The Best of Mad Swirl : 07.27.13
"You shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you mad." Aldous Huxley
••• The Mad Gallery •••
Aldous Huxley (digital illustration above) by Johnny O, 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 tripped (on) the light fantastic, stretched our brains elastic; we dodged what dropped from a butchering bombardier; we spent all for four walls, a window and a song; we took a trafficker's hit to hold up the hierarchy; (we skipped a scant poet's rant); we foraged for a future in star-shine sadly spent; we offered an insomniac a comfortless caress. Poetic plight; find your own peace, seek succour in verses. ~ mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
More Lightbulbs Than Sense
She falls asleep with the light on
like it will help in some small way,
she has never been fond of the darkness
was not allowed to watch horror movies
as a child
scares easily,
it’s as if she thinks death
has an aversion to luminosity;
at night, she bathes in neon
like apocalyptic flies:
belly up, no longer buzzing,
lifeless as a dish
rack...
She sleeps lightly, wakes often
with a scare,
seizing my hand;
expecting me to tell her
everything will be alright
when I know nothing
of the kind.
- Ryan Quinn Flanagan
(1 poem added 07.27.13)
editor's note: In the face of eternal uncertainties, keeping the light on will have to do. - mh
LIGHTLESS
Each year the light is less.
We can barely see it now,
The faint necklace of
The Milky Way.
The old ones were wrong,
You know with their waxed fingers
Pointing up like abandoned adobe.
Yet you know better in your cubical gardens
And half moth-eaten moons,
You have arrived in
Handcuffs.
- Clinton Van Inman
(1 poem added 07.26.13)
editor's note: Imprisoned in this understanding: Caution! The end of the universe is closer than it appears. - mh
Darren Teasley 140130
There's 2.2 pounds in a kilogram
There's 16 ounces within each of them
28 grams in every ounce
500 bucks after they're trounced
Alright you got a deal Uncle Sam
I'll make the run and you can try to catch me
We'll make it fun and pretend I'm the nasty
You guard it for the Taliban
I'll pass it out and be the man
We'll both get rich and you'll get more control
That's not authorized inside your pee
I'm the lord of everything,
you rent air from me
What's a freedom hypothetically
It's only been around 10,000 years
It's older than the Odessey and only interferes
when you outlaw sensation seeking apes
Litigate on what Opie has ate
Standing up to tyrants is what we do
recalcitrant society that formed upon "Fuck You"
Prohibit me and I'm more likely to
Ha ha ya bastards, what else can't I do!
Common sense requires try all error
remember back when Tom did that
Empty dark in there
Regulation decimating share
Propagating liars everywhere
But since it's such a high priority
Everybody gets a test
Let's see congress pee
It aint the working man that worries me
It's evil hypocrite hierarchies
- Daniel Short
(added 07.24.13)
editor's note: He got a number, Congress kept office and the pharma-kings, their franchise; the economy of enforcement. - mh
THE LAST MANIA
When you don’t need it anymore,
when it’s imparted its last
gifts of manhood and of shame
When its hands cuff your neck
with a forest fire of remorse
and they march you off
quicker than a red fox vanishing
and you can barely glimpse
its sun-sequined back
too glossy for the moral eye –
Then, finally, there’s nothing left,
no one left to call
or shower with your gifts or laughter,
you’ve used them up
one by one
each of the many faces
you thought were yours forever.
So they buy you a trailer
and stick you inside,
the better to sleep away your princely dreams.
A dog twitching under a glass table
couldn’t resemble you more.
You rise up and stand on a box.
With your one good eye
you squint through the narrow window
at the grassy fields outside
and sing.
- Ruth Z Deming
(added 07.23.13)
editor's note: Mind as prison or portico; one door shut, another opened. Yes, sing! - mh
Falling
Pigs fall from heaven.
Their high pitched squealing is terrible to hear.
They make a bloody mess all over the ground.
Then chickens and turkeys fall together.
The chickens fly up before they hit the ground,
but the turkeys are too dumb and smash
into the earth like bombs.
Then a female Episcopalian minister and a
water buffalo fall together; the buffalo is
saved by a very deep river, but the minister,
glasses glinting in the afternoon sun and with
a very grim expression on her terrified face,
plummets into the bloody parts of the smashed
up pigs.
An Englishwoman falls next, but she carries a large
black umbrella so she is unharmed.
A terrorist drops, but blows himself up on the way down.
No one knows why.
Finally an Irishman, holding firmly to a pint of Guinness,
falls; he somehow manages to drain the glass dry before impact.
To his great credit, he avoids the pigs and almost misses the turkeys.
- Joseph Buehler
(added 07.22.13)
editor's note: Now we know what Mary Poppins was doing before she floated down to care for Jane and Michael. "Spit, spot!" - mh
Lysergic ritual:
I have mingled in the mountains of New Vrindaban,
while monoliths of elephants
peered over the hills of Moundsville, West Virginia.
Ignoring the calloused call
of the peacock above trellis,
when way past after midnight had fallen,
and our lysergic fuel had induced even hallucination to question...
if the shadows were moving,
or their hue just entombed,
as we figment our view down to fractals,
the molecular godfather of minuscule.
Each sparkle from each star like a lite bright gone hypnotic,
each word from your mouth contorted with invisible oxygen.
Like the night had placed a maze of darkness upon your lips,
judging by the subtlety with which dementia had set in.
We studied Roman bath,
sat upon golden pedestal,
stumbled through the aftermath of grass blades with soles disheveled.
When the skies opened wombs,
and universal fluids poured out dreams like pharmaceuticals,
in an embryonic night alive with the moon's translucence,
even as it poured storms,
even as the mud curdled toes and we had lost our own souls,
we still dreamed in hypnotic ritual
of a chemical overdose.
- Trebor Criswell
(added 07.21.13)
editor's note: Chemical enhancement or hindrance; one dose, you're in for the whole dance. Hold on and enjoy the ride... - mh
••• Short Stories •••
Feelin' a little crazy? We are! Sometimes all we need is a read? Then check out the latest addition to our short stories library, "Statement of Proof" by Stephanie Bradbury. Here's what Short Story Editor Tyler Malone has to say about this pick-of-the-week short story: "It’s horrifying to the think that the insane see the same world we do, they simply see more of it. Things that aren’t there. Or maybe they see things that we don’t, like the color spectrum that we refuse to believe humans can experience. Maybe madness is knowing life all too well." Here's a taste of what the doc ordered...
"I look around the psychiatrist’s empty waiting room. All chairs. Thin skeletons of chairs linked together at the ankles like prisoners waiting for lunch. At least two dozen of them crammed in here. Surely there must be a couch, if not out here, then back in his office. There’s always a couch. Sometimes they are faux suede, sometimes cloth, and in the older offices, they are worn leather, with just the right amount of care given to keep them soft and pliable. / A phone rings. It isn’t mine, though I always jump and look around quickly to find the source of the noise. It rings a second time, a third… At last a gray haired lady answers it, eyeing me from the side while cupping her voice around the end of the phone. / My face burns red, and I block out her voice booming like an echo off these cramped walls. If she has to talk about me, I will just leave. I’ll just go now, I’ll—"
If you know what's good for you'll get the rest of your 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...
Goin' Mad,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
••• The Mad Gallery •••
Aldous Huxley (digital illustration above) by Johnny O, 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 tripped (on) the light fantastic, stretched our brains elastic; we dodged what dropped from a butchering bombardier; we spent all for four walls, a window and a song; we took a trafficker's hit to hold up the hierarchy; (we skipped a scant poet's rant); we foraged for a future in star-shine sadly spent; we offered an insomniac a comfortless caress. Poetic plight; find your own peace, seek succour in verses. ~ mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
More Lightbulbs Than Sense
She falls asleep with the light on
like it will help in some small way,
she has never been fond of the darkness
was not allowed to watch horror movies
as a child
scares easily,
it’s as if she thinks death
has an aversion to luminosity;
at night, she bathes in neon
like apocalyptic flies:
belly up, no longer buzzing,
lifeless as a dish
rack...
She sleeps lightly, wakes often
with a scare,
seizing my hand;
expecting me to tell her
everything will be alright
when I know nothing
of the kind.
- Ryan Quinn Flanagan
(1 poem added 07.27.13)
editor's note: In the face of eternal uncertainties, keeping the light on will have to do. - mh
LIGHTLESS
Each year the light is less.
We can barely see it now,
The faint necklace of
The Milky Way.
The old ones were wrong,
You know with their waxed fingers
Pointing up like abandoned adobe.
Yet you know better in your cubical gardens
And half moth-eaten moons,
You have arrived in
Handcuffs.
- Clinton Van Inman
(1 poem added 07.26.13)
editor's note: Imprisoned in this understanding: Caution! The end of the universe is closer than it appears. - mh
Darren Teasley 140130
There's 2.2 pounds in a kilogram
There's 16 ounces within each of them
28 grams in every ounce
500 bucks after they're trounced
Alright you got a deal Uncle Sam
I'll make the run and you can try to catch me
We'll make it fun and pretend I'm the nasty
You guard it for the Taliban
I'll pass it out and be the man
We'll both get rich and you'll get more control
That's not authorized inside your pee
I'm the lord of everything,
you rent air from me
What's a freedom hypothetically
It's only been around 10,000 years
It's older than the Odessey and only interferes
when you outlaw sensation seeking apes
Litigate on what Opie has ate
Standing up to tyrants is what we do
recalcitrant society that formed upon "Fuck You"
Prohibit me and I'm more likely to
Ha ha ya bastards, what else can't I do!
Common sense requires try all error
remember back when Tom did that
Empty dark in there
Regulation decimating share
Propagating liars everywhere
But since it's such a high priority
Everybody gets a test
Let's see congress pee
It aint the working man that worries me
It's evil hypocrite hierarchies
- Daniel Short
(added 07.24.13)
editor's note: He got a number, Congress kept office and the pharma-kings, their franchise; the economy of enforcement. - mh
THE LAST MANIA
When you don’t need it anymore,
when it’s imparted its last
gifts of manhood and of shame
When its hands cuff your neck
with a forest fire of remorse
and they march you off
quicker than a red fox vanishing
and you can barely glimpse
its sun-sequined back
too glossy for the moral eye –
Then, finally, there’s nothing left,
no one left to call
or shower with your gifts or laughter,
you’ve used them up
one by one
each of the many faces
you thought were yours forever.
So they buy you a trailer
and stick you inside,
the better to sleep away your princely dreams.
A dog twitching under a glass table
couldn’t resemble you more.
You rise up and stand on a box.
With your one good eye
you squint through the narrow window
at the grassy fields outside
and sing.
- Ruth Z Deming
(added 07.23.13)
editor's note: Mind as prison or portico; one door shut, another opened. Yes, sing! - mh
Falling
Pigs fall from heaven.
Their high pitched squealing is terrible to hear.
They make a bloody mess all over the ground.
Then chickens and turkeys fall together.
The chickens fly up before they hit the ground,
but the turkeys are too dumb and smash
into the earth like bombs.
Then a female Episcopalian minister and a
water buffalo fall together; the buffalo is
saved by a very deep river, but the minister,
glasses glinting in the afternoon sun and with
a very grim expression on her terrified face,
plummets into the bloody parts of the smashed
up pigs.
An Englishwoman falls next, but she carries a large
black umbrella so she is unharmed.
A terrorist drops, but blows himself up on the way down.
No one knows why.
Finally an Irishman, holding firmly to a pint of Guinness,
falls; he somehow manages to drain the glass dry before impact.
To his great credit, he avoids the pigs and almost misses the turkeys.
- Joseph Buehler
(added 07.22.13)
editor's note: Now we know what Mary Poppins was doing before she floated down to care for Jane and Michael. "Spit, spot!" - mh
Lysergic ritual:
I have mingled in the mountains of New Vrindaban,
while monoliths of elephants
peered over the hills of Moundsville, West Virginia.
Ignoring the calloused call
of the peacock above trellis,
when way past after midnight had fallen,
and our lysergic fuel had induced even hallucination to question...
if the shadows were moving,
or their hue just entombed,
as we figment our view down to fractals,
the molecular godfather of minuscule.
Each sparkle from each star like a lite bright gone hypnotic,
each word from your mouth contorted with invisible oxygen.
Like the night had placed a maze of darkness upon your lips,
judging by the subtlety with which dementia had set in.
We studied Roman bath,
sat upon golden pedestal,
stumbled through the aftermath of grass blades with soles disheveled.
When the skies opened wombs,
and universal fluids poured out dreams like pharmaceuticals,
in an embryonic night alive with the moon's translucence,
even as it poured storms,
even as the mud curdled toes and we had lost our own souls,
we still dreamed in hypnotic ritual
of a chemical overdose.
- Trebor Criswell
(added 07.21.13)
editor's note: Chemical enhancement or hindrance; one dose, you're in for the whole dance. Hold on and enjoy the ride... - mh
••• Short Stories •••
Feelin' a little crazy? We are! Sometimes all we need is a read? Then check out the latest addition to our short stories library, "Statement of Proof" by Stephanie Bradbury. Here's what Short Story Editor Tyler Malone has to say about this pick-of-the-week short story: "It’s horrifying to the think that the insane see the same world we do, they simply see more of it. Things that aren’t there. Or maybe they see things that we don’t, like the color spectrum that we refuse to believe humans can experience. Maybe madness is knowing life all too well." Here's a taste of what the doc ordered...
"I look around the psychiatrist’s empty waiting room. All chairs. Thin skeletons of chairs linked together at the ankles like prisoners waiting for lunch. At least two dozen of them crammed in here. Surely there must be a couch, if not out here, then back in his office. There’s always a couch. Sometimes they are faux suede, sometimes cloth, and in the older offices, they are worn leather, with just the right amount of care given to keep them soft and pliable. / A phone rings. It isn’t mine, though I always jump and look around quickly to find the source of the noise. It rings a second time, a third… At last a gray haired lady answers it, eyeing me from the side while cupping her voice around the end of the phone. / My face burns red, and I block out her voice booming like an echo off these cramped walls. If she has to talk about me, I will just leave. I’ll just go now, I’ll—"
If you know what's good for you'll get the rest of your 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...
Goin' Mad,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
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