The Best of Mad Swirl : 03.29.14
”I am awaiting / perpetually and forever / a renaissance of wonder” Lawrence Ferlinghetti
••• The Mad Gallery •••
The deeper I sink the more eternal I feel (above) by featured artist David Arthur-Simons. To see more of his works, as well as works from our other contributing artists, please visit our Mad Gallery.
••• The Poetry Forum •••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we were swept into the sweetness and seduction of time; we flirted and flounced, jiggled and jounced in soaking sensuality; we reminisced on a suicide's lighter side; we played with a precursor of a nihilist's nuclear winter; we strapped a poet's choker on a life mediocre; we gave ear to the first fledgling DJ, droppin' some grooves, coppin' some moves; we boiled the burgeoning roil, the terror and toil of existence down to a single machine. So simple and clean; a model of society - our emerging proprieties - we wear down week by week. ~ MH Clay
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
Soon a Single Machine Will Make Everything
It will be beautiful.
Nothing will be wasted
and no one will go hungry.
If you want to wear ugly shoes
the machine will make them.
If you like bad music
the machine will create it.
Bad art will flow out of the machine.
The police will use the machine to make
handcuffs badges guns doughnuts.
Criminals will use the machine to make
lock picks money liquor more money.
The machine will make more machines
that will make more machines
until we will all be standing on machines
watching the tide come in.
Equality will prevail
and jealousy will die.
Even the sky will be machine made.
It will be beautiful
and finished
and everyone will finally shut up
and be satisfied
with what they have.
- David Thornbrugh
(1 poem added 03.29.14)
editor's note: Pop buzz whirrr click; ratchet buzz whirrr click! (We welcome David Thornbrugh to our conspiratorial clan of Contributing Poets with this poem. See another new one - about our most ignored answer, plus more, on his new poetry page.) - mh
Cylinder
Robert Browning’s greatest poem was not
“My Last Duchess”
or “The Ring and the Book”
or “How They Brought the Good News from Aix to Ghent”
but rather that moment when,
while recording that poem onto one of Thomas Edison’s first phonograph cylinders,
he breaks off from his staticky monologue and says
Robert Browning
ROOOOO—BERRRT BROOOOOW—NING
hip hip
HOORAY!
hip hip
HOORAY!
hip hip
HOORAY!
BROWNING!
- Tobias Griffin
(added 03.28.14)
editor's note: After which, he snapped and posted a selfie. - mh
A Mediocre Life
Slather me in a temporal mood
as the sun sets on this gray sky
Litigate my attitude from soft platitudes
of simplicity
while ignoring the mediocrity
of my everyday life
Hear the screams from my lungs
of not enough or to much or just right
forgetting another night
barely functioning in the day
wishing for sun shine on my face
hidden by structured paste
let me not waste my breathe
For I care more and not less
To be ruthlessly honest
yet speak with contemplation
of our time and occasion
spent in felicitous embraces
the slow movement of a caress
In the vulnerabilities we possess
breaking the walls between us
stopping the numbness
of this muted life
We live from one moon until the next
As our days become blended
into a mesh of daily meals
and the haze of colorless grays
Searching outside
for the red candle inside our chest
May it burn and never settle
Into a mediocre life
- Peggy Flora
(2 poems added 03.27.14)
editor's note: Not now, no way, not ever! Resist and create! (We welcome Peggy to our conspiring clan of Contributing Poets with this one. See another one on the life we do, plus more, on her new page.) - mh
Falling, Flying
Strapped to her body, weighing not nearly enough
to make the sunrise it did when she hit
the mushroom cloud that lit up the desert for miles around
it would have been beautiful if anyone
had been left to see it.
She opened her eyes
just as the dots became cars on the road
people in the street
tiny, white blocks became buildings and houses
an end she did not want to see.
The wind dragged against her, but not enough
to stop her fall, just enough
to pull roughly at her hair, to open the top button of her shirt
with fingers as cold and rough as death.
It was like sunrise when she hit, if the sun
could erupt from the middle of the earth, instead of rising around the edge of it
could pour out of broken concrete like a an angry phoenix
this was the end she would never see.
- Holly Day
(1 poem added 03.26.14)
editor's note: A suicide bomb's view - breathtaking. - mh
For Joseph Giummo
Philip Seymour Hoffman died today
And all I can think of is you
How they found you
With a half eaten sandwich
And fentanyl skin patches on your lower legs
Asleep forever
There was a phone call from you
About 3 months earlier
You screamed my name and hung up
I guess that’s all you could say
John boy said at this point you were
Talking about becoming a flamenco dancer
And drilling random holes in your expensive fish tanks
Your son is angry that you went like a fool
And I remind him we had the clean time
Before the relapse after 23 years
A week following your passing
I am in Chicago on a business trip
Walking to an AA meeting
Where I see a brief case in a storefront window
Identical to yours
And when I share in the rooms
Some alcoholic randomly screams out
“I guess everything is bigger in Texas”
Referencing my tits
So I know you are there
Saying hello or goodbye in your crude way
Why does love feel so awkward sometimes?
And they wonder if it was a suicide OR overdose
But I remember you telling me once
That if you were to take yourself
The opiate patches is how you would do it
I don’t tell anyone
I let them speculate
While I think of Phillip Seymour Hoffman
In New York City
Where we had our first kisses and celebrated our vows
Probably just around the corner from his apartment
- Eileen Simeonov
(added 03.25.14)
editor's note: One epitaph inspires another; an erstwhile love eternal. - mh
Rainy day
The day ended with rain, the moon is back again
You yield your breasts in silence, in sweat, in hush
Drop by drop, out of breath, together, we get soaked
- Pere Risteski
(added 03.24.14)
editor's note: Hushed lust, forbidden fruit, cleansing rain - all sins forgiven. - mh
Taking Your Sweet Time
Sometimes I dream
I dream
you’re the man in the moon
the moon
whistling an empty tune
through a crack in the night
the night
Eyes slivering silver
shimmering threads
slipping under my pillow
slipping into my bed
my head
Silken breath
floating over
my shoulders my breasts
floating over
slow yielding peaks
of succulent promise
lips eclipsing unnamed yearnings
melting melting swirling swirling
in dimpled cheeks of nippled splendor
shivering tongues of molten light
Sometimes I dream
I dream
you’re the man in the moon
the moon
waxing and waning so tender
the tides
the tides--
licking, lapping
forevering unmapping
my shores
Breathless moon
reflection of shadows fading
projection of unhinged craving
always leaving me wanting
more
more
lips eclipsing unnamed yearnings
melting melting swirling swirling
in dimpled cheeks of nippled splendor
shivering tongues of molten light
Moon
Man in the Moon
my funny, my honey Moon
taking your time
taking your sweet sweet time
drawing your creamy pleasure
until you are full
of oooos and ohhhhs
of Croons and Sighs
of ahhhhs and ummmmms
lunar lullabies
until you are full of wanting
you rise
you rise
(suddenly hmmmm)
me with you
with you
- Antonia Alexandra Klimenko
(added 03.23.14)
editor's note: Rattle and hum, that orb is no easy come and never too soon. But, there is definitely smoke after. - mh
••• Short Stories •••
Need a shitty read? We got one that’s really shitty and we ain’t bullshittin’! Here's what Short Story Editor Tyler Malone has to say about this pick-of-the-week short story, "The Generosity and Versatility of Scatology" by Jenean McBrearty, "Good shit. Good, tasty shit." Here's a few sniffs to get your olfactory senses tinglin’…
“Da-da, do-do, do-da-da.”
That’s some good shit, man.
You’re shittin’ me.
It ain’t worth a shit.
It’s all bull-shit.
She’s just talkin’ shit.
You don’t know shit from Shinola.
No shit, Sherlock.
Scared the shit out of me!
I don’t give a shit.
That’s some sorry-ass shit, all right.
“Here’s the thing. It sounds low-class. It’s street talk. You’d never hear the Queen say the word shit. Least not in public.”
Marty nodded his head, seriously pondering Freddie’s wisdom. “We’ll never hear the Queen say anything. Here’s another thing. All around the world, people are talkin’ shit and we never hear them either. You ever wonder what people are saying in places like Paraguay or Papua New Guinea?”
You gotta get to the end of this shitty story, don’cha? Get the rest of your read on here!
••• Open Mic •••
Join Mad Swirl the 1st Wednesday of April (aka 04.02.14), at 8:00 sharp, when we will swirl it up madly in the live way that we do every month. Swirve and this month's feature ArtLoveMagic! Representin' ALM will be Michael Lagocki, Zach Schrotter, Maggie Smith, & Christy Jedigoddess. They will also have a special musical performance from Jake Reeves to share with us! 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 Mad Swirl’s Open Mic page for more details.
AND, as you may or may not know, every 1st Wednesday we get all giddy with the swirlin' madness. COMING in May, Victory with special guest Jake Kinnard
•••••••
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...
Wonderin’,
Johnny O
Chief Editor
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
••• The Mad Gallery •••
The deeper I sink the more eternal I feel (above) by featured artist David Arthur-Simons. To see more of his works, as well as works from our other contributing artists, please visit our Mad Gallery.
••• The Poetry Forum •••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we were swept into the sweetness and seduction of time; we flirted and flounced, jiggled and jounced in soaking sensuality; we reminisced on a suicide's lighter side; we played with a precursor of a nihilist's nuclear winter; we strapped a poet's choker on a life mediocre; we gave ear to the first fledgling DJ, droppin' some grooves, coppin' some moves; we boiled the burgeoning roil, the terror and toil of existence down to a single machine. So simple and clean; a model of society - our emerging proprieties - we wear down week by week. ~ MH Clay
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
Soon a Single Machine Will Make Everything
It will be beautiful.
Nothing will be wasted
and no one will go hungry.
If you want to wear ugly shoes
the machine will make them.
If you like bad music
the machine will create it.
Bad art will flow out of the machine.
The police will use the machine to make
handcuffs badges guns doughnuts.
Criminals will use the machine to make
lock picks money liquor more money.
The machine will make more machines
that will make more machines
until we will all be standing on machines
watching the tide come in.
Equality will prevail
and jealousy will die.
Even the sky will be machine made.
It will be beautiful
and finished
and everyone will finally shut up
and be satisfied
with what they have.
- David Thornbrugh
(1 poem added 03.29.14)
editor's note: Pop buzz whirrr click; ratchet buzz whirrr click! (We welcome David Thornbrugh to our conspiratorial clan of Contributing Poets with this poem. See another new one - about our most ignored answer, plus more, on his new poetry page.) - mh
Cylinder
Robert Browning’s greatest poem was not
“My Last Duchess”
or “The Ring and the Book”
or “How They Brought the Good News from Aix to Ghent”
but rather that moment when,
while recording that poem onto one of Thomas Edison’s first phonograph cylinders,
he breaks off from his staticky monologue and says
Robert Browning
ROOOOO—BERRRT BROOOOOW—NING
hip hip
HOORAY!
hip hip
HOORAY!
hip hip
HOORAY!
BROWNING!
- Tobias Griffin
(added 03.28.14)
editor's note: After which, he snapped and posted a selfie. - mh
A Mediocre Life
Slather me in a temporal mood
as the sun sets on this gray sky
Litigate my attitude from soft platitudes
of simplicity
while ignoring the mediocrity
of my everyday life
Hear the screams from my lungs
of not enough or to much or just right
forgetting another night
barely functioning in the day
wishing for sun shine on my face
hidden by structured paste
let me not waste my breathe
For I care more and not less
To be ruthlessly honest
yet speak with contemplation
of our time and occasion
spent in felicitous embraces
the slow movement of a caress
In the vulnerabilities we possess
breaking the walls between us
stopping the numbness
of this muted life
We live from one moon until the next
As our days become blended
into a mesh of daily meals
and the haze of colorless grays
Searching outside
for the red candle inside our chest
May it burn and never settle
Into a mediocre life
- Peggy Flora
(2 poems added 03.27.14)
editor's note: Not now, no way, not ever! Resist and create! (We welcome Peggy to our conspiring clan of Contributing Poets with this one. See another one on the life we do, plus more, on her new page.) - mh
Falling, Flying
Strapped to her body, weighing not nearly enough
to make the sunrise it did when she hit
the mushroom cloud that lit up the desert for miles around
it would have been beautiful if anyone
had been left to see it.
She opened her eyes
just as the dots became cars on the road
people in the street
tiny, white blocks became buildings and houses
an end she did not want to see.
The wind dragged against her, but not enough
to stop her fall, just enough
to pull roughly at her hair, to open the top button of her shirt
with fingers as cold and rough as death.
It was like sunrise when she hit, if the sun
could erupt from the middle of the earth, instead of rising around the edge of it
could pour out of broken concrete like a an angry phoenix
this was the end she would never see.
- Holly Day
(1 poem added 03.26.14)
editor's note: A suicide bomb's view - breathtaking. - mh
For Joseph Giummo
Philip Seymour Hoffman died today
And all I can think of is you
How they found you
With a half eaten sandwich
And fentanyl skin patches on your lower legs
Asleep forever
There was a phone call from you
About 3 months earlier
You screamed my name and hung up
I guess that’s all you could say
John boy said at this point you were
Talking about becoming a flamenco dancer
And drilling random holes in your expensive fish tanks
Your son is angry that you went like a fool
And I remind him we had the clean time
Before the relapse after 23 years
A week following your passing
I am in Chicago on a business trip
Walking to an AA meeting
Where I see a brief case in a storefront window
Identical to yours
And when I share in the rooms
Some alcoholic randomly screams out
“I guess everything is bigger in Texas”
Referencing my tits
So I know you are there
Saying hello or goodbye in your crude way
Why does love feel so awkward sometimes?
And they wonder if it was a suicide OR overdose
But I remember you telling me once
That if you were to take yourself
The opiate patches is how you would do it
I don’t tell anyone
I let them speculate
While I think of Phillip Seymour Hoffman
In New York City
Where we had our first kisses and celebrated our vows
Probably just around the corner from his apartment
- Eileen Simeonov
(added 03.25.14)
editor's note: One epitaph inspires another; an erstwhile love eternal. - mh
Rainy day
The day ended with rain, the moon is back again
You yield your breasts in silence, in sweat, in hush
Drop by drop, out of breath, together, we get soaked
- Pere Risteski
(added 03.24.14)
editor's note: Hushed lust, forbidden fruit, cleansing rain - all sins forgiven. - mh
Taking Your Sweet Time
Sometimes I dream
I dream
you’re the man in the moon
the moon
whistling an empty tune
through a crack in the night
the night
Eyes slivering silver
shimmering threads
slipping under my pillow
slipping into my bed
my head
Silken breath
floating over
my shoulders my breasts
floating over
slow yielding peaks
of succulent promise
lips eclipsing unnamed yearnings
melting melting swirling swirling
in dimpled cheeks of nippled splendor
shivering tongues of molten light
Sometimes I dream
I dream
you’re the man in the moon
the moon
waxing and waning so tender
the tides
the tides--
licking, lapping
forevering unmapping
my shores
Breathless moon
reflection of shadows fading
projection of unhinged craving
always leaving me wanting
more
more
lips eclipsing unnamed yearnings
melting melting swirling swirling
in dimpled cheeks of nippled splendor
shivering tongues of molten light
Moon
Man in the Moon
my funny, my honey Moon
taking your time
taking your sweet sweet time
drawing your creamy pleasure
until you are full
of oooos and ohhhhs
of Croons and Sighs
of ahhhhs and ummmmms
lunar lullabies
until you are full of wanting
you rise
you rise
(suddenly hmmmm)
me with you
with you
- Antonia Alexandra Klimenko
(added 03.23.14)
editor's note: Rattle and hum, that orb is no easy come and never too soon. But, there is definitely smoke after. - mh
••• Short Stories •••
Need a shitty read? We got one that’s really shitty and we ain’t bullshittin’! Here's what Short Story Editor Tyler Malone has to say about this pick-of-the-week short story, "The Generosity and Versatility of Scatology" by Jenean McBrearty, "Good shit. Good, tasty shit." Here's a few sniffs to get your olfactory senses tinglin’…
“Da-da, do-do, do-da-da.”
That’s some good shit, man.
You’re shittin’ me.
It ain’t worth a shit.
It’s all bull-shit.
She’s just talkin’ shit.
You don’t know shit from Shinola.
No shit, Sherlock.
Scared the shit out of me!
I don’t give a shit.
That’s some sorry-ass shit, all right.
“Here’s the thing. It sounds low-class. It’s street talk. You’d never hear the Queen say the word shit. Least not in public.”
Marty nodded his head, seriously pondering Freddie’s wisdom. “We’ll never hear the Queen say anything. Here’s another thing. All around the world, people are talkin’ shit and we never hear them either. You ever wonder what people are saying in places like Paraguay or Papua New Guinea?”
You gotta get to the end of this shitty story, don’cha? Get the rest of your read on here!
••• Open Mic •••
Join Mad Swirl the 1st Wednesday of April (aka 04.02.14), at 8:00 sharp, when we will swirl it up madly in the live way that we do every month. Swirve and this month's feature ArtLoveMagic! Representin' ALM will be Michael Lagocki, Zach Schrotter, Maggie Smith, & Christy Jedigoddess. They will also have a special musical performance from Jake Reeves to share with us! 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 Mad Swirl’s Open Mic page for more details.
AND, as you may or may not know, every 1st Wednesday we get all giddy with the swirlin' madness. COMING in May, Victory with special guest Jake Kinnard
•••••••
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...
Wonderin’,
Johnny O
Chief Editor
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
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