The Best of Mad Swirl : 01.18.14
"The path up is the path down. The way forward is the way back. The universe inside is outside but the universe outside is inside." Robert Anton Wilson
••• The Mad Gallery •••
Reflections (above) by featured artist, Fanny Marie Crawford.
••• The Poetry Forum •••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we coaxed with coffee and biscotti, our muse from memories; we praised the best of writing utensils, losing the pen and choosing the pencil; we determined our dimensions from day-before dreams; we raced the sun afar from home to seek the sound of the sacred tone; we served up a black lung breakfast delight; we saw ignorant youth's appropriation of what used to be our generation; we noodled on noggin knockin' notions of existence, let gods pull the strings. Stellar! ~ MH Clay
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
E is for Existence
Maybe I did ask to be
here
and maybe I
was offered
a comprehensive list
of parents
to choose from
and it might well be
I was given a reason
and a mission to accomplish
and each and every character
I have ever met are merry
marionettes speaking
the pre-planned script
written by a bevy
of seasoned Sesame Street
styled ventriloquists
who were hired
by the executive
producer of
the greatest
mini-series ever told
to guide me
from my ABC's to my
XY and final Z
see,
I'd rather be
the brainchild
of a TV show
tycoon
than the bastard
baby of a prehistoric
baboon
- Ivan Jenson
(2 poems added 01.18.14)
editor's note: I'd like this MC to square my story with the media and move on to the book deal. (Another from Ivan on his page, sage instructions for a big-top fetishist - check it out.) - mh
THE COMING GENERATION
The wind is icy, the stars far,
but youth spins and glides
across the ice-pond,
carves deep, round, figure eights,
startles hungry ducks.
Behind the gravestone,
lovers frighten sparrows,
mourners, even the wild-flowers
draping the cross.
When nascent bodies
prod and arch,
death must wait its turn.
A child chases squirrels,
tosses rocks at pigeons.
A running boy
knocks an old man into oblivion.
A young girl’s moment
is fresher, prettier than
the grandmother’s ninety years.
It’s their world,
to do with
as their sons and daughters please.
- John Grey
(1 poem added 01.17.14)
editor's note: Yup, ours to have as they will. They think it's their's, too...for now. - mh
Breakfast
Mornings, I drink like a piglet.
I weep for sick children and drink.
I haven't slept in seven days. And here
you are, arranging bone bouquets
for me to snap between my teeth.
You fix us breakfast: coffee with cream,
the corpse of an orange, my own lungs
sleek and black as eels. Thanks.
- Marcia Chicca
(added 01.16.14)
editor's note: Rich repast for a troubled soul; autophagia with a twist. - mh
wild horses can’t keep up anymore
the sunset
moves
at one thousand miles per hour
at the equator
slower elsewhere
but here
the days run away so fast
even the jetliners can’t keep up
nine thousand miles away
hooves beat down on the plains
blood courses
a child asks how fast can they run
and a man answers
as fast as the setting sun
the child asks how far can they run
and the man answers
as far as the fences’ll let ‘em
there are no fences here
and it doesn’t matter
because you can’t run fast enough anyway
the days catch up with you
like hitmen
who love their work
and their victims
in a bar on Loi Kroh
watching brown-haired french girls laugh and cross the street
innocently
and thai hookers on the sidewalk call out
hey hansum
hey hansum
to the baht in my pockets
while tibetan singing bowls sit silently on a vendor’s cart
waiting
for the sacred tone
to be struck.
- Leeroy Berlin
(added 01.15.14)
editor's note: Market demand determines, hookers out-sell bowls. The sun overtakes both. - mh
Spill-O’s Career of Crying ‘Pig!’
There was a pantheon, but he wasn’t invited.
He used to plot the castration
of the four-o’clock sun.
But Spill-O’s dimensions
have been determined,
and he is no giant, it turns out.
Now it’s his heart that moves,
his mouth just handles the details.
He wanted to sell his soul,
but no one would pay retail.
Spill-O can’t lie to you, he is beat.
His wildest imagination
looks just like a street.
He believes it’s the truth he’s telling.
But he’s just the pig who cried pig.
Spill-O’s dreams are just echoes
of the day before.
And He’s dreadfully sure
that he can take a lot more.
- Colin Dodds
(added 01.14.14)
editor's note: We all have our delusions of grandeur; to join the gods-on-high among them. However, sometimes "pig" is the best we get with all the empty echoes we can hold. Go, Spill-O! Mad Swirl's new Everyman. - mh
The Pencil
I use a pencil because the pen is so permanent,
preferably a #2 Ticonderoga.
I like the soft lead.
I press so hard sometimes I feel inclined to
apologize for the force of my hand.
I am just writing a number but in this profession
I should know better.
If I make a mistake I can not erase the dent
I've made in the paper.
If you have a vision problem, not a worry,
I write as clearly as most signs read.
I am concise to a fault with my numbers.
Letters are my play time
it’s cursive and sometimes it’s print and
On occasion I’ll split the difference.
I do not chew or roll the pencil in my mouth.
I find it a little gross to put a dirty eraser on paper.
I enjoy art time when the mood hits me,
to shade with the side of the utensil.
But my favorite thing about a pencil
is the way that it smells when it’s being sharpened.
- Peggy Flora
(added 01.13.14)
editor's note: Precision for work and playtime; there's a right way to approach everything. Shade with the side... - mh
Sentimental
November calms restless swallows
as they leave me,
blue mise en scène in air
night’s cool breath, jazz purling
fogging closed windows
eases panic of empty beds
scent of serein
cradles memories
I had wrapped in kisses
dried between poems
November morning, notes on lips
lyrics lost in blue feathers
I dip a biscotto in my coffee
raise my hand with élan
and wait
- Silva Zanoyan Merjanian
(2 poems added 01.12.14)
editor's note: A poet's idle mind invokes image from ennui - not a bad day's laze. (See another from Silva on her page - a picture of place and common song; Mad Swirl was there, too.) - mh
••• Short Stories •••
Need a read? Here's what Short Story Editor Tyler Malone has to say about this pick-of-the-week short story, "Independence Day” by Oleg Razumovsky: "Mother Russia has the face of a harlot or an angel from heaven, it all depends on how much freedom you’ve been drunk on your whole life." Here's a taste to tempt you...
photo by Tyler Malone
On Independence Day we sat with a former translator Phil in the park near the bronze deer. Soviet soldiers brought it from Goering's hunting ground and gave it to civilian children.
Phil quit translating right after the last default, then worked as a guard and drank like a pig cheap counterfeit vodka called Freedom.
We sat, drank Freedom, and talked until we smelled an aroma of the expensive perfume. We raised our murky eyes from vodka on the bench and saw a group of officials led by the governor himself. They were passing us quickly by, looking at us disapprovingly. To celebrate, we began spontaneously throwing up in the most insolent manner, praising Freedom, the best among the cheap alcohol, but then it was too much of a good thing...
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...
Goin’ In All Directions,
Johnny O
Chief Editor
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
••• The Mad Gallery •••
••• The Poetry Forum •••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we coaxed with coffee and biscotti, our muse from memories; we praised the best of writing utensils, losing the pen and choosing the pencil; we determined our dimensions from day-before dreams; we raced the sun afar from home to seek the sound of the sacred tone; we served up a black lung breakfast delight; we saw ignorant youth's appropriation of what used to be our generation; we noodled on noggin knockin' notions of existence, let gods pull the strings. Stellar! ~ MH Clay
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
E is for Existence
Maybe I did ask to be
here
and maybe I
was offered
a comprehensive list
of parents
to choose from
and it might well be
I was given a reason
and a mission to accomplish
and each and every character
I have ever met are merry
marionettes speaking
the pre-planned script
written by a bevy
of seasoned Sesame Street
styled ventriloquists
who were hired
by the executive
producer of
the greatest
mini-series ever told
to guide me
from my ABC's to my
XY and final Z
see,
I'd rather be
the brainchild
of a TV show
tycoon
than the bastard
baby of a prehistoric
baboon
- Ivan Jenson
(2 poems added 01.18.14)
editor's note: I'd like this MC to square my story with the media and move on to the book deal. (Another from Ivan on his page, sage instructions for a big-top fetishist - check it out.) - mh
THE COMING GENERATION
The wind is icy, the stars far,
but youth spins and glides
across the ice-pond,
carves deep, round, figure eights,
startles hungry ducks.
Behind the gravestone,
lovers frighten sparrows,
mourners, even the wild-flowers
draping the cross.
When nascent bodies
prod and arch,
death must wait its turn.
A child chases squirrels,
tosses rocks at pigeons.
A running boy
knocks an old man into oblivion.
A young girl’s moment
is fresher, prettier than
the grandmother’s ninety years.
It’s their world,
to do with
as their sons and daughters please.
- John Grey
(1 poem added 01.17.14)
editor's note: Yup, ours to have as they will. They think it's their's, too...for now. - mh
Breakfast
Mornings, I drink like a piglet.
I weep for sick children and drink.
I haven't slept in seven days. And here
you are, arranging bone bouquets
for me to snap between my teeth.
You fix us breakfast: coffee with cream,
the corpse of an orange, my own lungs
sleek and black as eels. Thanks.
- Marcia Chicca
(added 01.16.14)
editor's note: Rich repast for a troubled soul; autophagia with a twist. - mh
wild horses can’t keep up anymore
the sunset
moves
at one thousand miles per hour
at the equator
slower elsewhere
but here
the days run away so fast
even the jetliners can’t keep up
nine thousand miles away
hooves beat down on the plains
blood courses
a child asks how fast can they run
and a man answers
as fast as the setting sun
the child asks how far can they run
and the man answers
as far as the fences’ll let ‘em
there are no fences here
and it doesn’t matter
because you can’t run fast enough anyway
the days catch up with you
like hitmen
who love their work
and their victims
in a bar on Loi Kroh
watching brown-haired french girls laugh and cross the street
innocently
and thai hookers on the sidewalk call out
hey hansum
hey hansum
to the baht in my pockets
while tibetan singing bowls sit silently on a vendor’s cart
waiting
for the sacred tone
to be struck.
- Leeroy Berlin
(added 01.15.14)
editor's note: Market demand determines, hookers out-sell bowls. The sun overtakes both. - mh
Spill-O’s Career of Crying ‘Pig!’
There was a pantheon, but he wasn’t invited.
He used to plot the castration
of the four-o’clock sun.
But Spill-O’s dimensions
have been determined,
and he is no giant, it turns out.
Now it’s his heart that moves,
his mouth just handles the details.
He wanted to sell his soul,
but no one would pay retail.
Spill-O can’t lie to you, he is beat.
His wildest imagination
looks just like a street.
He believes it’s the truth he’s telling.
But he’s just the pig who cried pig.
Spill-O’s dreams are just echoes
of the day before.
And He’s dreadfully sure
that he can take a lot more.
- Colin Dodds
(added 01.14.14)
editor's note: We all have our delusions of grandeur; to join the gods-on-high among them. However, sometimes "pig" is the best we get with all the empty echoes we can hold. Go, Spill-O! Mad Swirl's new Everyman. - mh
The Pencil
I use a pencil because the pen is so permanent,
preferably a #2 Ticonderoga.
I like the soft lead.
I press so hard sometimes I feel inclined to
apologize for the force of my hand.
I am just writing a number but in this profession
I should know better.
If I make a mistake I can not erase the dent
I've made in the paper.
If you have a vision problem, not a worry,
I write as clearly as most signs read.
I am concise to a fault with my numbers.
Letters are my play time
it’s cursive and sometimes it’s print and
On occasion I’ll split the difference.
I do not chew or roll the pencil in my mouth.
I find it a little gross to put a dirty eraser on paper.
I enjoy art time when the mood hits me,
to shade with the side of the utensil.
But my favorite thing about a pencil
is the way that it smells when it’s being sharpened.
- Peggy Flora
(added 01.13.14)
editor's note: Precision for work and playtime; there's a right way to approach everything. Shade with the side... - mh
Sentimental
November calms restless swallows
as they leave me,
blue mise en scène in air
night’s cool breath, jazz purling
fogging closed windows
eases panic of empty beds
scent of serein
cradles memories
I had wrapped in kisses
dried between poems
November morning, notes on lips
lyrics lost in blue feathers
I dip a biscotto in my coffee
raise my hand with élan
and wait
- Silva Zanoyan Merjanian
(2 poems added 01.12.14)
editor's note: A poet's idle mind invokes image from ennui - not a bad day's laze. (See another from Silva on her page - a picture of place and common song; Mad Swirl was there, too.) - mh
••• Short Stories •••
Need a read? Here's what Short Story Editor Tyler Malone has to say about this pick-of-the-week short story, "Independence Day” by Oleg Razumovsky: "Mother Russia has the face of a harlot or an angel from heaven, it all depends on how much freedom you’ve been drunk on your whole life." Here's a taste to tempt you...
On Independence Day we sat with a former translator Phil in the park near the bronze deer. Soviet soldiers brought it from Goering's hunting ground and gave it to civilian children.
Phil quit translating right after the last default, then worked as a guard and drank like a pig cheap counterfeit vodka called Freedom.
We sat, drank Freedom, and talked until we smelled an aroma of the expensive perfume. We raised our murky eyes from vodka on the bench and saw a group of officials led by the governor himself. They were passing us quickly by, looking at us disapprovingly. To celebrate, we began spontaneously throwing up in the most insolent manner, praising Freedom, the best among the cheap alcohol, but then it was too much of a good thing...
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...
Goin’ In All Directions,
Johnny O
Chief Editor
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
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