The Best of Mad Swirl : 11.02.13
"Poetry is that art which selects and arranges the symbols of thought in such a manner as to excite the imagination the most powerfully and delightfully." William C. Bryant
••• The Mad Gallery •••
Fracking (above) by this month's featured artist, Pd Lietz.
Mad Swirl's Gallery is not new territory for this month's featured artist. No siree! She is the multi-talented mad-woman that we all know and love here at the MS HQ's - the wonder-full Pd Lietz! An encore round of applause is more than apropos for this month's gifted lady that we're proud to bring back to our stage. Lietz' works of art are all surprsingly different from one another yet have the same air of dark and/or swirling and/or madly mysterious tension that put her on our list of keep-her-coming-back-ers. If you haven't seen her work before, you're in for a treat. And if you have witnessed Pd's pieces before, she's generously shared a few more with us. Click here to lose yourself for a minute or five in this visual madness! - Madelyn Olson
••• The Poetry Forum •••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we parlayed with poets to poems unwind for persons in a pub in the playground of the mind; we venerated an acquiescing victim of aquarium violence who vied for victory; we rejected rank rules made by pols who incense us, embraced individualist anarchic consensus; we mastered in a minute (in a day, in an era) an air-borne death eater; we hallowed the eve of things ghastly and gory with a chilling, child thrilling and killing ghost story; we made light of law, gave weight to wonder, living a mad manifesto; we did a dark dance in ruby red shoes, indulged Dorothy's Don'ts, eschewed Dorothy's Dos. Every tale needs a new telling, every life needs a new living; live yours and tell it like it is. ~ MH Clay
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
Behind the Rainbow’s Back
Bottled angels break. The wind
whistles. It’s indifference stands: unchecked.
Like my coat of bastardized butterfly wings.
(My personal attempt at flutter.) I shutter
my mind’s eye. It sees far too many hues.
And I was never one for that brick
bastard’s road . . . Oh, my
shoes were red. (More blood than ruby,
if the truth be told.) And often clicked three times,
they landed . . . But Kansas? Out of the question.
Cut to the point: I fly with monkeys.
Sharp and dark and fueled by feraled fight.
“For claw and clamor”
is the only prayer I deem to keep.
- A.J. Huffman
(1 poem added 11.02.13)
editor's note: Anti-Dorothy; the dark side o' the fairy tale told. "For claw and clamor," indeed! - mh
About the Untitled
We like food graciously given to us by the earth,
not handed coldly by some corporation.
Money isn't something we believe in our hearts.
Instead, we bring each other some shattered shard of karma.
We'd prefer living on a beach and selling cocoanuts,
or paintings, or quilts, or imagination maps.
A 9-6:30-cubicle job isn't interesting to us;
routine is nefarious.
We'd rather jam like an ancient trance;
dance as if possessed by a salacious kundalini snake.
We fuck as if the apocalypse is moments away.
Clothes are optional,
especially in the rain!
Seems like we've met each other before,
Every other day is deja-vu for our souls.
Labels—marriage—monies—jobs
seem to keep us in a corner,
as if we were in a cage.
We'd rather play, paint, cook, build, write, sculpt, sing & read...
it feels like a tickle of spiritual-ness.
Learning is divine.
We live to be alive.
We live by the "not mine, it's ours" schema because
that makes the most sense to us.
We don't believe in manifestos like this either;
it doesn't need to be written down to be a law…
- Brycical
(added 11.01.13)
editor's note: It's a mad application for the job of life; only the "untitled" need apply. - mh
Ely Chilskein
A haunting brood
on the edge of sleepless
quivering eyes
lucid eight legged
murmurs crawling with
ambitious jaws dripping
foul terror
blackhole screaming
flesh aware and sudden
weeping blood
awakens the long dead
Ely Chilskein
Gravedirt tattered suit
sewn eyelids gushing
worms feasting
on a tombstone smile
churgling laughter
of a midnight memory
the moonlit murder
of cannibal Ely Chilskein
Death rattle
city lights
paved El Dorado
post mortem
car fucking
frenzied
lip licking
ravens claws questing
the still bagged heart
of child killing Ely Chilskein
Bone thieves lurking
near rotting things
smirking smacking
searching newly dug graves
blood hounds howling
winds and rain clouds
dripping cellos and violins
of memories Violet
who loved and murdered
the loveless child killing cannibal
Ely Chilskein
Fresh dead Ely's
still beating heart
stopped in Violet's hands
devoured unknown horrors
boiling guts
and weeping died
eating the poisoned
black heart
of the soulless child killing cannibal
Ely Chilskein
Mud soaked messages
beyond the grave
soul flesh whimpering
death departed
lovers mourn
the taste of the undead
for the flesh of the unborn
torn hand digging hand
pulled toward
the foul kiss
newlywed grave clothes
shed long lusting
the honeymoon outskirts
of near evening
playground children
in silken close
anticipation
the child killing cannibals
Mr. and Mrs. Ely Chilskein
- Jesse Doughty
(1 poem added 10.31.13)
editor's note: For this Eve All Hallowed, a trick for door banging beggars, looking for sweets; give'm this treat (send them screaming from your door). Mwahahahahaaaaaaaa! - mh
untitled
1:11 is born from the Sylph
and eager with appetite.
So, as far as death goes,
well, we can always
look forward to 1:12
- Joseph Elenbaas
(added 10.30.13)
editor's note: Be it clock time, calendar time or geological era; each swallows the one before. Fatness is the thing! - mh
Tick Tick
a nation at war with itself,
pain inflicted both left and right,
problems never addressed,
crises continue to build,
pressure cookers,
made into bombs by the politically inept,
the philosophy of government unravels,
wait for the polling data,
build a consensus,
and let the people decide,
gridlock prevails,
as citizens arm themselves in the streets,
awaiting Armageddon.
- Douglas Polk
(1 poem added 10.29.13)
editor's note: When the people decide there is enough (of them, at least), perhaps Armageddon will never be more than a bad movie from 1998. - mh
Final Straw
The terror came in a tsunami of hisses
slaps and kicks
followed by
streams of remorse
self pity
and childish pleas for sex
her self had almost gone out
nearly swallowed
by relentless waves
of violence
and madness
numb
and drowning inside
days
weeks
months
years
never ended
or began
she had hate for herself
pity for him
one day
he smashed to bits with a baseball bat
what she loved best
the aquarium
she so carefully tended
her two goldfish who knew
heard
and saw
her troubles
never judged
never complained
nurtured
they thanked her
by remaining healthy
true friends
her only true friends
laid among the broken glass
flopping on the floor
as helpless as she
that night
in the shelter line up
a small elderly women
stood alone
in her permed white hair
were small bits of glass
and held tight
in her blue veined
and spotted hands
two darting goldfish
in clear plastic bags
a triumphant smile
parts her lips.
- Michael Bowering
(added 10.28.13)
editor's note: Even the downtrodden have their limits. Insensitive oppressors, beware... - mh
Closing time
Somewhere in between verse and ballads, in the depth of words,
You’re alive!
On what was once blank, now full of emotional torment and wit!
In between the lines, eyes see, drink in what swirls and spills
From the mind that creates and brings its images to life,
Almost lyrically rich, a rawness that only you can hold,
We dance this dance you and I every time a page is turned,
As your story journeys down a new path,
Into the deep playground of your mind you go
A title is born,
Long after closing time.
- Polly Munnelly
(added 10.27.13)
editor's note: Poet and poem converge upon poetry lover until words and wonder wind up into one. (Thanks to first-time submitter Polly Munnelly who joined Mad Swirl poets via Skype in a pub in Ireland last summer and was inspired to pen these lines. Well done, Polly!) - mh
••• Short Stories •••
Need a read? Of course you do! Here's what Short Story Editor Tyler Malone has to say about this pick-of-the-week short story, "Draw the Line ‘Tween" by Dawn Wilson: "Do this the next time you slide past body bags on the side of the road: hum. Hum and know everyone dies, but thankfully not everyone has to pick up the dead and get them out of everyone else’s way." Here's a taste to tempt you...
http://madswirl.com/images/shortstories/Draw_the_Line_Tween.jpg
(photo by Tyler Malone)
Elevator got stuck. It jam jam, man. No go. Like a can o’ spinach with no Popeye, no extra virgin Olive Oil no ga-ga-ga-ga and no two men vying for the rape of that extra virgin. No crime so long as she’s ripe, man.
I crawl down its hole. Like peace. Without the prosperity. Too much dust. I ain’t no allergic little shit ass like that kid she bring home says is hers. Like hell. That bitch never gave birth. And while I’ll give Jesus an immaculate conception—shit happens—there’s no way in hell Mary got so lucky with the birth. No tearing, fucking breach baby just slides right out? Hell no. You know Jesus was breach. Backwards to the whole world. Maybe wasn’t ready to see the shit he was falling into.
Fix it up my son fix it up fix their little red wagons.
Down the hole this ain’t no Lewis Carroll shit. No white rabbit ever came down here...
You wanna keep readin'? Of course you wanna! Get the rest of your wanna on here!
••• Open Mic •••
Join Mad Swirl this 1st Wednesday of November (aka 11.06.13), at 8:00 sharp, when we will swirl it up madly in the live way that we do every month. Get to the Lounge early, dig upon the musical musings of Swirve and this month's feature, Mad Swirl co-founder and Austin poet Cheyenne Gallion! And stick around to get yourself a spot on our list... first come, first on the list! Which means... get there early!
Come one, come all! Mad poets, musicians, actors, singers, circus freaks and Elvis impersonators... come-n-strut-yo-stuff. Come to participate. Come to appreciate. Come to celebrate. Come to be a part of this collective creative love child we affectionately call Mad Swirl.
Got questions? Visit www.MadSwirl.com for more details.
AND, as you may or may not know, every 1st Wednesday we get all giddy with the swirlin' madness. COMING in December... Chris Zimmerly!
•••••••
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...
Bein' Delighted
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
Madelyn Olson
Visual Editor
••• The Mad Gallery •••
Mad Swirl's Gallery is not new territory for this month's featured artist. No siree! She is the multi-talented mad-woman that we all know and love here at the MS HQ's - the wonder-full Pd Lietz! An encore round of applause is more than apropos for this month's gifted lady that we're proud to bring back to our stage. Lietz' works of art are all surprsingly different from one another yet have the same air of dark and/or swirling and/or madly mysterious tension that put her on our list of keep-her-coming-back-ers. If you haven't seen her work before, you're in for a treat. And if you have witnessed Pd's pieces before, she's generously shared a few more with us. Click here to lose yourself for a minute or five in this visual madness! - Madelyn Olson
••• The Poetry Forum •••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we parlayed with poets to poems unwind for persons in a pub in the playground of the mind; we venerated an acquiescing victim of aquarium violence who vied for victory; we rejected rank rules made by pols who incense us, embraced individualist anarchic consensus; we mastered in a minute (in a day, in an era) an air-borne death eater; we hallowed the eve of things ghastly and gory with a chilling, child thrilling and killing ghost story; we made light of law, gave weight to wonder, living a mad manifesto; we did a dark dance in ruby red shoes, indulged Dorothy's Don'ts, eschewed Dorothy's Dos. Every tale needs a new telling, every life needs a new living; live yours and tell it like it is. ~ MH Clay
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
Behind the Rainbow’s Back
Bottled angels break. The wind
whistles. It’s indifference stands: unchecked.
Like my coat of bastardized butterfly wings.
(My personal attempt at flutter.) I shutter
my mind’s eye. It sees far too many hues.
And I was never one for that brick
bastard’s road . . . Oh, my
shoes were red. (More blood than ruby,
if the truth be told.) And often clicked three times,
they landed . . . But Kansas? Out of the question.
Cut to the point: I fly with monkeys.
Sharp and dark and fueled by feraled fight.
“For claw and clamor”
is the only prayer I deem to keep.
- A.J. Huffman
(1 poem added 11.02.13)
editor's note: Anti-Dorothy; the dark side o' the fairy tale told. "For claw and clamor," indeed! - mh
About the Untitled
We like food graciously given to us by the earth,
not handed coldly by some corporation.
Money isn't something we believe in our hearts.
Instead, we bring each other some shattered shard of karma.
We'd prefer living on a beach and selling cocoanuts,
or paintings, or quilts, or imagination maps.
A 9-6:30-cubicle job isn't interesting to us;
routine is nefarious.
We'd rather jam like an ancient trance;
dance as if possessed by a salacious kundalini snake.
We fuck as if the apocalypse is moments away.
Clothes are optional,
especially in the rain!
Seems like we've met each other before,
Every other day is deja-vu for our souls.
Labels—marriage—monies—jobs
seem to keep us in a corner,
as if we were in a cage.
We'd rather play, paint, cook, build, write, sculpt, sing & read...
it feels like a tickle of spiritual-ness.
Learning is divine.
We live to be alive.
We live by the "not mine, it's ours" schema because
that makes the most sense to us.
We don't believe in manifestos like this either;
it doesn't need to be written down to be a law…
- Brycical
(added 11.01.13)
editor's note: It's a mad application for the job of life; only the "untitled" need apply. - mh
Ely Chilskein
A haunting brood
on the edge of sleepless
quivering eyes
lucid eight legged
murmurs crawling with
ambitious jaws dripping
foul terror
blackhole screaming
flesh aware and sudden
weeping blood
awakens the long dead
Ely Chilskein
Gravedirt tattered suit
sewn eyelids gushing
worms feasting
on a tombstone smile
churgling laughter
of a midnight memory
the moonlit murder
of cannibal Ely Chilskein
Death rattle
city lights
paved El Dorado
post mortem
car fucking
frenzied
lip licking
ravens claws questing
the still bagged heart
of child killing Ely Chilskein
Bone thieves lurking
near rotting things
smirking smacking
searching newly dug graves
blood hounds howling
winds and rain clouds
dripping cellos and violins
of memories Violet
who loved and murdered
the loveless child killing cannibal
Ely Chilskein
Fresh dead Ely's
still beating heart
stopped in Violet's hands
devoured unknown horrors
boiling guts
and weeping died
eating the poisoned
black heart
of the soulless child killing cannibal
Ely Chilskein
Mud soaked messages
beyond the grave
soul flesh whimpering
death departed
lovers mourn
the taste of the undead
for the flesh of the unborn
torn hand digging hand
pulled toward
the foul kiss
newlywed grave clothes
shed long lusting
the honeymoon outskirts
of near evening
playground children
in silken close
anticipation
the child killing cannibals
Mr. and Mrs. Ely Chilskein
- Jesse Doughty
(1 poem added 10.31.13)
editor's note: For this Eve All Hallowed, a trick for door banging beggars, looking for sweets; give'm this treat (send them screaming from your door). Mwahahahahaaaaaaaa! - mh
untitled
1:11 is born from the Sylph
and eager with appetite.
So, as far as death goes,
well, we can always
look forward to 1:12
- Joseph Elenbaas
(added 10.30.13)
editor's note: Be it clock time, calendar time or geological era; each swallows the one before. Fatness is the thing! - mh
Tick Tick
a nation at war with itself,
pain inflicted both left and right,
problems never addressed,
crises continue to build,
pressure cookers,
made into bombs by the politically inept,
the philosophy of government unravels,
wait for the polling data,
build a consensus,
and let the people decide,
gridlock prevails,
as citizens arm themselves in the streets,
awaiting Armageddon.
- Douglas Polk
(1 poem added 10.29.13)
editor's note: When the people decide there is enough (of them, at least), perhaps Armageddon will never be more than a bad movie from 1998. - mh
Final Straw
The terror came in a tsunami of hisses
slaps and kicks
followed by
streams of remorse
self pity
and childish pleas for sex
her self had almost gone out
nearly swallowed
by relentless waves
of violence
and madness
numb
and drowning inside
days
weeks
months
years
never ended
or began
she had hate for herself
pity for him
one day
he smashed to bits with a baseball bat
what she loved best
the aquarium
she so carefully tended
her two goldfish who knew
heard
and saw
her troubles
never judged
never complained
nurtured
they thanked her
by remaining healthy
true friends
her only true friends
laid among the broken glass
flopping on the floor
as helpless as she
that night
in the shelter line up
a small elderly women
stood alone
in her permed white hair
were small bits of glass
and held tight
in her blue veined
and spotted hands
two darting goldfish
in clear plastic bags
a triumphant smile
parts her lips.
- Michael Bowering
(added 10.28.13)
editor's note: Even the downtrodden have their limits. Insensitive oppressors, beware... - mh
Closing time
Somewhere in between verse and ballads, in the depth of words,
You’re alive!
On what was once blank, now full of emotional torment and wit!
In between the lines, eyes see, drink in what swirls and spills
From the mind that creates and brings its images to life,
Almost lyrically rich, a rawness that only you can hold,
We dance this dance you and I every time a page is turned,
As your story journeys down a new path,
Into the deep playground of your mind you go
A title is born,
Long after closing time.
- Polly Munnelly
(added 10.27.13)
editor's note: Poet and poem converge upon poetry lover until words and wonder wind up into one. (Thanks to first-time submitter Polly Munnelly who joined Mad Swirl poets via Skype in a pub in Ireland last summer and was inspired to pen these lines. Well done, Polly!) - mh
••• Short Stories •••
Need a read? Of course you do! Here's what Short Story Editor Tyler Malone has to say about this pick-of-the-week short story, "Draw the Line ‘Tween" by Dawn Wilson: "Do this the next time you slide past body bags on the side of the road: hum. Hum and know everyone dies, but thankfully not everyone has to pick up the dead and get them out of everyone else’s way." Here's a taste to tempt you...
http://madswirl.com/images/shortstories/Draw_the_Line_Tween.jpg
(photo by Tyler Malone)
Elevator got stuck. It jam jam, man. No go. Like a can o’ spinach with no Popeye, no extra virgin Olive Oil no ga-ga-ga-ga and no two men vying for the rape of that extra virgin. No crime so long as she’s ripe, man.
I crawl down its hole. Like peace. Without the prosperity. Too much dust. I ain’t no allergic little shit ass like that kid she bring home says is hers. Like hell. That bitch never gave birth. And while I’ll give Jesus an immaculate conception—shit happens—there’s no way in hell Mary got so lucky with the birth. No tearing, fucking breach baby just slides right out? Hell no. You know Jesus was breach. Backwards to the whole world. Maybe wasn’t ready to see the shit he was falling into.
Fix it up my son fix it up fix their little red wagons.
Down the hole this ain’t no Lewis Carroll shit. No white rabbit ever came down here...
You wanna keep readin'? Of course you wanna! Get the rest of your wanna on here!
••• Open Mic •••
Join Mad Swirl this 1st Wednesday of November (aka 11.06.13), at 8:00 sharp, when we will swirl it up madly in the live way that we do every month. Get to the Lounge early, dig upon the musical musings of Swirve and this month's feature, Mad Swirl co-founder and Austin poet Cheyenne Gallion! And stick around to get yourself a spot on our list... first come, first on the list! Which means... get there early!
Come one, come all! Mad poets, musicians, actors, singers, circus freaks and Elvis impersonators... come-n-strut-yo-stuff. Come to participate. Come to appreciate. Come to celebrate. Come to be a part of this collective creative love child we affectionately call Mad Swirl.
Got questions? Visit www.MadSwirl.com for more details.
AND, as you may or may not know, every 1st Wednesday we get all giddy with the swirlin' madness. COMING in December... Chris Zimmerly!
•••••••
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...
Bein' Delighted
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
Madelyn Olson
Visual Editor
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