the haruspex;
I suggest the motions of a wanderer;
Any disproportion of whiskey could kill me,
Waiting in half-assumed stances.
Some miracle of adhesion:
I watch the shirt buttons strain across her bust.
I prefigure my hands in frustration
My guts in a twist
As trying to turn a needle inside-out.
Pin-stripes on all sides as two colts climb
Through ten paces;
I flash a bruised smile
Flip a table smashing glasses left and right.
I raise my .38, plug one through his leg,
He falls to the floor, another in his chest,
So he knows he’s finished.
Philip Overton
(added 10.10.10)
editor's note: Well, keep in mind, "Noir" means "black" in French. An' it don't get much blacker when them .38s come blastin' out, the ricochets'll get ya. Channel Humphrey Bogart and you'll know just what to do... Nice! I mean, Noir! - 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...
Steppin'n'Visualizin',
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
down new roads, armed with nothing but their own vision.” Ayn Rand
untitled (above) by photographer Edward Lee, 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...
•••••••••••
THE APOLOGY
Ever get the feeling you’re
apologizing constantly to
somebody for something?
Curious isn’t it?
Even worst,
why the hell is that?
I’m not sure, but I could swear
I don’t remember
being anywhere doing anything
so wrong so many times that I
should just
blanket apology the universe.
The confusion of why I should
give a damn what people think
is short-circuiting the few nerve
endings I have left, so my shrink
suggested sending a short
questionnaire, wherein I could
just ask for a list of offenses, real
or imagined.
Based on results I could insult
myself publicly into reclusive
coma status; persona non gratis
myself into isolation exile.
Shrink says it might be fun.
Joseph Roque
(3 poems added 10.16.10)
editor's note: And while we're at it, let's ask for a reciprocal questionnaire; a little tit for tat, this for that. We all have something to aplogize for, so let's start with your apologies to us!!!! (Two more great little jabs from Joe on his page - check'em out!) - mh
•••••••••••
I want
The desire in my heart is selfish.
these beg:
food, clothes, accessories, jewelry, sex, whore
I want, you see.
I want everything around me.
when I have seen something
I want, why don’t you see?
I just want to pluck the flower
in anyone’s garden.
My wants create
a desire
and those desires haunt me
to perform an action
these actions can result
in great consequences
an unexpected
outcome of my wants and desires
you see.
but there is a holy gap in these wants.
Santosh Kalwar
(added 10.15.10)
editor's note: It's gap theory in a new light. Equilibrium; the movement of matter from areas of high concentration into areas of low concentration. Concentrate on what you want and fall into the gaps - wholey, holey, holy! - mh
•••••••••••
Advice
Please don't you look at a lady when you
sit in a room in front of her. Pick up a newspaper.
You know what people will say:
such looks are devouring.
Don't you shake hands for long.
To talk, go in front of her, say please excuse me.
You know what people say of harassment.
it can come with a hefty fine.
Don't you enter a lift alone with a lady.
Take the steps while she goes on the lift.
Admiration: I like your this, I like your that
please keep to yourself.
Hugging should be avoided at all cost.
The same advice goes, the other way round.
Only in Eden people played together
without shirts, without misinterpretation of intent
Emmanuel Jakpa
(added 10.14.10)
editor's note: And you thought it was that hair that grows from the mole on your neck. It's not about your looks, but your "looks" are what they notice. Look well! - mh
•••••••••••
Metaphorical Meat Map
A metaphor is a meat map.
It’s meaty and it taps the meter.
Get up. Let up. Set up. Eat up.
The medal is on the mat mate.
I’ll meet ya at the moat with tape ;
dap in the mad and made-up.
The media is the metaphor.
Step to the tip top.
James Jason Dye
(1 poem added 10.13.10)
editor's note: Test your metal, bless the mettlesome, stomp the pedal some, peddle your goods - it's all supposed to mean something else. I think it's the media, too. Thanks, James! - mh
•••••••••••
Glob of Peanut Butter on My Throat
I once knew an electrician
who wanted to suck
a glob of peanut butter
from my throat.
He thought the richness of the cream
would bury him like shelter.
He thought the thickness of it
would keep him protected,
like a baby between two large breasts.
He thought the sweetness of it
would spread 'round him warm,
like sunlight hitting a rock.
He thought the dryness of it
would clothe him and keep him safe
from the great storm.
But he was never safe,
and he was already a misery of damage,
with lightning curved eyebrows,
oil caked fingernails,
and his cheeks, burnt black
from too much and too hard a shock.
I fearfully used to watch his hands,
powerful and bewitched,
on my legs as cracks of
electric pain shot numbly
up up up.
He crawled inside a cave
three years ago,
away from the crashes,
away from the lights,
away from the floods.
No one has seen him since.
Sometimes I wait outside the cave
to lure him
with a glob of
peanut butter on my throat.
He never answers.
I wonder how black he is now.
April Michelle Bratten
(added 10.12.10)
editor's note: The roots of attraction spread to strange strata, leaching odd nourishments from the base and the mundane. Peanut butter, throats, caves; love defined, never understood. We sit by dark caves awaiting love's return to the light, while the roots love darkness. - mh
•••••••••••
Rise and Shine, Einstein
Albert awoke an hour before a lecture.
Coffee aroma escaped the percolator.
Steaming, he sipped and began to ponder,
allowing an excellent brain to spar with existence.
Up on the pot to make a morning drop, in
Austrian tongue, Albert talked ‘aloud,
genius echoed off ceramic tile and around
the brilliant polished porcelain potty bowl.
In the shower, suds'd and naked, nipping
at the known universe as a child pokes
air holes into a frog-filled jar, letting life in.
Al applied science to his foggy mirror,
he couldn’t see his pasty grey frame dripping
as pink lips mumbled against a toothbrush neck —
fact, from coerced science blew
from Bundesrepublik’s best brain.
There, his finger squeaked-out that E,
which represents the energy in body;
the C speed of M’s mass made Al squeal in dignified satisfaction.
And at the subscript, reality opened like a crypt.
Stepping back, heels plopped in soapy puddles
sleeping on the bathroom floor.
Al watched discovery drip down the mirror
in streaks like stretch marks.
Al quick-shaved his chin and combed his moustache
to look like a hairy white always-curved smirk.
Off to work; out the door into a world,
a universe a little less mysterious — only —
without a pair of pants around his white legs
to keep the neighborhood kids from pointing and laughing
at crazy old man Einstein.
Tyler Malone
(2 poems added 10.11.10)
editor's note: Who knows what flashes of genius have graced us all dripping down a steamy mirror or swirling down a porcelain bowl? (Read another good one from Tyler on his page.) - mh
•••••••••••
Cold Reflection
A cold reflection on a mirror pavement wet with rain,
I wink my violet eye,
My collar high against the wind.
A dried out roll-up on an empty stomach;
Any comfort, as I roam the streets.
A willing conscript to sign in rhesus positive
For some fleeting belletrism,
I chase the success envy believes me to be,
Like a marionette without strings,
Drowning in this lazy river
Of tepid ink.
A heartbeat flicker like a wasp in a jar:
An alternatina teenager
In tyrannic nothing-dresses.
I court a frankenstitched friendship,
kiss her sweet-sweat neck
She somehow avoids arrest.
The laughter of sidemen from behind their instruments
As i consult the haruspex;
I suggest the motions of a wanderer;
Any disproportion of whiskey could kill me,
Waiting in half-assumed stances.
Some miracle of adhesion:
I watch the shirt buttons strain across her bust.
I prefigure my hands in frustration
My guts in a twist
As trying to turn a needle inside-out.
Pin-stripes on all sides as two colts climb
Through ten paces;
I flash a bruised smile
Flip a table smashing glasses left and right.
I raise my .38, plug one through his leg,
He falls to the floor, another in his chest,
So he knows he’s finished.
Philip Overton
(added 10.10.10)
editor's note: Well, keep in mind, "Noir" means "black" in French. An' it don't get much blacker when them .38s come blastin' out, the ricochets'll get ya. Channel Humphrey Bogart and you'll know just what to do... Nice! I mean, Noir! - 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...
Steppin'n'Visualizin',
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
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