The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 03.17.12
“Write in recollection and amazement for yourself” Jack Kerouac
•••••••••••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we swirled a beat week, a raw week, Jack's week - we magnified blisters and blemishes, blanched and blinking from a cyber-troll's eyes; we washed down wasted whiz, no matter, no wonder; we grasped gray memories, grappled with graveyard ghosts; we queried a calm soul collective, reflective, a sharp invective, a just dessert; we applauded pop flies, enjoyed apocalyptic angel song, put on shades; we joined a dance of decomposition where the ants always lead; then every mad word, every mad thing, was swallowed and swirled through the tip of a mad one's pen, to see all, cry all, be all to the ...end. - mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
Angelheaded Hipsters
"I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix, angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night, who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz" - Allen Ginsberg
I see the maddest minds of my generation consumed by sadness. Hopes gone. Dreams destroyed by endless dished-out disappointments. Beaten down by daily grinds. Chewed up and spit out. Pathetic pulp. Finding no solace in empty bottles of booze. Finding no peace in the ashes of burned out bowls. Finding no holy in the crossroads of the thighs. Finding empty in their never ending fight to find something in xerox'd chapbooks & grainy films & endless blogs & x-rated midnight scream dreams & face fucks in seedy bar bathrooms & seeking answers to questions no one's ever heard muttered in the first place & in the spaces between the lines that dash the back roads that they ride. I see.
It starts in the eyes. The look that goes right thru you. They are dwelling somewhere else. In lonely rooms in shanty houses and flopped on couches scratchin' at some itchin' they never can reach. Abused by the muses, these mad ones escape in bottles of booze chased by pills or filled with weed, their crazed eyes greened by Mary's fumes. I've seen the madness take root. I understand their howls. I've seen their slack jaws hang wide with words and worms crawling and falling and eating out their insides. Too much all at once. The walls fall, not enough. Hungry and wanting. More life, more highs, more lows, more tears, more fears, more fucking mores! Sharp minds, dulled senses. Lost ones. Bloodshot eyes, twisted mouths, gone ones. Dancing feet, shuffling streets, mad ones. Never enough, there's no such word, beat ones.
I have no feelings one way or the other. I hold no judgement. For you see, I am an accomplice and I too am being consumed by this collective madness.
I am with you...
...on endless quests to find rock bottom
...whetting the dreams that wake you screaming whispers of regret
...in the pools of blue eyed bimbo'd bitches pitching fits and saying your poetry ain't shit from some duct taped bar stool
...flippin' the bird to thankless zombies who have no clue who you are, were or will be
...baring your wares for those who kinda care and kinda don't and won't admit it even if they didn't because it ain't hip not to get it
...on this ride into the endless nights
Unholy is the...
...never ending cigarette
...dirty faced ashtrays
...tombstones of believed bottled dreams
...terror faced stares in broken mirrors
...throwaway seeds and stems
...rejections due to style
...dejected dreams that didn't fit the status quo
...short lines of open stages
...long lines of closed stages
...wishes for the discovery
...promises of someday soons
...pity me and my self-constructed self-destructing woes
...envy for those with no egos
...dreams and screams of drug induced screens
...the bird song bringing in the dawn
...you I be
...me you be
...end
- Johnny Olson
click here to see the video of this poem being performed LIVE at Mad Swirl's Open Mic
(1 poem added 03.17.12)
editor's note: "...end," he says; "...nope," we thinks. This inspired by birthday Jack from Monday back, tickling his Ginsberg muse, wound-up swirl of words carries on as long as eyes read and voices speak - this methinks. - mh
La fourmi
we will dance over
your dead bodies,
an ant told me.
I'm already dead
dance, dance, dance
all over me.
- Virginie Colline
(added 03.16.12)
editor's note: Ant dance and worm wiggle; we'll all be happy at the last grand ball, evident by our polished bone smiles. - mh
Regarding the End of the World
Let’s get so far away
from our own –
each hang-dog
regret, we can barely see
that rapture
our bodies
suffuse (mushroom
cloud
sunset
to my left), because the future’s
Still only
so much
comin’ on
like lightning! following this UPS truck, now,
‘cause I wasn’t
home – all these little neighborhoods [through]
and their porch songs, black white yellow
and brown...
this poem tells me
I am.
Last Saturday a choir was singing
in the park, handing out pamphlets – we went
to the bar; today, them Orioles are playing
at Camden Yards. Summertime sometimes lion
I don’t know
who to love. It’s just another
powerful day – more to do with need
than beauty, mystery
than adventure.
- Jonas Kyle-Sidell
(added 03.15.12)
editor's note: A powerful day, indeed, when those clouds flash blinding whiteness into outfielders' eyes. Even then, no one wants a home run on errors. - mh
MY DYING MONDAY
In black I will be
saying all that I used to be
Float in like a
ghost of dawn
Holding your spirit
like you never
were known
Reject those of
broken branches
while asking of others
to collect souls of their
gods and churches
You will find me
You will know I'm there
Where could I be
when my body left
me elsewhere
Keep it down
and be quiet and calm
For I am your
salvation above crime
Ask of me
whatever you please
And I'll do my best
to push you away
so you will kneel on
your bloody knees
Arrogant enough you were
while you lived
Now the time got just
one more trick
To bury you into that
tomb of youth
And all you can say is
"This is what I deserved"
- Biljana Dodos
(added 03.14.12)
editor's note: Our just desserts, served after our lifetime buffet, will be exactly that, so "keep it down." - mh
Resurrection
In the contemporary country of my mind
an unkempt garden, an ocean void of fish
Ten million stars blurring out the blue moon
If I tried to explain my thoughts, you'd be confused
Yet in all of this life and death, the cycles
of each so brief, I have thought with logic
I have loved with passion, I have wept
with grief, I have laughed the midnight
from each graveyard, complacently these ghosts
have risen, shrouded, all so alike.
- Lisa Zaran
(1 poem added 03.13.12)
editor's note: Yes, gardens and graveyards full of laughter, full of light. Let's get them ghosts a-dancin'! - mh
Pissing Time Away
Above the flawless porcelain
I empty all my sin.
Bits of dried cum
and the juices
of seventeen, or one?
This week I have
no drink to give.
This year I have
no drugs to share.
Just a tinted yellow glare
over the urinal cake you wear.
So it does not matter
what I consume or who I fuck,
cause you're my waste's best friend.
And all of life is just pissing down a drain.
- R.E. Samson
(added 03.12.12)
editor's note: No matter how foul or foolish, we can flush those foibles away. Consigned to the department of sanitation, spun clockwise or counter; no regrets. - mh
We look at you
I saw your craigslist ad,
I nearly cried, 39 years
old and no one left to watch TV,
looking for someone 30-40
to hang out with at their home,
or someone else's home, a home
you don't know, haven't known,
they've lived all their lives without you,
you starting over at 40, on the internet
looking like this, typing this and leaving
it for us to find, and we look at you
unable to understand what makes
someone do this, on white screens
with black type, and it's like
every lie we tell ourselves about
life before bed were washed away,
leaving nothing but the truth we pretend
isn't there
- Thomas Pescatore
(added 03.11.12)
editor's note: The high definition view reveals every pore and follicle, every little blemish magnified, oddly entertaining; so long as our view is of a someone else. - 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...
Bein' Amazed,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
•••••••••••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we swirled a beat week, a raw week, Jack's week - we magnified blisters and blemishes, blanched and blinking from a cyber-troll's eyes; we washed down wasted whiz, no matter, no wonder; we grasped gray memories, grappled with graveyard ghosts; we queried a calm soul collective, reflective, a sharp invective, a just dessert; we applauded pop flies, enjoyed apocalyptic angel song, put on shades; we joined a dance of decomposition where the ants always lead; then every mad word, every mad thing, was swallowed and swirled through the tip of a mad one's pen, to see all, cry all, be all to the ...end. - mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
Angelheaded Hipsters
"I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix, angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night, who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz" - Allen Ginsberg
I see the maddest minds of my generation consumed by sadness. Hopes gone. Dreams destroyed by endless dished-out disappointments. Beaten down by daily grinds. Chewed up and spit out. Pathetic pulp. Finding no solace in empty bottles of booze. Finding no peace in the ashes of burned out bowls. Finding no holy in the crossroads of the thighs. Finding empty in their never ending fight to find something in xerox'd chapbooks & grainy films & endless blogs & x-rated midnight scream dreams & face fucks in seedy bar bathrooms & seeking answers to questions no one's ever heard muttered in the first place & in the spaces between the lines that dash the back roads that they ride. I see.
It starts in the eyes. The look that goes right thru you. They are dwelling somewhere else. In lonely rooms in shanty houses and flopped on couches scratchin' at some itchin' they never can reach. Abused by the muses, these mad ones escape in bottles of booze chased by pills or filled with weed, their crazed eyes greened by Mary's fumes. I've seen the madness take root. I understand their howls. I've seen their slack jaws hang wide with words and worms crawling and falling and eating out their insides. Too much all at once. The walls fall, not enough. Hungry and wanting. More life, more highs, more lows, more tears, more fears, more fucking mores! Sharp minds, dulled senses. Lost ones. Bloodshot eyes, twisted mouths, gone ones. Dancing feet, shuffling streets, mad ones. Never enough, there's no such word, beat ones.
I have no feelings one way or the other. I hold no judgement. For you see, I am an accomplice and I too am being consumed by this collective madness.
I am with you...
...on endless quests to find rock bottom
...whetting the dreams that wake you screaming whispers of regret
...in the pools of blue eyed bimbo'd bitches pitching fits and saying your poetry ain't shit from some duct taped bar stool
...flippin' the bird to thankless zombies who have no clue who you are, were or will be
...baring your wares for those who kinda care and kinda don't and won't admit it even if they didn't because it ain't hip not to get it
...on this ride into the endless nights
Unholy is the...
...never ending cigarette
...dirty faced ashtrays
...tombstones of believed bottled dreams
...terror faced stares in broken mirrors
...throwaway seeds and stems
...rejections due to style
...dejected dreams that didn't fit the status quo
...short lines of open stages
...long lines of closed stages
...wishes for the discovery
...promises of someday soons
...pity me and my self-constructed self-destructing woes
...envy for those with no egos
...dreams and screams of drug induced screens
...the bird song bringing in the dawn
...you I be
...me you be
...end
- Johnny Olson
click here to see the video of this poem being performed LIVE at Mad Swirl's Open Mic
(1 poem added 03.17.12)
editor's note: "...end," he says; "...nope," we thinks. This inspired by birthday Jack from Monday back, tickling his Ginsberg muse, wound-up swirl of words carries on as long as eyes read and voices speak - this methinks. - mh
La fourmi
we will dance over
your dead bodies,
an ant told me.
I'm already dead
dance, dance, dance
all over me.
- Virginie Colline
(added 03.16.12)
editor's note: Ant dance and worm wiggle; we'll all be happy at the last grand ball, evident by our polished bone smiles. - mh
Regarding the End of the World
Let’s get so far away
from our own –
each hang-dog
regret, we can barely see
that rapture
our bodies
suffuse (mushroom
cloud
sunset
to my left), because the future’s
Still only
so much
comin’ on
like lightning! following this UPS truck, now,
‘cause I wasn’t
home – all these little neighborhoods [through]
and their porch songs, black white yellow
and brown...
this poem tells me
I am.
Last Saturday a choir was singing
in the park, handing out pamphlets – we went
to the bar; today, them Orioles are playing
at Camden Yards. Summertime sometimes lion
I don’t know
who to love. It’s just another
powerful day – more to do with need
than beauty, mystery
than adventure.
- Jonas Kyle-Sidell
(added 03.15.12)
editor's note: A powerful day, indeed, when those clouds flash blinding whiteness into outfielders' eyes. Even then, no one wants a home run on errors. - mh
MY DYING MONDAY
In black I will be
saying all that I used to be
Float in like a
ghost of dawn
Holding your spirit
like you never
were known
Reject those of
broken branches
while asking of others
to collect souls of their
gods and churches
You will find me
You will know I'm there
Where could I be
when my body left
me elsewhere
Keep it down
and be quiet and calm
For I am your
salvation above crime
Ask of me
whatever you please
And I'll do my best
to push you away
so you will kneel on
your bloody knees
Arrogant enough you were
while you lived
Now the time got just
one more trick
To bury you into that
tomb of youth
And all you can say is
"This is what I deserved"
- Biljana Dodos
(added 03.14.12)
editor's note: Our just desserts, served after our lifetime buffet, will be exactly that, so "keep it down." - mh
Resurrection
In the contemporary country of my mind
an unkempt garden, an ocean void of fish
Ten million stars blurring out the blue moon
If I tried to explain my thoughts, you'd be confused
Yet in all of this life and death, the cycles
of each so brief, I have thought with logic
I have loved with passion, I have wept
with grief, I have laughed the midnight
from each graveyard, complacently these ghosts
have risen, shrouded, all so alike.
- Lisa Zaran
(1 poem added 03.13.12)
editor's note: Yes, gardens and graveyards full of laughter, full of light. Let's get them ghosts a-dancin'! - mh
Pissing Time Away
Above the flawless porcelain
I empty all my sin.
Bits of dried cum
and the juices
of seventeen, or one?
This week I have
no drink to give.
This year I have
no drugs to share.
Just a tinted yellow glare
over the urinal cake you wear.
So it does not matter
what I consume or who I fuck,
cause you're my waste's best friend.
And all of life is just pissing down a drain.
- R.E. Samson
(added 03.12.12)
editor's note: No matter how foul or foolish, we can flush those foibles away. Consigned to the department of sanitation, spun clockwise or counter; no regrets. - mh
We look at you
I saw your craigslist ad,
I nearly cried, 39 years
old and no one left to watch TV,
looking for someone 30-40
to hang out with at their home,
or someone else's home, a home
you don't know, haven't known,
they've lived all their lives without you,
you starting over at 40, on the internet
looking like this, typing this and leaving
it for us to find, and we look at you
unable to understand what makes
someone do this, on white screens
with black type, and it's like
every lie we tell ourselves about
life before bed were washed away,
leaving nothing but the truth we pretend
isn't there
- Thomas Pescatore
(added 03.11.12)
editor's note: The high definition view reveals every pore and follicle, every little blemish magnified, oddly entertaining; so long as our view is of a someone else. - 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...
Bein' Amazed,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
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