The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 11.13.10
“Every moment of light and dark is a miracle.” Walt Whitman
Rugdoll (above) by mad painter and featured artist Christian Millet, 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...
•••••••••••
When You Leave a Woman Behind
I walk steadily
like the rowing of an oar in the ocean,
going nowhere,
but stretching limbs out like saltwater taffy.
My teeth smell like new toothpaste,
that we supplemented by the French kiss
of dental floss and dollar brand mouthwash.
Today is a memory
waiting to be creased and kept in your khakis.
The moon is a smashed obelisk
left to hang over the
arching brows of your drunken yells.
We fight for five blocks
your heels clicking the cement like a metronome
made out of cheap rum
and shoddy eyeliner.
I leave you on the corner to catch the first bus out of here
as if we both don’t know you already have a round trip ticket.
Pockets resting like cadavers in my jeans,
wishing to hug you.
The taillights are a harmless smolder
of the fire I left behind.
Zach Fishel
(added 11.12.10)
editor's note: Sometimes, when enough is enough, we have no choice but to get on the bus. Thanks, Zach, you made us hack up a bus fume memory with this one! - mh
•••••••••••
Shut Up and Fuck Me
Don’t tell me about your childhood
Shut up and fuck me
I don’t care who your family is
Shut up and fuck me
I don’t want to know
how old you were
when you got your first
fist fuck
Shut up and fuck me
I don’t care what you do for a living
What kind of car you drive
Where you went to school
Where you work
under what tree where
you did something with or to someone
at some point in time
Shut up and fuck me
I don’t even give a fuck what your name is
You don’t have to buy me any drinks
don’t even look at me until
your cock is in my mouth
Shut the fuck up and fuck me
We don’t have to kiss
I don’t need your number
You can’t be serious
Shut up and fuck me
Pull my hair smack my ass
put on a condom
and pound it
the only sound I want to hear
is you shutting the fuck up
and fucking me.
Desmene M. Statum
(1 poem added 11.13.10)
editor's note: When there is no agenda but the obvious job at hand, there really is no better instruction; applicable to so many of life's responsibilities. Akin to Puritan ethic, I think. - mh
•••••••••••
Untitled
Portland is raining
I'm thinking back to when I was stealing food
probably or maybe because
I am stealing too much.
I feel an odd crisis going round the top half of my body
but not really coming from me
(this shit could potentially make my life better)
(I think I'll smoke a cigarette)
I feel like foreign emotions
could be easily destroyed
if we stopped looking at ourselves
as rational humans
but as objects with little feeling
I also don't really know.
I don't know if I can live
happy or slightly content
with my body/mind made objectified
without blowing some kind of electrical fuse.
Wolf Von Blum
(1 poem added 11.11.10)
editor's note: No point in stressing the circuits; some questions don't need asking. Smoke another cigarette. (Wolf just joined Mad Swirl's Contributing Poets, check out his new page.) - mh
•••••••••••
A String of Performances Never Recorded
Buffed white
On a bright stage
Now you know
What a castrated revolutionary sounds like.
Walter Beck
(added 11.10.10)
editor's note: OK, 20 syllables, but still a Haiku; got the picture, heard the song, wondered whether this singer castrated himself for the revolution, or revolted in response to his castration. - mh
•••••••••••
Party Girls & Broken Poets
She ran fast with the party crowd
Shining bright at the camera
Flash in those dark sunglasses
They shielded her from the glare
Of notoriety and constant summer
It came long hot and easy
All in one night coke mda & mdna
Kept us right upright uptight and then
A few lines brought us down to one
Crazy whirl cone stuff and kissing
Iconically on big famous London bridges
It couldn’t fade, but suddenly
She was gone far gone
Charles Pitter
(added 11.09.10)
editor's note: How far back in the past were those numb nights and number mornings of blurred remembrance? So many years ago, those irresponsible sortees to the edge of reason and life. Or was that last night? - mh
•••••••••••
On the Edge of Awake
Regret is a morning embellished
with the heaviness of plums
broken open and scattered sweet.
A hunger pang gathers my dreams
like rain coalescing in puddles; enough to savor,
but not swallow each added scent
that laces my sleep in a scallop-swirl:
gently frayed whorls,
whetted down-chin
to quench and quell these silent fires
aching in me; fighting to stay shut
and make another choice—
a better choice than I did yesterday.
But eyelids arch against me
to watch a lizard pushing up against
a summered brick fence to cool its belly:
self-preservation. And I twist in my sheets,
down with the reptile and reflexive to rise
—even as reluctant as I may be.
Still longing
for the slit-eyed linger,
the way I groan under throw pillows
before combing my hair. Before breakfast
and the inevitable chewing of pride,
the kind that nubs mountains to pebbles—
and I think I’ll just flutter instead:
hover at a halfway point
of wherever I’ve been;
maybe pluck up the nerve
to fluctuate my feet over lines
then stutter back again.
Eventually.
And eventually I’ll let this be a lesson,
to pat my prickled soles
so that maybe I can feel the floor
as I stand up or melt down;
to find an instep I can step into
and walk around with some dignity
(or at least a better sense of direction).
And even as pinned as I am
to the alarm clocks and apologies,
I’ll allow myself to float quiet;
unencumbered by pitted plums
or the undertow of what could have been.
Kimberly Keith
(3 poems added 11.08.10)
editor's note: This is the time when all those dreams we had in the night compete for our attention in the day ahead. We can place bare feet on cold floor to chase one, or roll over and go back to sleep to embrace them all. (Welcome Kimberly Keith to our mad list of Contributing Poets! Read two more great new ones from her on her new page.) - mh
•••••••••••
Whatever it Takes
To stop you
from taking the watery plunge off Golden Gate's
infamous point of no return
has been my goal since
the first night I met you
in coach as you flew
between cars
looking for anyone to confess
your desolation, isolation, configuration
to your final out of control
spiral through the rings of HELL.
Cajoling, coercing, connecting
to the real you
is a tough road, my friend,
for the part that wishes for life
won't listen
beyond the immediate pain
unemployment checks used to fill in
with numbers low enough
that bank tellers snicker
when handing
the meager payouts
to your sweating palms
that always need to hold a drink
- vodka - water chaser
a bubbly sparkling blend inside crinkled plastic bottles
that fools nobody
but it medicates you, as you admit,
to accept reality
one more stinkin' day.
After hours of telephone counseling
the wound surprisingly healed over
a thin layer of, "I'm okay, really,
you've cured me."
But are you?
How did you turn it around?
You haven't explained it
yet
so is the truth
a convenient lie
Al Gore would be proud of
to get me off your back?
We plan to meet
in person
on that final weekend
of gamesmanship
between the Giants and Padres
for the division title.
But here's the bigger problem:
Do you promise
to stop me
from jumping off the highest building
if my team loses
or will we go hand and hand
gently into the night
one for lack of hope
the other for
lack of perspective?
Joseph D. DiLella
(1 poem added 11.07.10)
editor's note: Doctor-patient privilege is a good thing considering the line is often blurred between us. "Physician, heal thyself!" You want that with water back, or a beer chaser? - 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...
Contrasting,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Rugdoll (above) by mad painter and featured artist Christian Millet, 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...
•••••••••••
When You Leave a Woman Behind
I walk steadily
like the rowing of an oar in the ocean,
going nowhere,
but stretching limbs out like saltwater taffy.
My teeth smell like new toothpaste,
that we supplemented by the French kiss
of dental floss and dollar brand mouthwash.
Today is a memory
waiting to be creased and kept in your khakis.
The moon is a smashed obelisk
left to hang over the
arching brows of your drunken yells.
We fight for five blocks
your heels clicking the cement like a metronome
made out of cheap rum
and shoddy eyeliner.
I leave you on the corner to catch the first bus out of here
as if we both don’t know you already have a round trip ticket.
Pockets resting like cadavers in my jeans,
wishing to hug you.
The taillights are a harmless smolder
of the fire I left behind.
Zach Fishel
(added 11.12.10)
editor's note: Sometimes, when enough is enough, we have no choice but to get on the bus. Thanks, Zach, you made us hack up a bus fume memory with this one! - mh
•••••••••••
Shut Up and Fuck Me
Don’t tell me about your childhood
Shut up and fuck me
I don’t care who your family is
Shut up and fuck me
I don’t want to know
how old you were
when you got your first
fist fuck
Shut up and fuck me
I don’t care what you do for a living
What kind of car you drive
Where you went to school
Where you work
under what tree where
you did something with or to someone
at some point in time
Shut up and fuck me
I don’t even give a fuck what your name is
You don’t have to buy me any drinks
don’t even look at me until
your cock is in my mouth
Shut the fuck up and fuck me
We don’t have to kiss
I don’t need your number
You can’t be serious
Shut up and fuck me
Pull my hair smack my ass
put on a condom
and pound it
the only sound I want to hear
is you shutting the fuck up
and fucking me.
Desmene M. Statum
(1 poem added 11.13.10)
editor's note: When there is no agenda but the obvious job at hand, there really is no better instruction; applicable to so many of life's responsibilities. Akin to Puritan ethic, I think. - mh
•••••••••••
Untitled
Portland is raining
I'm thinking back to when I was stealing food
probably or maybe because
I am stealing too much.
I feel an odd crisis going round the top half of my body
but not really coming from me
(this shit could potentially make my life better)
(I think I'll smoke a cigarette)
I feel like foreign emotions
could be easily destroyed
if we stopped looking at ourselves
as rational humans
but as objects with little feeling
I also don't really know.
I don't know if I can live
happy or slightly content
with my body/mind made objectified
without blowing some kind of electrical fuse.
Wolf Von Blum
(1 poem added 11.11.10)
editor's note: No point in stressing the circuits; some questions don't need asking. Smoke another cigarette. (Wolf just joined Mad Swirl's Contributing Poets, check out his new page.) - mh
•••••••••••
A String of Performances Never Recorded
Buffed white
On a bright stage
Now you know
What a castrated revolutionary sounds like.
Walter Beck
(added 11.10.10)
editor's note: OK, 20 syllables, but still a Haiku; got the picture, heard the song, wondered whether this singer castrated himself for the revolution, or revolted in response to his castration. - mh
•••••••••••
Party Girls & Broken Poets
She ran fast with the party crowd
Shining bright at the camera
Flash in those dark sunglasses
They shielded her from the glare
Of notoriety and constant summer
It came long hot and easy
All in one night coke mda & mdna
Kept us right upright uptight and then
A few lines brought us down to one
Crazy whirl cone stuff and kissing
Iconically on big famous London bridges
It couldn’t fade, but suddenly
She was gone far gone
Charles Pitter
(added 11.09.10)
editor's note: How far back in the past were those numb nights and number mornings of blurred remembrance? So many years ago, those irresponsible sortees to the edge of reason and life. Or was that last night? - mh
•••••••••••
On the Edge of Awake
Regret is a morning embellished
with the heaviness of plums
broken open and scattered sweet.
A hunger pang gathers my dreams
like rain coalescing in puddles; enough to savor,
but not swallow each added scent
that laces my sleep in a scallop-swirl:
gently frayed whorls,
whetted down-chin
to quench and quell these silent fires
aching in me; fighting to stay shut
and make another choice—
a better choice than I did yesterday.
But eyelids arch against me
to watch a lizard pushing up against
a summered brick fence to cool its belly:
self-preservation. And I twist in my sheets,
down with the reptile and reflexive to rise
—even as reluctant as I may be.
Still longing
for the slit-eyed linger,
the way I groan under throw pillows
before combing my hair. Before breakfast
and the inevitable chewing of pride,
the kind that nubs mountains to pebbles—
and I think I’ll just flutter instead:
hover at a halfway point
of wherever I’ve been;
maybe pluck up the nerve
to fluctuate my feet over lines
then stutter back again.
Eventually.
And eventually I’ll let this be a lesson,
to pat my prickled soles
so that maybe I can feel the floor
as I stand up or melt down;
to find an instep I can step into
and walk around with some dignity
(or at least a better sense of direction).
And even as pinned as I am
to the alarm clocks and apologies,
I’ll allow myself to float quiet;
unencumbered by pitted plums
or the undertow of what could have been.
Kimberly Keith
(3 poems added 11.08.10)
editor's note: This is the time when all those dreams we had in the night compete for our attention in the day ahead. We can place bare feet on cold floor to chase one, or roll over and go back to sleep to embrace them all. (Welcome Kimberly Keith to our mad list of Contributing Poets! Read two more great new ones from her on her new page.) - mh
•••••••••••
Whatever it Takes
To stop you
from taking the watery plunge off Golden Gate's
infamous point of no return
has been my goal since
the first night I met you
in coach as you flew
between cars
looking for anyone to confess
your desolation, isolation, configuration
to your final out of control
spiral through the rings of HELL.
Cajoling, coercing, connecting
to the real you
is a tough road, my friend,
for the part that wishes for life
won't listen
beyond the immediate pain
unemployment checks used to fill in
with numbers low enough
that bank tellers snicker
when handing
the meager payouts
to your sweating palms
that always need to hold a drink
- vodka - water chaser
a bubbly sparkling blend inside crinkled plastic bottles
that fools nobody
but it medicates you, as you admit,
to accept reality
one more stinkin' day.
After hours of telephone counseling
the wound surprisingly healed over
a thin layer of, "I'm okay, really,
you've cured me."
But are you?
How did you turn it around?
You haven't explained it
yet
so is the truth
a convenient lie
Al Gore would be proud of
to get me off your back?
We plan to meet
in person
on that final weekend
of gamesmanship
between the Giants and Padres
for the division title.
But here's the bigger problem:
Do you promise
to stop me
from jumping off the highest building
if my team loses
or will we go hand and hand
gently into the night
one for lack of hope
the other for
lack of perspective?
Joseph D. DiLella
(1 poem added 11.07.10)
editor's note: Doctor-patient privilege is a good thing considering the line is often blurred between us. "Physician, heal thyself!" You want that with water back, or a beer chaser? - 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...
Contrasting,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
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