The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 10.01.11
“Poets are damned but they are not blind, they see with the eyes of the angels.” William Carlos Williams
fallen angel (above) by featured artist, halo jones, one of over 20 artists currently coloring the virtual walls in Mad Swirl's eclectic electronic collective Mad Gallery. We know you'll wanna see more fo' sho' so move that mad mouse of yo's right over here and a-way you will GO!
•••••••••••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we considered the reality of ownership, what's to whom's; we faced off desire with indifference, made conquest snarl; we toyed with transformation, transformed by our toys; we escaped the eight-legged beast to embraced the half-life of love; we engaged in a mercy killing; we shrugged off the cosmic question with a beer and a snort; lastly, we splashed into the ankle-deep puddle of a muddlesome run-on sentence. Now I gotta dry my socks! - mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
Run On
I’m gonna spill a lot of words
In rapid succession
Articulate angst
That everybody feels
Say out loud the imperative
Not Now!
Not Me!
Not Here!
Not Ever!
Ever goes the swing and sway
The spit-fire words of
What the Fuck?
You wanna do that here?
Now?
Without a net?
Extempore?
Without preparation or education
And research?
Shoot syllabic spider webs
This is connected
To that connected
To you connected
To the unraveled
Unorganized orgasmic obnoxious
Run on sentence
Sentience can’t be proven outside of anxiety
And honest introspection
Spin on spill out
Prophecy forsooth
For who can tell
What happens next?
Elbow to elbow hip to hip
To drop and drip
And scoop up circumstance
To dance
And look askance
At you reflecting me
In your private pupil agony
No worries no waste
No hurry no haste
The peace will come
In time in time
The peace will come
For you and for me
And for some
Running on
Running fast
And stopping never
© 2008
- MH Clay
(3 poems added 10.01.11)
editor's note: Yes now! Yes you! Yes here! Yes... always! Oh, and a big ol' YES to never stopping! We gotta keep on running on 'cos if we stop we just might drop. Hats off to poetry editor extraordinaire MH Clay for spilling a lot of wonderfully mad words upon us all... with a couple more swirling poems to dig upon on his page! - jo
ISINGLASS
Say simple things
And resist the urge to puncture
Or talk around it
There is the giant of a skeleton
Housed in the college of surgeons
He died young
Yet lives forever
There also are the blooms of unfortunate
Elephantitic males
Kids with two heads
And the insides of several sea slugs
The tools are a panorama
What we do and how we do it
It makes one quite dizzy
With the effort
A quick outside
Have a snort
Beer helps
It is what it’s for
It is not all about you
You know
- Anthony Murphy
(2 poems added 09.30.11)
editor's note: "Specialist or specimen?" That is the question here; and "not all about you" was NOT the answer we wanted. A beer and a snort might be the best we get. - mh
Sorrow
I slit my sorrow’s wrist this morning
and watched her die.
She wailed like a bitch in heat
- a fiery sun beating on her back.
Now
I smile
with all
my teeth.
- Nathaniel Kostar
(added 09.29.11)
editor's note: Here is the best case for assisted suicide; legitimized by 32 bone judges, coming out for some sun. Nice! - mh
The Avenger
The charmer stands outside the door, thorn-hearted, shimmering in wolf's skin.
Cupboards bear artificial children
I am the grandfather of wastes
Dump the rotten history on me
The door is hell-mouthed
Bringing in Lucifer’s legions
There’s a sound of hell
There’s a sound that pursues like hell
There’s a sound that kills you like hell
Empty is the room
Empty is the mechanical mind
Black towel hangs on the door, wardrobes stand tall shamelessly,
Black wardrobe exposes its viciousness, bed sleeps succinctly,
The uncouth carpet appears mild,
The furrowed blinds dangle showing the muddy diamonds,
The charmer sits inside the room, rose-hearted, shimmering in sheep’s skin.
Eight-eyed, eight-legged, eight-mouthed
Eight the number of hell
Slashes the petal eight times
Eight o’clock hell spreads cancer-like
I decay, decay, decay
Save me with your radioactive love.
- Arun Budhathoki
(2 poems added 09.28.11)
editor's note: I'm going to hold my plutonium lover tightly while I spray a can of aracnicide to keep that sheep/wolf at bay. Then I'm going to redecorate. (Also, a great bedtime story on Arun's page - check it out.) - mh
Permutations which Transform
Permutations which transform have long included earrings.
Sampled metal, glass, shells, beads, those gimlets of light and sound,
Bring about adverse, even objectionable fervor.
Off road bikes, too, are known for the advent of physical altercations.
Large trinkets, they conjure the sorts of courage indigenous to rabbits,
Hedgehogs, all road kill, as they truncate otherwise grandiose vacations.
Graduate school, also professional opportunities, likewise promise upward lift.
Until the turning of hotel keys into broad doors buckles, makes applicants queasy,
Forces them to redirect enthusiasm for social climbing toward custodial opportunities.
While it’s beneficial to dust off keyboards, to churn out improper amounts of texts,
Honor guard-like jumping at all sighted ogives raises questions;
Even miraculous environments position generations away from basic wisdom.
- KJ Hannah Greenberg
(1 poem added 09.27.11)
editor's note: Questions, indeed! If that iceberg had eyes, would it have moved out of the Titanic's way? Transformed into water, instead of a gash in metal. - mh
Milk for Free
The last time she wore
fur-lined gloves scuttling
grey clouds flew across
the sky as fast as
the muddy waters of
the river flowed beneath.
She stood on the bank
contemplating desire and
indifference and how one
could change to the other
as quickly as clothing
falls to the floor.
Silence wrapped its’ fickle
arms around her.
Conquest curled its’ lip.
- Charlotte Hamrick
(added 09.26.11)
editor's note: That's it! There's no better way to conjure Conquest's jealousy than to decide to "think about it." - mh
Chained
We grasp for things and will not let go,
so we are trapped by the things we hold.
Now ask yourself if this case be true,
who owns what and what owns who?
- Joseph Farley
(added 09.25.11)
editor's note: Well, if possession is nine tenths of the law; then everything, everyone - demons all! Cast them out! - 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...
Damnin' It,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
fallen angel (above) by featured artist, halo jones, one of over 20 artists currently coloring the virtual walls in Mad Swirl's eclectic electronic collective Mad Gallery. We know you'll wanna see more fo' sho' so move that mad mouse of yo's right over here and a-way you will GO!
•••••••••••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we considered the reality of ownership, what's to whom's; we faced off desire with indifference, made conquest snarl; we toyed with transformation, transformed by our toys; we escaped the eight-legged beast to embraced the half-life of love; we engaged in a mercy killing; we shrugged off the cosmic question with a beer and a snort; lastly, we splashed into the ankle-deep puddle of a muddlesome run-on sentence. Now I gotta dry my socks! - mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
Run On
I’m gonna spill a lot of words
In rapid succession
Articulate angst
That everybody feels
Say out loud the imperative
Not Now!
Not Me!
Not Here!
Not Ever!
Ever goes the swing and sway
The spit-fire words of
What the Fuck?
You wanna do that here?
Now?
Without a net?
Extempore?
Without preparation or education
And research?
Shoot syllabic spider webs
This is connected
To that connected
To you connected
To the unraveled
Unorganized orgasmic obnoxious
Run on sentence
Sentience can’t be proven outside of anxiety
And honest introspection
Spin on spill out
Prophecy forsooth
For who can tell
What happens next?
Elbow to elbow hip to hip
To drop and drip
And scoop up circumstance
To dance
And look askance
At you reflecting me
In your private pupil agony
No worries no waste
No hurry no haste
The peace will come
In time in time
The peace will come
For you and for me
And for some
Running on
Running fast
And stopping never
© 2008
- MH Clay
(3 poems added 10.01.11)
editor's note: Yes now! Yes you! Yes here! Yes... always! Oh, and a big ol' YES to never stopping! We gotta keep on running on 'cos if we stop we just might drop. Hats off to poetry editor extraordinaire MH Clay for spilling a lot of wonderfully mad words upon us all... with a couple more swirling poems to dig upon on his page! - jo
ISINGLASS
Say simple things
And resist the urge to puncture
Or talk around it
There is the giant of a skeleton
Housed in the college of surgeons
He died young
Yet lives forever
There also are the blooms of unfortunate
Elephantitic males
Kids with two heads
And the insides of several sea slugs
The tools are a panorama
What we do and how we do it
It makes one quite dizzy
With the effort
A quick outside
Have a snort
Beer helps
It is what it’s for
It is not all about you
You know
- Anthony Murphy
(2 poems added 09.30.11)
editor's note: "Specialist or specimen?" That is the question here; and "not all about you" was NOT the answer we wanted. A beer and a snort might be the best we get. - mh
Sorrow
I slit my sorrow’s wrist this morning
and watched her die.
She wailed like a bitch in heat
- a fiery sun beating on her back.
Now
I smile
with all
my teeth.
- Nathaniel Kostar
(added 09.29.11)
editor's note: Here is the best case for assisted suicide; legitimized by 32 bone judges, coming out for some sun. Nice! - mh
The Avenger
The charmer stands outside the door, thorn-hearted, shimmering in wolf's skin.
Cupboards bear artificial children
I am the grandfather of wastes
Dump the rotten history on me
The door is hell-mouthed
Bringing in Lucifer’s legions
There’s a sound of hell
There’s a sound that pursues like hell
There’s a sound that kills you like hell
Empty is the room
Empty is the mechanical mind
Black towel hangs on the door, wardrobes stand tall shamelessly,
Black wardrobe exposes its viciousness, bed sleeps succinctly,
The uncouth carpet appears mild,
The furrowed blinds dangle showing the muddy diamonds,
The charmer sits inside the room, rose-hearted, shimmering in sheep’s skin.
Eight-eyed, eight-legged, eight-mouthed
Eight the number of hell
Slashes the petal eight times
Eight o’clock hell spreads cancer-like
I decay, decay, decay
Save me with your radioactive love.
- Arun Budhathoki
(2 poems added 09.28.11)
editor's note: I'm going to hold my plutonium lover tightly while I spray a can of aracnicide to keep that sheep/wolf at bay. Then I'm going to redecorate. (Also, a great bedtime story on Arun's page - check it out.) - mh
Permutations which Transform
Permutations which transform have long included earrings.
Sampled metal, glass, shells, beads, those gimlets of light and sound,
Bring about adverse, even objectionable fervor.
Off road bikes, too, are known for the advent of physical altercations.
Large trinkets, they conjure the sorts of courage indigenous to rabbits,
Hedgehogs, all road kill, as they truncate otherwise grandiose vacations.
Graduate school, also professional opportunities, likewise promise upward lift.
Until the turning of hotel keys into broad doors buckles, makes applicants queasy,
Forces them to redirect enthusiasm for social climbing toward custodial opportunities.
While it’s beneficial to dust off keyboards, to churn out improper amounts of texts,
Honor guard-like jumping at all sighted ogives raises questions;
Even miraculous environments position generations away from basic wisdom.
- KJ Hannah Greenberg
(1 poem added 09.27.11)
editor's note: Questions, indeed! If that iceberg had eyes, would it have moved out of the Titanic's way? Transformed into water, instead of a gash in metal. - mh
Milk for Free
The last time she wore
fur-lined gloves scuttling
grey clouds flew across
the sky as fast as
the muddy waters of
the river flowed beneath.
She stood on the bank
contemplating desire and
indifference and how one
could change to the other
as quickly as clothing
falls to the floor.
Silence wrapped its’ fickle
arms around her.
Conquest curled its’ lip.
- Charlotte Hamrick
(added 09.26.11)
editor's note: That's it! There's no better way to conjure Conquest's jealousy than to decide to "think about it." - mh
Chained
We grasp for things and will not let go,
so we are trapped by the things we hold.
Now ask yourself if this case be true,
who owns what and what owns who?
- Joseph Farley
(added 09.25.11)
editor's note: Well, if possession is nine tenths of the law; then everything, everyone - demons all! Cast them out! - 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...
Damnin' It,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
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