The Best of Mad Swirl : 07.20.13
"True, we love life, not because we are used to living, but because we are used to loving. There is always some madness in love, but there is also always some reason in madness." Petrarch
••• The Mad Gallery •••
Paradise by the Sea series (above) by Toni Martin, one of over 20 featured artists currently coloring the virtual walls in Mad Swirl's eclectic electronic collective Mad Gallery. We know you'll wanna see mo' fo' sho' so move that mad mouse of yours right over here and a-way you'll GO
••• The Poetry Forum •••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we wrested life from a comatose toe-wiggle; we thought purpose to unhide by an astute, unabashed study of stride; we made priggish politeness proud by stifling an epithet better said aloud; we faltered to fly down a mountainside, trembled, but sang a song (not cried); we tendered an invitation to slip like fox horse lover into sweet sensual sorrow womb, we succumbed; we cooked and longed to look at pictures of cool, as a rule unlike hot reality; we caressed a scared lover, cowed by darkness, couldn't comfort, found no words, much less certainty. From dark to dark, we can whistle or walk quickly; there's going to be a burning sun turning the corner soon. ~ mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
Crank Calls From The Dead
Ancestors keep calling me
in the middle of the night
and hanging up the phone.
I tell them we are of one spirit
and to leave me alone,
but they keep calling, say,
“You are us and we are you.”
They won't lose my number,
and will give me no rest.
I will have to move myself,
but where can I go
where their words and genes
will not follow?
It is hard enough to be yourself
without having generations
of baggage to carry.
- Joseph Farley
(1 poem added 07.20.13)
editor's note: Those bags are a lot to carry, 'specially since they started charging to check'em. Genetic Debt: Pay now AND later. - mh
Hell
Bake a pie in a cracked kiln,
stare at the bright glory hole.
Arizona asphalt, sizzling hot,
vacation in Pakistan.
Pay the ferryman’s toll to cross
toxic river Styx.
Desert cities run dry as
cactus thirst in fine sand and
jellyfish numbers explode.
Spherical drought planet turn,
smoke billows in wind.
Crayons melt in a parked car,
in a new record-breaking heat.
Phytoplankton dies rapidly,
as sea levels rise, splash.
Solar panels lie unpacked,
crops fail in the South,
oceans fall silent, acidified.
As all life goes extinct,
steamy ruins of skyscrapers.
Leaky boils of a chemical burn,
sulfuric acid rainy day.
As skin wrapped in ambulance
bandages, priceless art removed
from museums to safer locations.
Scream in fiery lava bright,
pitchforks push us down.
- Steve Hood
(added 07.19.13)
editor's note: Not the Endless Summer we were looking for. - mh
Come
Come and enter my soft sorrow,
with a velvet tail of silver!
Enter me like a gray fox,
enter and run tenderly on my flesh,
like a horsey with a wavy mane!
Why every time is it so quiet
when I want to say: "Come"?
Why every time is it so quiet
when I try to undress you?
Why each time, when with pain
I open my dawning womb,
shy, I run again toward myself,
why does my womb each time return
toward itself
toward itself
why do I flow like a river of stone
toward this world
with herbarized leaves?...
Come, raise as the Moon
inside my flesh, transparent and dusky.
Come, be for me like a river
and a bridge to another Universe!
- Dimana Ivanova
(Translated from Bulgarian by Katerina Stoykova-Klemer)
(added 07.18.13)
editor's note: Carnal bliss, categorized and consummated on a cosmic level. What lover wouldn't succumb to that? - mh
Memories from another spring
Once upon a time
in another spring
the mountain slapped my face with its rocks
from the crevasses dug in my skin
by sharp hateful stones
my name got evaporated
I was hanging there like an old rag
singing prayers to a mountain wall
I remember the surrender
the moist tranquility
the lightness passing my limbs
as the mountain was sliding by
a last look into my friend's eyes
a farewell smile
the ride is on
trembling, singing
I have to face this gap with no name
now
- Iulia Gherghei
(added 07.17.13)
editor's note: What better way to face that gap than with a song? Embrace that jump when the ride is on. - mh
Gallbladder Blues
In his crisp blue shirt,
every inch the consultant,
he beckons me to take a seat.
"Are you a smoker?"
No
"Do you take a drink?"
No
"For big people like you
we find keyhole is best."
I thought it wise not to mention
his beer belly,
neat, though it was,
like a woman in the second trimester.
Inside my head, Instead,
“I can lose weight but you'll always be
an asshole.”
- Maeve Heneghan
(added 07.16.13)
editor's note: The word around town is, pot is a bigger jerk than kettle ever was. - mh
Model Walk
So when they do the model walk
are we supposed to accept that
as the normal way all hot girls move
when they’re dressed like hookers?
I’m trying to think if any other
profession has a special walk
requirement. There is the perp walk
and a lot more people should be
mastering that, coat over their
heads like the barn’s on fire.
Brings to mind horses and dogs
in races for ribbons having those
quirky little ways they’re trained
to trot. The military marches
on parade fields, but it’s largely
discouraged when they skirmish.
Should it be? Let’s get the generals
up front again and bring that back.
I worked in business for years,
starched up in suits and wing tips,
but I wasn’t aware of any particular
slide or knee lift as we oozed
between cubicles and sharpened
our knives. Too bad, could work
it for laughs during job interviews,
make them show their stuff.
Only the svelte survive!
Let’s make congress
do their snake dance
along the campaign trail
and continue as they slither
to their seats.
It just might be a better world
if every vocation had its strut
so you could read
their clear intentions
and plan an appropriate response
as they neared.
As a poet, if I promised to
amble in iamb, you could run.
- Tim Laffey
(added 07.15.13)
editor's note: When you run, run in quatrains; caper in couplets! - mh
Coma
Sleet on the turnpike
in the middle of the night
but I keep driving,
both hands on the wheel,
nowhere to pull off,
and a yellow bus
comes over the line
and kisses my truck.
That's all I remember.
Now I'm in bed,
wired to things,
unable to move,
listening to a doctor
telling my wife,
"It's been two weeks,
no improvement."
He asks her nicely
if we should let him go,
the dimwit bastard.
If I could, I'd scream
but I can't even
wiggle my toes.
- Donal Mahoney
(1 poem added 07.14.13)
editor's note: Analogy or reality; it's a horror story, either way. Don't pull that plug, dammit; I've things to do! - mh
••• Short Stories •••
Who out there needs a wicked read? You know you do. And you know who you are, dont'cha? Then check out the latest addition to our short stories library, "The Hunger of Heaven" (625 words) by Paul Magnan. Here's what Short Story Editor Tyler Malone has to say about this pick-of-the-week short story: "It’s not what makes the bump in the night; it’s what bumps back that we should fear. Remember, witches only have a few true fears—and children should send shivers up any creature’s vile spine." Here's a small step into the dark side to get you goin'...
(photo by Tyler Malone)
Mage Allia of House Themis dug her slipper-clad toe into dry soil as she waited for the young girl. She ran a bony, liver-spotted hand over her head and looked up at the Six Houses. They towered above the scattered huts of the forty tribes who clawed this land for sustenance. The Houses stood on towering poles of blue steel, their oblong shapes tapering to long silver points that reached to the sky. / Allia finally saw the girl, escorted by a servant of House Themis. She was twelve or thirteen, on the cusp of puberty, and had thick red hair parted twice, once over each ear. Her violet eyes looked at Allia with a steady maturity that belied her childish stature. / Allia dismissed the servant then took the girl by the arm and led her to an open elevator beneath the House. Once inside, the elevator ascended quickly, gliding past the poles.
Get the rest of your witchy read on here...
•••••••
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 mad conversations going on in Mad Swirl's World? Then stop by whenever the mood strikes! We'll be here...
Lovin' Life,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
Madelyn Olson
Visual Editor
••• The Mad Gallery •••
Paradise by the Sea series (above) by Toni Martin, one of over 20 featured artists currently coloring the virtual walls in Mad Swirl's eclectic electronic collective Mad Gallery. We know you'll wanna see mo' fo' sho' so move that mad mouse of yours right over here and a-way you'll GO
••• The Poetry Forum •••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we wrested life from a comatose toe-wiggle; we thought purpose to unhide by an astute, unabashed study of stride; we made priggish politeness proud by stifling an epithet better said aloud; we faltered to fly down a mountainside, trembled, but sang a song (not cried); we tendered an invitation to slip like fox horse lover into sweet sensual sorrow womb, we succumbed; we cooked and longed to look at pictures of cool, as a rule unlike hot reality; we caressed a scared lover, cowed by darkness, couldn't comfort, found no words, much less certainty. From dark to dark, we can whistle or walk quickly; there's going to be a burning sun turning the corner soon. ~ mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
Crank Calls From The Dead
Ancestors keep calling me
in the middle of the night
and hanging up the phone.
I tell them we are of one spirit
and to leave me alone,
but they keep calling, say,
“You are us and we are you.”
They won't lose my number,
and will give me no rest.
I will have to move myself,
but where can I go
where their words and genes
will not follow?
It is hard enough to be yourself
without having generations
of baggage to carry.
- Joseph Farley
(1 poem added 07.20.13)
editor's note: Those bags are a lot to carry, 'specially since they started charging to check'em. Genetic Debt: Pay now AND later. - mh
Hell
Bake a pie in a cracked kiln,
stare at the bright glory hole.
Arizona asphalt, sizzling hot,
vacation in Pakistan.
Pay the ferryman’s toll to cross
toxic river Styx.
Desert cities run dry as
cactus thirst in fine sand and
jellyfish numbers explode.
Spherical drought planet turn,
smoke billows in wind.
Crayons melt in a parked car,
in a new record-breaking heat.
Phytoplankton dies rapidly,
as sea levels rise, splash.
Solar panels lie unpacked,
crops fail in the South,
oceans fall silent, acidified.
As all life goes extinct,
steamy ruins of skyscrapers.
Leaky boils of a chemical burn,
sulfuric acid rainy day.
As skin wrapped in ambulance
bandages, priceless art removed
from museums to safer locations.
Scream in fiery lava bright,
pitchforks push us down.
- Steve Hood
(added 07.19.13)
editor's note: Not the Endless Summer we were looking for. - mh
Come
Come and enter my soft sorrow,
with a velvet tail of silver!
Enter me like a gray fox,
enter and run tenderly on my flesh,
like a horsey with a wavy mane!
Why every time is it so quiet
when I want to say: "Come"?
Why every time is it so quiet
when I try to undress you?
Why each time, when with pain
I open my dawning womb,
shy, I run again toward myself,
why does my womb each time return
toward itself
toward itself
why do I flow like a river of stone
toward this world
with herbarized leaves?...
Come, raise as the Moon
inside my flesh, transparent and dusky.
Come, be for me like a river
and a bridge to another Universe!
- Dimana Ivanova
(Translated from Bulgarian by Katerina Stoykova-Klemer)
(added 07.18.13)
editor's note: Carnal bliss, categorized and consummated on a cosmic level. What lover wouldn't succumb to that? - mh
Memories from another spring
Once upon a time
in another spring
the mountain slapped my face with its rocks
from the crevasses dug in my skin
by sharp hateful stones
my name got evaporated
I was hanging there like an old rag
singing prayers to a mountain wall
I remember the surrender
the moist tranquility
the lightness passing my limbs
as the mountain was sliding by
a last look into my friend's eyes
a farewell smile
the ride is on
trembling, singing
I have to face this gap with no name
now
- Iulia Gherghei
(added 07.17.13)
editor's note: What better way to face that gap than with a song? Embrace that jump when the ride is on. - mh
Gallbladder Blues
In his crisp blue shirt,
every inch the consultant,
he beckons me to take a seat.
"Are you a smoker?"
No
"Do you take a drink?"
No
"For big people like you
we find keyhole is best."
I thought it wise not to mention
his beer belly,
neat, though it was,
like a woman in the second trimester.
Inside my head, Instead,
“I can lose weight but you'll always be
an asshole.”
- Maeve Heneghan
(added 07.16.13)
editor's note: The word around town is, pot is a bigger jerk than kettle ever was. - mh
Model Walk
So when they do the model walk
are we supposed to accept that
as the normal way all hot girls move
when they’re dressed like hookers?
I’m trying to think if any other
profession has a special walk
requirement. There is the perp walk
and a lot more people should be
mastering that, coat over their
heads like the barn’s on fire.
Brings to mind horses and dogs
in races for ribbons having those
quirky little ways they’re trained
to trot. The military marches
on parade fields, but it’s largely
discouraged when they skirmish.
Should it be? Let’s get the generals
up front again and bring that back.
I worked in business for years,
starched up in suits and wing tips,
but I wasn’t aware of any particular
slide or knee lift as we oozed
between cubicles and sharpened
our knives. Too bad, could work
it for laughs during job interviews,
make them show their stuff.
Only the svelte survive!
Let’s make congress
do their snake dance
along the campaign trail
and continue as they slither
to their seats.
It just might be a better world
if every vocation had its strut
so you could read
their clear intentions
and plan an appropriate response
as they neared.
As a poet, if I promised to
amble in iamb, you could run.
- Tim Laffey
(added 07.15.13)
editor's note: When you run, run in quatrains; caper in couplets! - mh
Coma
Sleet on the turnpike
in the middle of the night
but I keep driving,
both hands on the wheel,
nowhere to pull off,
and a yellow bus
comes over the line
and kisses my truck.
That's all I remember.
Now I'm in bed,
wired to things,
unable to move,
listening to a doctor
telling my wife,
"It's been two weeks,
no improvement."
He asks her nicely
if we should let him go,
the dimwit bastard.
If I could, I'd scream
but I can't even
wiggle my toes.
- Donal Mahoney
(1 poem added 07.14.13)
editor's note: Analogy or reality; it's a horror story, either way. Don't pull that plug, dammit; I've things to do! - mh
••• Short Stories •••
Who out there needs a wicked read? You know you do. And you know who you are, dont'cha? Then check out the latest addition to our short stories library, "The Hunger of Heaven" (625 words) by Paul Magnan. Here's what Short Story Editor Tyler Malone has to say about this pick-of-the-week short story: "It’s not what makes the bump in the night; it’s what bumps back that we should fear. Remember, witches only have a few true fears—and children should send shivers up any creature’s vile spine." Here's a small step into the dark side to get you goin'...
(photo by Tyler Malone)
Mage Allia of House Themis dug her slipper-clad toe into dry soil as she waited for the young girl. She ran a bony, liver-spotted hand over her head and looked up at the Six Houses. They towered above the scattered huts of the forty tribes who clawed this land for sustenance. The Houses stood on towering poles of blue steel, their oblong shapes tapering to long silver points that reached to the sky. / Allia finally saw the girl, escorted by a servant of House Themis. She was twelve or thirteen, on the cusp of puberty, and had thick red hair parted twice, once over each ear. Her violet eyes looked at Allia with a steady maturity that belied her childish stature. / Allia dismissed the servant then took the girl by the arm and led her to an open elevator beneath the House. Once inside, the elevator ascended quickly, gliding past the poles.
Get the rest of your witchy read on here...
•••••••
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 mad conversations going on in Mad Swirl's World? Then stop by whenever the mood strikes! We'll be here...
Lovin' Life,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
Madelyn Olson
Visual Editor
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