The Best of Mad Swirl : 11.23.13
"Woe to the makers of literal translations, who by rendering every word weaken the meaning!" Voltaire
••• The Mad Gallery •••
Reverse Osmosis (above) by this month's featured artist, Pd Lietz.
••• The Poetry Forum •••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we splashed a hot spray, remembering lustfully a lone hot day; we diddled pre-juvenile dalliance, abstained by ignorance, not valiance; we slid a slippery stew, sweet inner sanctum slewed; we sounded a shivering sunshine scenario by a lax and languoring, life-time Lothario; we teased a titillated, twirled-top tango for two; we sustained a network-induced interruption to consider passed assassination, mass mayhem and conspiratorial corruption; we considered lap cat, sat down child in wonder, clumsy boy clown, bound to blunder. 'Twas a stuttering, unstymied array of verses and couplets, all metered away. (Put'em in a purloined pouch, pack'em in pocketed poignance, place'm in perfect Feng Shui.) ~ MH Clay
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
Disfigured Allegories do not Represent a Woman's Face
Mrs. Too has a daughter for today
her he-hair thumbs above boys
blotted mannish clown caps yet
her studio sketched lips stay
buttoned by cross hairs;
her daughter hides in open
stalls for cats only come to sit
on her lap while she is pissing
while wondering: How fast and how
much can a woman eat when alone?
(She is) cheeks like shovels full of
flowers standing neck-less and deep
ended by rumpled people for all time.
- Kayla Siobhan
(1 poem added 11.23.13)
editor's note: How fast and how much, determined by deep end proximity. Too... - mh
Poem Dirge for Bass Guitar—CIA SELLout
CIA CIA CIA
CIA sellout Kennedy shootout
CIA sellout Kennedy shootout
United Steel, Zapata Oil
IT & T
Permindex, Titan Resource
Corporate Greed
CIA sellout Kennedy shootout
Three bullets, a crooked rifle
Oswald’s double
Lone assassin was no marksman
seven shots fired
CIA sellout Kennedy shootout
Bill Harvey, Allen Dulles, H.L. Hunt
Billy Sol Estes
Sam Traficante, Jimmy Hoffa all
Sworn enemies
CIA sellout Kennedy shootout
Hot day in Dallas, man opens umbrella
Motorcade stop
George Bush faces the depository
Police storm in
CIA sellout Kennedy shootout
Guatemala, Chile, Iran
Vietnam
Democracy is the enemy
War makes money
CIA sellout Kennedy shootout
Officer Tippit finds Oswald
in a movie
Clean shaved tramps behind railroad fence
Walk away free
CIA sellout Kennedy shootout
Free trade, tax free crime an’ politics
go hand in hand
Little girlie show lounge envelopes
are passed around
CIA sellout Kennedy shootout
Kill the alleged assassin
all evidence sealed
seventy-five years, most witnesses
silenced in fear
CIA sellout Kennedy shootout
CIA CIA CIA
See Ya See Ya in my rifle scope See Y A
CIA sellout Kennedy shootout
CIA sellout Kennedy shootout
- Jeanie Dean
(added 11.22.13)
editor's note: Many images fuel many theories; suspects everywhere. Who stands to gain from the fall of a Titan? A sad remembrance... - mh
Dance For Me
Dance for Me you said.
And I giggled and hid nervously behind my hand
peeking
turning slowly
self-consciously
awkwardly
And You nodded.
Dance for Me You said.
And I stood a little taller, straighter
I raised my hands high above my head
spinning and turning in circles like a top
And You smiled.
Dance for Me you said.
And I grabbed my sparkly tutu
turned on my pretty music
and performed my best princess arabesque
again and again
I bowed deeply
And You laughed.
Dance for Me you said.
And at once I knew I had misunderstood.
I took your warm waiting hands in mine
I felt your need to move
I breathed in and out deeply
I waited
I let You lead the way.
And we danced.
- Heather Browne
(added 11.21.13)
editor's note: For, meant with; two's better for both. - mh
TWO TIMED
Two timed
by love and music
where competition
is everywhere
in shadowless words
played out
with frozen regrets
in the big city
but I will let my love
created out of sunshine
and my sax made out of snow
dissolve into whirlwinds
of cool resolve
to rip my passions out
of my being
pushing away
the unspoken lines
and have my fling
not to wound
but to be a free spirit
without melodies
unspoken or unchained
rocking between
a vagabond and sky
beyond reach
of the underworld.
- B.Z. Niditch
(1 poem added 11.20.13)
editor's note: A true two-timer, in love with both but faithful to none but the sweetest tune. - mh
Narthex
he climbed inside me even though i told him i was
much too small, found a way to get under my skin
past the angry bones and red, wet flesh. there was not enough room
to move, but he did anyway.
i was a monk curled up in a cave
a book and a loaf of bread tucked against my chest, but then
i was the cave, and there was no room for god
there was no room for anything but angry, red flesh.
he moved against me like god and bread, like
monks and blood, like bones and books
ripped through my folder of soliloquies
took this flesh and made it read.
- Holly Day
(2 poems added 11.19.13)
editor's note: Let'em in the lobby an' they'll fill up to the altar an' all, any way you read it! (There's another one Holly's page; a tight weave in which to unravel - check it out.) - mh
Ten or So
My best friend's older sister Jill
answers the door. "He's not
here come on in." It's just
her and the dog, a kind of poodle cum
retriever that resembles Jill
in a way I can't or don't want to
put my finger on. It follows us
doggily into the den where we sit
down on the lime couch, collapses
in front of us on the floor, panting.
I cross my legs. "So when
is he coming home?" No answer.
Eyes on the dog, she unbuttons
first the second and then the third
of ten or so buttons on her blouse. "It's hot
in here." And then the fourth.
And then the fifth. She's at the age
where she carries her new breasts around
like pert little deities seeking
rightful homage. I'm at the age
where I still say "and a half" after
my age, because I want the full
credit. But today I haven't got
a clue. I stare straight ahead at the wall,
taking in peripherally the pink
dangle of the dog's tongue, the pale
half breast that Jill has bared
down to the pink nipple. I can feel her,
febrile, panting, burning a hole
in the side of my face as I look
away, for the life of me. The life of me.
- Paul Hostovsky
(1 poem added 11.18.13)
editor's note: Role reversal; a jumbled application of justice. Who goes to jail, who is the bait? - mh
The Shower
The first time you pulled me
into your steaming shower
with only the hot water streaming,
I thought our bodies would be scalded.
But with your flesh pressed against mine,
the pain dissolved as my hands explored
your skin that was pale as fog
rising just to the cliff edge.
Holding your slippery body,
my mouth found yours
under the steaming spray,
and your kiss soothed the heat
out of my skin like flames licked by rain.
Now when I need to remember you,
I stand in the shower under the hottest setting,
and in the gushing, burning surge,
I can feel you once again
pressed against me like roots
suddenly tightening in a tree
split by lightning.
- Bill Wolak
(1 poem added 11.17.13)
editor's note: Why quell it, unrequited, in a cold one? Heat it up, relive the lust to not feel alone. - 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, "My Dog Converted to Islam” by John Vaughn: “When things change, when who we love isn't what we remembered loving, what do we tell ourselves? We say they've gone astray. We call them disgusting; we call them Gregor Samsa. We say they must have embraced heresy, because who want to live a life any different than ours? Only the brainwashed wouldn't want to lick our faces anymore. And we always sing that same song, too: ‘We hate what you've become, and we say that with love’” Here's a taste to tempt you...
(photo by Tyler Malone)
Sheila, my dog, used to be a very fine dog. She was quiet, well behaved and a gentle companion. She’s a Toy Australian Shepherd, 15 inches tall and 15 pounds, with no tail to speak of and a fondness for chasing rabbits. For a few years I really did not believe that any finer dog ever existed.
transformed our happy home into a place of strife and disarray. I blame myself, really. I should have known what was happening months earlier. I saw the small tell-tale signs of impending conversion but I failed to connect the dots and see where these unorthodox behaviors were leading. I simply missed the larger picture.
You wanna keep readin'? Of course you wanna! Get the rest of your wanna 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...
Non-Renderin’,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
Madelyn Olson
Visual Editor
••• The Mad Gallery •••
Reverse Osmosis (above) by this month's featured artist, Pd Lietz.
••• The Poetry Forum •••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we splashed a hot spray, remembering lustfully a lone hot day; we diddled pre-juvenile dalliance, abstained by ignorance, not valiance; we slid a slippery stew, sweet inner sanctum slewed; we sounded a shivering sunshine scenario by a lax and languoring, life-time Lothario; we teased a titillated, twirled-top tango for two; we sustained a network-induced interruption to consider passed assassination, mass mayhem and conspiratorial corruption; we considered lap cat, sat down child in wonder, clumsy boy clown, bound to blunder. 'Twas a stuttering, unstymied array of verses and couplets, all metered away. (Put'em in a purloined pouch, pack'em in pocketed poignance, place'm in perfect Feng Shui.) ~ MH Clay
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
Disfigured Allegories do not Represent a Woman's Face
Mrs. Too has a daughter for today
her he-hair thumbs above boys
blotted mannish clown caps yet
her studio sketched lips stay
buttoned by cross hairs;
her daughter hides in open
stalls for cats only come to sit
on her lap while she is pissing
while wondering: How fast and how
much can a woman eat when alone?
(She is) cheeks like shovels full of
flowers standing neck-less and deep
ended by rumpled people for all time.
- Kayla Siobhan
(1 poem added 11.23.13)
editor's note: How fast and how much, determined by deep end proximity. Too... - mh
Poem Dirge for Bass Guitar—CIA SELLout
CIA CIA CIA
CIA sellout Kennedy shootout
CIA sellout Kennedy shootout
United Steel, Zapata Oil
IT & T
Permindex, Titan Resource
Corporate Greed
CIA sellout Kennedy shootout
Three bullets, a crooked rifle
Oswald’s double
Lone assassin was no marksman
seven shots fired
CIA sellout Kennedy shootout
Bill Harvey, Allen Dulles, H.L. Hunt
Billy Sol Estes
Sam Traficante, Jimmy Hoffa all
Sworn enemies
CIA sellout Kennedy shootout
Hot day in Dallas, man opens umbrella
Motorcade stop
George Bush faces the depository
Police storm in
CIA sellout Kennedy shootout
Guatemala, Chile, Iran
Vietnam
Democracy is the enemy
War makes money
CIA sellout Kennedy shootout
Officer Tippit finds Oswald
in a movie
Clean shaved tramps behind railroad fence
Walk away free
CIA sellout Kennedy shootout
Free trade, tax free crime an’ politics
go hand in hand
Little girlie show lounge envelopes
are passed around
CIA sellout Kennedy shootout
Kill the alleged assassin
all evidence sealed
seventy-five years, most witnesses
silenced in fear
CIA sellout Kennedy shootout
CIA CIA CIA
See Ya See Ya in my rifle scope See Y A
CIA sellout Kennedy shootout
CIA sellout Kennedy shootout
- Jeanie Dean
(added 11.22.13)
editor's note: Many images fuel many theories; suspects everywhere. Who stands to gain from the fall of a Titan? A sad remembrance... - mh
Dance For Me
Dance for Me you said.
And I giggled and hid nervously behind my hand
peeking
turning slowly
self-consciously
awkwardly
And You nodded.
Dance for Me You said.
And I stood a little taller, straighter
I raised my hands high above my head
spinning and turning in circles like a top
And You smiled.
Dance for Me you said.
And I grabbed my sparkly tutu
turned on my pretty music
and performed my best princess arabesque
again and again
I bowed deeply
And You laughed.
Dance for Me you said.
And at once I knew I had misunderstood.
I took your warm waiting hands in mine
I felt your need to move
I breathed in and out deeply
I waited
I let You lead the way.
And we danced.
- Heather Browne
(added 11.21.13)
editor's note: For, meant with; two's better for both. - mh
TWO TIMED
Two timed
by love and music
where competition
is everywhere
in shadowless words
played out
with frozen regrets
in the big city
but I will let my love
created out of sunshine
and my sax made out of snow
dissolve into whirlwinds
of cool resolve
to rip my passions out
of my being
pushing away
the unspoken lines
and have my fling
not to wound
but to be a free spirit
without melodies
unspoken or unchained
rocking between
a vagabond and sky
beyond reach
of the underworld.
- B.Z. Niditch
(1 poem added 11.20.13)
editor's note: A true two-timer, in love with both but faithful to none but the sweetest tune. - mh
Narthex
he climbed inside me even though i told him i was
much too small, found a way to get under my skin
past the angry bones and red, wet flesh. there was not enough room
to move, but he did anyway.
i was a monk curled up in a cave
a book and a loaf of bread tucked against my chest, but then
i was the cave, and there was no room for god
there was no room for anything but angry, red flesh.
he moved against me like god and bread, like
monks and blood, like bones and books
ripped through my folder of soliloquies
took this flesh and made it read.
- Holly Day
(2 poems added 11.19.13)
editor's note: Let'em in the lobby an' they'll fill up to the altar an' all, any way you read it! (There's another one Holly's page; a tight weave in which to unravel - check it out.) - mh
Ten or So
My best friend's older sister Jill
answers the door. "He's not
here come on in." It's just
her and the dog, a kind of poodle cum
retriever that resembles Jill
in a way I can't or don't want to
put my finger on. It follows us
doggily into the den where we sit
down on the lime couch, collapses
in front of us on the floor, panting.
I cross my legs. "So when
is he coming home?" No answer.
Eyes on the dog, she unbuttons
first the second and then the third
of ten or so buttons on her blouse. "It's hot
in here." And then the fourth.
And then the fifth. She's at the age
where she carries her new breasts around
like pert little deities seeking
rightful homage. I'm at the age
where I still say "and a half" after
my age, because I want the full
credit. But today I haven't got
a clue. I stare straight ahead at the wall,
taking in peripherally the pink
dangle of the dog's tongue, the pale
half breast that Jill has bared
down to the pink nipple. I can feel her,
febrile, panting, burning a hole
in the side of my face as I look
away, for the life of me. The life of me.
- Paul Hostovsky
(1 poem added 11.18.13)
editor's note: Role reversal; a jumbled application of justice. Who goes to jail, who is the bait? - mh
The Shower
The first time you pulled me
into your steaming shower
with only the hot water streaming,
I thought our bodies would be scalded.
But with your flesh pressed against mine,
the pain dissolved as my hands explored
your skin that was pale as fog
rising just to the cliff edge.
Holding your slippery body,
my mouth found yours
under the steaming spray,
and your kiss soothed the heat
out of my skin like flames licked by rain.
Now when I need to remember you,
I stand in the shower under the hottest setting,
and in the gushing, burning surge,
I can feel you once again
pressed against me like roots
suddenly tightening in a tree
split by lightning.
- Bill Wolak
(1 poem added 11.17.13)
editor's note: Why quell it, unrequited, in a cold one? Heat it up, relive the lust to not feel alone. - 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, "My Dog Converted to Islam” by John Vaughn: “When things change, when who we love isn't what we remembered loving, what do we tell ourselves? We say they've gone astray. We call them disgusting; we call them Gregor Samsa. We say they must have embraced heresy, because who want to live a life any different than ours? Only the brainwashed wouldn't want to lick our faces anymore. And we always sing that same song, too: ‘We hate what you've become, and we say that with love’” Here's a taste to tempt you...
(photo by Tyler Malone)
Sheila, my dog, used to be a very fine dog. She was quiet, well behaved and a gentle companion. She’s a Toy Australian Shepherd, 15 inches tall and 15 pounds, with no tail to speak of and a fondness for chasing rabbits. For a few years I really did not believe that any finer dog ever existed.
transformed our happy home into a place of strife and disarray. I blame myself, really. I should have known what was happening months earlier. I saw the small tell-tale signs of impending conversion but I failed to connect the dots and see where these unorthodox behaviors were leading. I simply missed the larger picture.
You wanna keep readin'? Of course you wanna! Get the rest of your wanna 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...
Non-Renderin’,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
Madelyn Olson
Visual Editor
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