The Best of Mad Swirl : 12.14.13
"There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed." Ernest Hemingway
••• The Mad Gallery •••
Photo illustration (above) by Tyler Malone for The Man Who Wrote Too Many Poems.
••• The Poetry Forum •••
This week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we stuck to lust, love, no loss 'fore frenzy's flood; we saw a starlet's rise forestalled, she dodged the couch at casting call; we lingered on a lost-love passed, pleasures measured in hedons; we left another, culinary bore, unable to sate a carnivore; we entertained an offer for a whole enchilada; we mocked the moon and swallowed a kiss, then cursed and bled for the one we miss; we watched walls long fallen bebop built to stand tall, the fall again, to test the faith of believers, all. Faith is hard to see, better felt than never. ~ MH Clay
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
10.2.13
magic seems
inadequate
as a description
for a thing
i can still taste and
orbiting my soul
supplicants
hummingbirds
runaway seraphim
devil dogs
sparrows and eagles
and gypsies
and such
we saw
a music stand
bow it's stoic head
and jazz-soaked trumpets
blush from silver to red
as an opal translated
the last lost language
of god
and a man
(re)obliterated
the walls of jericho
money and road-trips
chapbooks and rubies
and sackcloth
and trust
like the beauty
in an alabama hug
and in the night
and the word
magic
by no one
who wasn't there and then
by no one who will ever
believe us anyway
- Paul Koniecki
(added 12.14.13)
editor's note: The children of god bebopped 'round Canaan, jazz warriors, all? Nope, I don't believe it either. - mh
throwing rocks at the moon
you were the best thing
about summer
other than high ways
and proud deserts
talking in their sleep
the way
you'd move shadows
away from my eyes
as we played dead
on a sick road–
thorns toying with
our freckles
veins in your hands
would reach for me
like a curse, only warm
your toes were moths
between my toes
i swallowed your kiss
felt it thump
inside my belly–
now i believe
it's growing nails
you could wrap my hair
around the hills,
braid it through junipers
and still have enough
to play with
but we played with fire then
mocking
the medieval moon,
until it won and took you
over seas
now i curse
when it gets warm
when it gets cold
i throw a fit, find a ditch
and write you there
sometimes
i just send you blood
on paper
- Mandolyn
(added 12.13.13)
editor's note: So full can fullness be when filled with that one. So empty can emptiness be when that one is gone. (Sigh!) - mh
Meet me at Pete's Place?
Of course I hoped you'd find it, opened up briefly just for you
and to say a few things I guess, and then heck I didn't want other people reading it,
not like I advertise and they were so then I felt like an idiot and existential panic
set in I wanted my private life back, and just silly girl stuff,
but what it comes down to is really, I didn't know you were reading my old blog how could I?
So better late than never I'll ask you now to meet me at Pete's Place
some Saturday afternoon share a shivery pitcher of tap brew
or Stella Artois' sheer blonde in a bottle for me oh I bet you're a bourbon man
shoot we could have fun drinking mineral water on ice with lemon and a cig
later on when it starts to get dark in the parking lot out back by the alley
I'll keep watch while you surreptitiously scratch our secret initials
buried in a heart on the graffiti brick wall
juke box still just a quarter sway close to slow old songs
we really could just dance away our cares
I'll even let you take me clear around the world hopping diamonds on the rail
c'mon daddy you could have the whole enchilada
do you even know cuánto te necesito and hey whaddaya say?
- Sissy Buckles
(1 poem added 12.12.13)
editor's note: Oh, Baby! Gimme that enchilada now. Te necesito aún más! - mh
Food Fair
When we were
Vegetarian,
You told me,
“You are what you eat.”
So I cooked
Soybean stews,
Soybean soups,
Soybean casseroles,
And cheese,
And cheese,
And cheese.
My sisters and son knew
We were nuts.
We were kohlrabi.
We were various tubers,
Roots, rhizomes. All those
Spring, summer, fall, winter,
Green, purple, red, yellow
Vegetables.
Leaving you, I turned carnivorous,
Looking for lean, red meat,
Satisfying submerged cravings,
Seeking prey for the sensual predator
You never found.
- Kay Kinghammer
(1 poem added 12.11.13)
editor's note: Finding a love to match one's appetite is a life-long endeavor. Bon appetit! (Welcome Kay to our compounding conclave of Contributing Poets. See more of her poems on her new page.) - mh
Lizards...
The light is set to early summer,
performing her games of hide go seek.
I think of you often caught between the gloss
and brittle bones, of lovers passed.
Tequila are the sunrises; rattling
chinks of treacherous ice.
Dead bodied whiskey slammers,
red cherried parasols for the ladies, ring pulls
for the uninspired man.
Hedonistic days drift upstream
sucking on their ambition
far into the night.
Contaminated air –
laden heavy to breathe.
As we like lizards on heat
slide elongated from our rock.
I have captured the silence
of your body’s landscape.
Spaces carved deep; forbidden,
untouchable, far out of reach.
I would be ruined to tell you I miss you:
Just believe you are a hard habit to break...
- Poppy Scarlett
(added 12.10.13)
editor's note: Love recalled from an alcohol fog; longing to crawl back onto that rock. Yes, here's to habits reptilian! - mh
CONFESSION OF A PISSED OFF STARLET
So you think I have forgotten that late night,
a long time ago in that scummy place.
On your office couch reading scripts,
While you sat there licking your lips,
I was only 16 years old and scared.
I was lost even though I was prepared,
Like a deer in the headlights I sat so still,
While you pretended that I was perfect.
For the movie with that Napoleon idiot,
short guy with millions, a home in Malibu.
What a miserable little freaky misfit.
I knew that it was too late to meet you,
But I went anyway like all the girls do.
Even though you were old and full of shit,
I was determined to play and outsmart you.
So I sat there and read all of my lines,
like a tangled puppet with lipstick on.
Tight clothes and in my prime,
I turned you on but I was paralyzed,
By a desperate ego and my need for the prize.
Praying that you would sort of be nice,
But when you weren’t I didn’t think twice.
I let down my long hair and blew out a sigh,
I gave you that look straight in your eyes,
I knew that this could never be paradise.
You would never ever see me twice.
So I stood up with my pissed off starlet pose,
High heels, tight skirt and sheer black panty hose.
I said words that you never wanted to hear,
You never had me or even punctured my soul.
Nothing you had could make me part of your show.
Fucking you would be like killing a baby deer,
You can dream of it until your final years.
© 2013
- Gina Nemo
(added 12.09.13)
editor's note: This to be followed by "Castration of a Hollywood Casting Director." If you piss'er off, you'll sleep on that couch alone. - mh
Sexy Little Things
Your sexy little things are spread
in screwed up balls about my bed,
like tissue paper pompoms stuck
on works of heart designed for love.
But miles away from lingerie
and spoken spice at foreplay’s seed:
your last request for which you’re braced;
confessions, breathed against my face
as whispered screens behind which glow
the lights that cast those shifting shadows.
This mass of love; this dying star
of moment cast against the dust
pulls hard the instinct of my heart
while stoking fires of raging lust.
- Silas Gorin
(1 poem added 12.08.13)
editor's note: It's a tug-o'-war twixt two heads. - 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, "The Man Who Wrote Too Many Poems” by Liam Bishop: “Keep writing; keep dreaming: live! This story is the key to immortality, but don't think about it too hard, just live it out, day to day, from now until death.” Here's a taste to tempt you...
He is 57 years old. He lives in a shabby house with shabby floorboards and damp, tacky wallpaper his wife had chosen to decorate the home with, many years ago. His wife: 55. Her name: Georgia. His dog: Sally. He walks her nearly every day while his wife is at home or working at the homeless shelter. They live on West Norton Street. Once, the street occupied over 35 tenants on the entire strip of the road. Now it only occupies five tenants of whom he and his wife do not talk with and vice-versa. Deprived homes stretch along the street. Boarded up windows, hanging gutters and white, thick, bird shit cover the steps and porches of the homes.
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...
Bleedin’
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
••• The Mad Gallery •••
••• The Poetry Forum •••
This week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we stuck to lust, love, no loss 'fore frenzy's flood; we saw a starlet's rise forestalled, she dodged the couch at casting call; we lingered on a lost-love passed, pleasures measured in hedons; we left another, culinary bore, unable to sate a carnivore; we entertained an offer for a whole enchilada; we mocked the moon and swallowed a kiss, then cursed and bled for the one we miss; we watched walls long fallen bebop built to stand tall, the fall again, to test the faith of believers, all. Faith is hard to see, better felt than never. ~ MH Clay
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
10.2.13
magic seems
inadequate
as a description
for a thing
i can still taste and
orbiting my soul
supplicants
hummingbirds
runaway seraphim
devil dogs
sparrows and eagles
and gypsies
and such
we saw
a music stand
bow it's stoic head
and jazz-soaked trumpets
blush from silver to red
as an opal translated
the last lost language
of god
and a man
(re)obliterated
the walls of jericho
money and road-trips
chapbooks and rubies
and sackcloth
and trust
like the beauty
in an alabama hug
and in the night
and the word
magic
by no one
who wasn't there and then
by no one who will ever
believe us anyway
- Paul Koniecki
(added 12.14.13)
editor's note: The children of god bebopped 'round Canaan, jazz warriors, all? Nope, I don't believe it either. - mh
throwing rocks at the moon
you were the best thing
about summer
other than high ways
and proud deserts
talking in their sleep
the way
you'd move shadows
away from my eyes
as we played dead
on a sick road–
thorns toying with
our freckles
veins in your hands
would reach for me
like a curse, only warm
your toes were moths
between my toes
i swallowed your kiss
felt it thump
inside my belly–
now i believe
it's growing nails
you could wrap my hair
around the hills,
braid it through junipers
and still have enough
to play with
but we played with fire then
mocking
the medieval moon,
until it won and took you
over seas
now i curse
when it gets warm
when it gets cold
i throw a fit, find a ditch
and write you there
sometimes
i just send you blood
on paper
- Mandolyn
(added 12.13.13)
editor's note: So full can fullness be when filled with that one. So empty can emptiness be when that one is gone. (Sigh!) - mh
Meet me at Pete's Place?
Of course I hoped you'd find it, opened up briefly just for you
and to say a few things I guess, and then heck I didn't want other people reading it,
not like I advertise and they were so then I felt like an idiot and existential panic
set in I wanted my private life back, and just silly girl stuff,
but what it comes down to is really, I didn't know you were reading my old blog how could I?
So better late than never I'll ask you now to meet me at Pete's Place
some Saturday afternoon share a shivery pitcher of tap brew
or Stella Artois' sheer blonde in a bottle for me oh I bet you're a bourbon man
shoot we could have fun drinking mineral water on ice with lemon and a cig
later on when it starts to get dark in the parking lot out back by the alley
I'll keep watch while you surreptitiously scratch our secret initials
buried in a heart on the graffiti brick wall
juke box still just a quarter sway close to slow old songs
we really could just dance away our cares
I'll even let you take me clear around the world hopping diamonds on the rail
c'mon daddy you could have the whole enchilada
do you even know cuánto te necesito and hey whaddaya say?
- Sissy Buckles
(1 poem added 12.12.13)
editor's note: Oh, Baby! Gimme that enchilada now. Te necesito aún más! - mh
Food Fair
When we were
Vegetarian,
You told me,
“You are what you eat.”
So I cooked
Soybean stews,
Soybean soups,
Soybean casseroles,
And cheese,
And cheese,
And cheese.
My sisters and son knew
We were nuts.
We were kohlrabi.
We were various tubers,
Roots, rhizomes. All those
Spring, summer, fall, winter,
Green, purple, red, yellow
Vegetables.
Leaving you, I turned carnivorous,
Looking for lean, red meat,
Satisfying submerged cravings,
Seeking prey for the sensual predator
You never found.
- Kay Kinghammer
(1 poem added 12.11.13)
editor's note: Finding a love to match one's appetite is a life-long endeavor. Bon appetit! (Welcome Kay to our compounding conclave of Contributing Poets. See more of her poems on her new page.) - mh
Lizards...
The light is set to early summer,
performing her games of hide go seek.
I think of you often caught between the gloss
and brittle bones, of lovers passed.
Tequila are the sunrises; rattling
chinks of treacherous ice.
Dead bodied whiskey slammers,
red cherried parasols for the ladies, ring pulls
for the uninspired man.
Hedonistic days drift upstream
sucking on their ambition
far into the night.
Contaminated air –
laden heavy to breathe.
As we like lizards on heat
slide elongated from our rock.
I have captured the silence
of your body’s landscape.
Spaces carved deep; forbidden,
untouchable, far out of reach.
I would be ruined to tell you I miss you:
Just believe you are a hard habit to break...
- Poppy Scarlett
(added 12.10.13)
editor's note: Love recalled from an alcohol fog; longing to crawl back onto that rock. Yes, here's to habits reptilian! - mh
CONFESSION OF A PISSED OFF STARLET
So you think I have forgotten that late night,
a long time ago in that scummy place.
On your office couch reading scripts,
While you sat there licking your lips,
I was only 16 years old and scared.
I was lost even though I was prepared,
Like a deer in the headlights I sat so still,
While you pretended that I was perfect.
For the movie with that Napoleon idiot,
short guy with millions, a home in Malibu.
What a miserable little freaky misfit.
I knew that it was too late to meet you,
But I went anyway like all the girls do.
Even though you were old and full of shit,
I was determined to play and outsmart you.
So I sat there and read all of my lines,
like a tangled puppet with lipstick on.
Tight clothes and in my prime,
I turned you on but I was paralyzed,
By a desperate ego and my need for the prize.
Praying that you would sort of be nice,
But when you weren’t I didn’t think twice.
I let down my long hair and blew out a sigh,
I gave you that look straight in your eyes,
I knew that this could never be paradise.
You would never ever see me twice.
So I stood up with my pissed off starlet pose,
High heels, tight skirt and sheer black panty hose.
I said words that you never wanted to hear,
You never had me or even punctured my soul.
Nothing you had could make me part of your show.
Fucking you would be like killing a baby deer,
You can dream of it until your final years.
© 2013
- Gina Nemo
(added 12.09.13)
editor's note: This to be followed by "Castration of a Hollywood Casting Director." If you piss'er off, you'll sleep on that couch alone. - mh
Sexy Little Things
Your sexy little things are spread
in screwed up balls about my bed,
like tissue paper pompoms stuck
on works of heart designed for love.
But miles away from lingerie
and spoken spice at foreplay’s seed:
your last request for which you’re braced;
confessions, breathed against my face
as whispered screens behind which glow
the lights that cast those shifting shadows.
This mass of love; this dying star
of moment cast against the dust
pulls hard the instinct of my heart
while stoking fires of raging lust.
- Silas Gorin
(1 poem added 12.08.13)
editor's note: It's a tug-o'-war twixt two heads. - 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, "The Man Who Wrote Too Many Poems” by Liam Bishop: “Keep writing; keep dreaming: live! This story is the key to immortality, but don't think about it too hard, just live it out, day to day, from now until death.” Here's a taste to tempt you...
He is 57 years old. He lives in a shabby house with shabby floorboards and damp, tacky wallpaper his wife had chosen to decorate the home with, many years ago. His wife: 55. Her name: Georgia. His dog: Sally. He walks her nearly every day while his wife is at home or working at the homeless shelter. They live on West Norton Street. Once, the street occupied over 35 tenants on the entire strip of the road. Now it only occupies five tenants of whom he and his wife do not talk with and vice-versa. Deprived homes stretch along the street. Boarded up windows, hanging gutters and white, thick, bird shit cover the steps and porches of the homes.
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...
Bleedin’
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
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