The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 04.16.11
“A poem is a naked person...” Bob Dylan
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we were pummeled with poetry pinball, serendipitous selections of come-what-may; first confronted with kaleidoscopic constructs of occult screwdriver insanity, caffeinated barista open-shoed ideology, tuff-girl tangoed tussles for adolescent titillation, then true love focused like no other locus, don't look over your shoulder, the woven web of what-could-be versus what ultimately was, to smooth impurities induced by wrinkles of imperfect influences (turn them out, by god), ending in a cleansing fire, to burn away blemishes and poverty down to chalk-board vindication where there is none, but what we make.
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
•••••••••••
Not Alone
For Audre Lorde
Your words are fire in my fingers, but I’m afraid
to let go; unsure if I’d ever feel brackish water
close over my head or know how asphalt tastes like resin
mixed with gunpowder and ragged wounds.
I saw the boy you described,
pooling an urban maze with rusty heat;
could only imagine puncture marks,
the echo of a bass line
thumped hard in that chest,
and the dark thirty that would come
a little early—
mistaken for the shade of tall buildings
or the shadow of a slinky cat.
I patted his hand in reassurance,
pulled back before tiny grip slackened
and told him to sleep—there’s school in the morning
with the word “Vindication” written in block letters
on the chalkboard.
Will I remember where I am
when I notice my palm; a raw tingle of pressure—
how it fades, but is never gone? Like a page
flung out to greet the wind and how it floats
down
with every stark word, littered in bold condemnation,
down;
a Sunday-Best suit, split across the back.
Down
as a flame, and I’ll watch the city burn.
- Kimberly Keith
(1 poem added 04.16.11)
editor's note: Vindication may never be written for us in chalk, in stone; but maybe in blood and breath, maybe hidden in death like a shadow, lulling us into a cool sleep, away from the heat of the sun. - mh
•••••••••••
An Untitled Poem
The Righteous,
like a twitter or tweet gone viral,
attacking the world,
a call to arms,
The Chosen,
like Israel into Canaan,
justified by God,
the inhabitants must die,
The Elite,
Manifest Destiny,
flood the plains with ignorant immigrant Europeans,
the bible read for justification,
a New Canaan,
remade with death and destruction,
The Patriots,
a cry through the decades,
the Communists from Cuba,
the terrorists from Tehran,
The Predestined,
code for control,
code for righteousness,
Moving people out,
a skill we Americans possess,
our heritage, our justification,
our right,
Moving people out,
it is what we do.
- Douglas Polk
(added 04.15.11)
editor's note: Damn right, righteousness is for winners! Losers will only dilute the elite gene pool. I agree, brother, I agree - move'em the hell out. (Truth is, I'm not so sure about you, either;) - mh
•••••••••••
Step-Arachnid
arachnid one dressed fancy
in haired pants of sewn up lies
jigging on his gravestone
which is only in my mind
octobitch is laughing with eight
worm red globe red eyes
my father got the cancer
you were his vile bride.
- Suzanne Stratmann
(added 04.14.11)
editor's note: Here, the antithesis of the red-headed step-child and the skeleton in the closet. Here, the bite brings the bane upon both. - mh
•••••••••••
Dream a Little Dream
I want to be the buzz
In the back of your mind,
The little something
You can't escape.
Undulating and pulsating
I want to see you squirm.
To hear desperation
When you whisper my name.
Wrap your arms around me,
And breathe in my infatuation.
- Renee Garafola
(added 04.13.11)
editor's note: Nothing like a little obsessive compulsion to bring that true love around... damn them! - mh
•••••••••••
Raymond Chandler Part II
My therapist said the trouble with liking hard-boiled girls
Is that you have to be as tough as them, tougher even and
Prepared for ruthless games, glacial baby
They’ll crack you open like an egg and your yolk could be soft
On the inside, on the inside you may be more tender than you thought
You dumb-assed kid, that’s the trouble with liking hard-boiled girls, he said
- Charles Pitter
(1 poem added 04.12.11)
editor's note: If you're gonna take on the hard-boiled, I suggest you start soft, work your way up; say, soft-scrambled? Or, even a souffle? Baby steps, baby steps. - mh
•••••••••••
Black Coffee
Yesterday while having a cup of Americano in a coffee shop I suddenly
felt I am new in this city where I was born and lived all this time.
I have never seen these leaves laden with so much dust. Even the
sunlight playing with those ugly leaves is so golden yellow. I was
just taking in the air which slashed through the simmering coffee
smell. Unknown roads moving here and there, remain unknown in this
carnival of life. I open my shoes and light a cigarette just below the
no smoking sign. They are so bored they don’t say anything anymore.
- Subhankar Das
(added 04.11.11)
editor's note: We, too, can enjoy a transcendental smoke and a cuppa joe if we're willing to open our shoes. - mh
•••••••••••
PLEASE HELP ME FIND THE DOLLAR I LOST
Godzilla of blue Smurf crotch electro waffle lust
bugs for Kate Bush occult screwdriver forebrain yew-yaw
struggle for alignment of the internal organs on the Mexican platter
my navel out of danger crafted by the most skilled medieval cosplayer,
the instant my mom said, ‘Get your shit together!’
put the unstoppable Puppet’s boxing glove
helium speaking those words into perspective –
insects behind the sunny sitting room window hate
inundate their feet with Fanta pee try in vain to flee
feel important when their little hairs singe and smell good
on the cold radiator
therefore ideas grow out of acupuncture
their epic sojourn in the crawlspace of the janitor’s vintage hessian trousers
to eclipse, to educate, to repeat the mistakes of our nervous system
a view in three dimensions of the ballad from the balcony
betraying propellers on the caps on the soft susurrating notes
and now a dollar stays gone, its value a cross-stitched haunting
braces for a life of perpetual hectic roaming on the proboscis
of my father’s broken 1964 Cadillac
- Tyson Bley
(1 poem added 04.10.11)
editor's note: It's only non-sequitur if you have context. Now, where did I put my propeller cap? - 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...
Standing Naked,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we were pummeled with poetry pinball, serendipitous selections of come-what-may; first confronted with kaleidoscopic constructs of occult screwdriver insanity, caffeinated barista open-shoed ideology, tuff-girl tangoed tussles for adolescent titillation, then true love focused like no other locus, don't look over your shoulder, the woven web of what-could-be versus what ultimately was, to smooth impurities induced by wrinkles of imperfect influences (turn them out, by god), ending in a cleansing fire, to burn away blemishes and poverty down to chalk-board vindication where there is none, but what we make.
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
•••••••••••
Not Alone
For Audre Lorde
Your words are fire in my fingers, but I’m afraid
to let go; unsure if I’d ever feel brackish water
close over my head or know how asphalt tastes like resin
mixed with gunpowder and ragged wounds.
I saw the boy you described,
pooling an urban maze with rusty heat;
could only imagine puncture marks,
the echo of a bass line
thumped hard in that chest,
and the dark thirty that would come
a little early—
mistaken for the shade of tall buildings
or the shadow of a slinky cat.
I patted his hand in reassurance,
pulled back before tiny grip slackened
and told him to sleep—there’s school in the morning
with the word “Vindication” written in block letters
on the chalkboard.
Will I remember where I am
when I notice my palm; a raw tingle of pressure—
how it fades, but is never gone? Like a page
flung out to greet the wind and how it floats
down
with every stark word, littered in bold condemnation,
down;
a Sunday-Best suit, split across the back.
Down
as a flame, and I’ll watch the city burn.
- Kimberly Keith
(1 poem added 04.16.11)
editor's note: Vindication may never be written for us in chalk, in stone; but maybe in blood and breath, maybe hidden in death like a shadow, lulling us into a cool sleep, away from the heat of the sun. - mh
•••••••••••
An Untitled Poem
The Righteous,
like a twitter or tweet gone viral,
attacking the world,
a call to arms,
The Chosen,
like Israel into Canaan,
justified by God,
the inhabitants must die,
The Elite,
Manifest Destiny,
flood the plains with ignorant immigrant Europeans,
the bible read for justification,
a New Canaan,
remade with death and destruction,
The Patriots,
a cry through the decades,
the Communists from Cuba,
the terrorists from Tehran,
The Predestined,
code for control,
code for righteousness,
Moving people out,
a skill we Americans possess,
our heritage, our justification,
our right,
Moving people out,
it is what we do.
- Douglas Polk
(added 04.15.11)
editor's note: Damn right, righteousness is for winners! Losers will only dilute the elite gene pool. I agree, brother, I agree - move'em the hell out. (Truth is, I'm not so sure about you, either;) - mh
•••••••••••
Step-Arachnid
arachnid one dressed fancy
in haired pants of sewn up lies
jigging on his gravestone
which is only in my mind
octobitch is laughing with eight
worm red globe red eyes
my father got the cancer
you were his vile bride.
- Suzanne Stratmann
(added 04.14.11)
editor's note: Here, the antithesis of the red-headed step-child and the skeleton in the closet. Here, the bite brings the bane upon both. - mh
•••••••••••
Dream a Little Dream
I want to be the buzz
In the back of your mind,
The little something
You can't escape.
Undulating and pulsating
I want to see you squirm.
To hear desperation
When you whisper my name.
Wrap your arms around me,
And breathe in my infatuation.
- Renee Garafola
(added 04.13.11)
editor's note: Nothing like a little obsessive compulsion to bring that true love around... damn them! - mh
•••••••••••
Raymond Chandler Part II
My therapist said the trouble with liking hard-boiled girls
Is that you have to be as tough as them, tougher even and
Prepared for ruthless games, glacial baby
They’ll crack you open like an egg and your yolk could be soft
On the inside, on the inside you may be more tender than you thought
You dumb-assed kid, that’s the trouble with liking hard-boiled girls, he said
- Charles Pitter
(1 poem added 04.12.11)
editor's note: If you're gonna take on the hard-boiled, I suggest you start soft, work your way up; say, soft-scrambled? Or, even a souffle? Baby steps, baby steps. - mh
•••••••••••
Black Coffee
Yesterday while having a cup of Americano in a coffee shop I suddenly
felt I am new in this city where I was born and lived all this time.
I have never seen these leaves laden with so much dust. Even the
sunlight playing with those ugly leaves is so golden yellow. I was
just taking in the air which slashed through the simmering coffee
smell. Unknown roads moving here and there, remain unknown in this
carnival of life. I open my shoes and light a cigarette just below the
no smoking sign. They are so bored they don’t say anything anymore.
- Subhankar Das
(added 04.11.11)
editor's note: We, too, can enjoy a transcendental smoke and a cuppa joe if we're willing to open our shoes. - mh
•••••••••••
PLEASE HELP ME FIND THE DOLLAR I LOST
Godzilla of blue Smurf crotch electro waffle lust
bugs for Kate Bush occult screwdriver forebrain yew-yaw
struggle for alignment of the internal organs on the Mexican platter
my navel out of danger crafted by the most skilled medieval cosplayer,
the instant my mom said, ‘Get your shit together!’
put the unstoppable Puppet’s boxing glove
helium speaking those words into perspective –
insects behind the sunny sitting room window hate
inundate their feet with Fanta pee try in vain to flee
feel important when their little hairs singe and smell good
on the cold radiator
therefore ideas grow out of acupuncture
their epic sojourn in the crawlspace of the janitor’s vintage hessian trousers
to eclipse, to educate, to repeat the mistakes of our nervous system
a view in three dimensions of the ballad from the balcony
betraying propellers on the caps on the soft susurrating notes
and now a dollar stays gone, its value a cross-stitched haunting
braces for a life of perpetual hectic roaming on the proboscis
of my father’s broken 1964 Cadillac
- Tyson Bley
(1 poem added 04.10.11)
editor's note: It's only non-sequitur if you have context. Now, where did I put my propeller cap? - 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...
Standing Naked,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
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