The Best of Mad Swirl : 04.26.14
”We know what we are, but know not what we may be.” William Shakespeare
••• The Mad Gallery •••
Transient (above) by artist Tray Drumhann. 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 stuck a sucker's sweet tooth where the sun don't shine; we ate our questionable fill of possibly poisoned food for a thrill; we found no flight nor consolation in foisted flaws and self-immolation; we mixed watercolor words to paint a sun-filled sky; we braved surgeon's blade to rebuild our way back to the same page; we shed tears for long wasted years, belt-blasted to oblivion for no wrong done; we were not surprised, when ionized, to feel a strong attraction when substances burned, infatuation turned into eternal satisfaction. So strange and strong, the ways of the world and words unworldly; weren't you wondering? ~ MH Clay
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
Substances Come Together
With shrinking orifice,
She smiles.
She never thinks what’ll be next,
But her calm bosom vibrates,
Waves and waves dash themselves,
She stands and spills,
But she’s happy and sad at a time,
And she’s sliding,
She brings inundation,
She carries away all of her adjoining together,
And she is engorged much,
So she’s enraged now.
With a loud crash,
She falls over an unmoved world,
And she makes all of us fall there,
Substances fall for fission,
A beautiful nature is disfigured.
Alas! The remaining ones are no ones.
And she’s unidentified.
And she again acts for fusion.
Substances come together!
- Chiranjibi Niroula
(1 poem added 04.26.14)
editor's note: An atom-split heart leaves no one at all, whereas fusion burns love eternal. (We welcome Chiranjibi back to the ranks of our Contributing Poets with this one. Check out his madness on his page.) - mh
The Hand of God Gloved
A life that should have been yellow, coloured grey.
Cotton fields blazing sun and laughter
Singing in the cloisters like angels
The man swung his belt and blasted
The beauty from all time
As innocence lost its rhyme
They found a new reality.
A life that should have been yellow, coloured grey
Black skin the only sin
Eyes dark as the blood soaked earth.
As the light dimmed and died
The singing in the cloisters of demons
Rattled the chains
Of hunger and thirst
A life that should have been yellow, coloured grey
Is now black.
The hand of god gloved.
I walked into a meadow
And asked a man for gold
He said that I was ugly
And that I should be sold
For half a pint of nothing.
A life that should have been yellow, coloured grey.
I was the Devil’s Agent, he said. He took the child away.
The well is deep. How harsh the sleep
There is no anodyne for pain
The constant gnawing strain
For a life that should have been yellow, coloured grey.
The hand of god still gloved.
- Sheighle Birdthistle
(added 04.25.14)
editor's note: Cure the color blindness of slavers; set slaves free so all can see. Gloves off! - mh
The Sound of One Hand Typing
(for Patty)
Surgeons with no sense of humor
save lives and shoulders, three hours on the table,
and now the one-handed typing poem,
one finger doing pushups and pull-ups,
yet another opportunity to grapple with
the challenges of existence.
Simple acts of creativity, healing, caring
keep despair at bay.
Friend bestows beloved companion of her youth,
Olympia Model 9 Portable,
clean action, smooth typing
lifelong quest for the perfect typewriter
Model 9 of the Buddha’s eightfold path.
All words fraught with significance
little bell pinging, light at the end of a typed line,
liberation at the start of every sentence,
the page we strive so hard to reach is
the page we are already on.
- Paul Hellweg
(1 poem added 04.24.14)
editor's note: Populate pages with pertinent passages; approach a plane of existence, achieve relevance through writing. - mh
The sun
Under a conceiving sun
the poppies rise up to meet
its rays in a flurry of colors
as the shallow clouds
drift like a thin fog
in the rose-drenched sky.
- Dawnell Harrison
(1 poem added 04.23.14)
editor's note: Proliferate in the light; poppies, poets, all! - mh
The Color Blind Cannot Fly Planes
He fetused himself adjacent the floorboards of my bungalow for six months leaving behind a soft stench of abortion I can't scrub out. A stark naked minimalist. He wore nothing but brilliance. The kind you only find in the mentally morose. He possessed not and scowled at possession. Sell your kidneys sell your pussy sell your soul. He said people are like clouds. They follow you around and piss on you when they're angry. He had come to the conclusion that we are merely fuck trophies. That our flaws are not what make us perfect, but what make us flawed. That we are textured like crotch rot and our only differences are the direction of the grain. Some of us are thorned and wilted parts and some of us are soft petals but we all die and shit right after. I inquired about his hang up. Only after six months he told me, as a child he always wanted to fly planes....
- Kelsey Gray
(added 04.22.14)
editor's note: Tell me I'm inadequate for having too much? Savant, avaunt! - mh
REALLY OLD PIZZA
I ate some really old pizza.
It was almost definitely
A mistake move.
Like how the people
Of Pompeii were already
Doomed by their lead dishes
Or how hookworms creep
On the bare feet of the poor
Patrons of poo holes in the South.
What poison or unwanted enzyme
Have I thrown into my mouth?
Over all these years what rare
Mold spores have I introduced
To my pink little insides?
The worst part is I wasn’t
Even hungry, just bored.
Thrills killed more cats
Than curiosity. No doubt.
- Alex L. Swartzentruber
(added 04.21.14)
editor's note: A safe snooze or a dangerous diversion? Pass the pizza! - mh
Éclairs!
I like you – you said
over the smouldering ends of a non perfect day.
I’d marry you if you wore your doc martins
and I was the marrying kind.
However, I’m not, so we won’t
we’ll just rub along.
Be a love
pass me that last, chocolate éclair.
I think you are pretty – you said
before
removing your horned rimmed glasses.
Well – you might be, if not for
your hair – and your gormless blank stare.
Plus, I never do compliments -
they're just so incredibly dumb!
I think you suit me – you said
stretching your languid limbs.
I’ve always thought
it such a sin – that you are dreadfully thin,
though nothing a good meal couldn’t solve.
I think you love me – you said
rising slowly from your eminent pose.
Yes, I expect I might – in the dead
of the night – with my faculties’
void of all sense.
However, I know we're not meant – so
don’t take offense; just take your éclair
and go shove…
- Poppy Scarlett
(added 04.20.14)
editor's note: Chocolate; in the end, as at the start? Um, maybe not so slippery nor so sweet... - mh
••• Short Stories •••
Need a read? Well we got just what you’re needing! Here's what Short Story Editor Tyler Malone has to say about this pick-of-the-week short story, "Cooder" by Oliver Zarandi… "The next time you wonder what's going on all around you, don't look up and expect answers to speak down to you from high in the sky. Doodle it out, from the deepest darkness. All the lines will turn into something that might not be an answer, but it could be a meaning." Here's a taste to tempt you…
(photo courtesy of Tyler Malone)
The funeral was big.
Cooder sat at the back. He was dressed in a black suit. He hadn’t shaved. He fiddled with a puzzle. He twisted it left. He twisted it right.
He could not solve it.
He’d probably never solve it.
The person next to him told him to shush. Cooder slouched into his chair and scowled. He slouched so low. He was being swallowed by the chair.
His ass was too big to be swallowed entire.
The commotion in the church, it died down. Can you call the people in a funeral an audience?
It’s some entertainment, Cooder thought.
He sat up in his chair. His shoes were patent. A woman behind him laughed and said the gentleman in front looked cheap.
Cooder released a clap of wind from his asshole.
Choke on it.
How can you stop there? You can’t, can you? Get the rest of your read 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...
Knowin’ It,
Johnny O
Chief Editor
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
••• The Mad Gallery •••
Transient (above) by artist Tray Drumhann. 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 stuck a sucker's sweet tooth where the sun don't shine; we ate our questionable fill of possibly poisoned food for a thrill; we found no flight nor consolation in foisted flaws and self-immolation; we mixed watercolor words to paint a sun-filled sky; we braved surgeon's blade to rebuild our way back to the same page; we shed tears for long wasted years, belt-blasted to oblivion for no wrong done; we were not surprised, when ionized, to feel a strong attraction when substances burned, infatuation turned into eternal satisfaction. So strange and strong, the ways of the world and words unworldly; weren't you wondering? ~ MH Clay
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
Substances Come Together
With shrinking orifice,
She smiles.
She never thinks what’ll be next,
But her calm bosom vibrates,
Waves and waves dash themselves,
She stands and spills,
But she’s happy and sad at a time,
And she’s sliding,
She brings inundation,
She carries away all of her adjoining together,
And she is engorged much,
So she’s enraged now.
With a loud crash,
She falls over an unmoved world,
And she makes all of us fall there,
Substances fall for fission,
A beautiful nature is disfigured.
Alas! The remaining ones are no ones.
And she’s unidentified.
And she again acts for fusion.
Substances come together!
- Chiranjibi Niroula
(1 poem added 04.26.14)
editor's note: An atom-split heart leaves no one at all, whereas fusion burns love eternal. (We welcome Chiranjibi back to the ranks of our Contributing Poets with this one. Check out his madness on his page.) - mh
The Hand of God Gloved
A life that should have been yellow, coloured grey.
Cotton fields blazing sun and laughter
Singing in the cloisters like angels
The man swung his belt and blasted
The beauty from all time
As innocence lost its rhyme
They found a new reality.
A life that should have been yellow, coloured grey
Black skin the only sin
Eyes dark as the blood soaked earth.
As the light dimmed and died
The singing in the cloisters of demons
Rattled the chains
Of hunger and thirst
A life that should have been yellow, coloured grey
Is now black.
The hand of god gloved.
I walked into a meadow
And asked a man for gold
He said that I was ugly
And that I should be sold
For half a pint of nothing.
A life that should have been yellow, coloured grey.
I was the Devil’s Agent, he said. He took the child away.
The well is deep. How harsh the sleep
There is no anodyne for pain
The constant gnawing strain
For a life that should have been yellow, coloured grey.
The hand of god still gloved.
- Sheighle Birdthistle
(added 04.25.14)
editor's note: Cure the color blindness of slavers; set slaves free so all can see. Gloves off! - mh
The Sound of One Hand Typing
(for Patty)
Surgeons with no sense of humor
save lives and shoulders, three hours on the table,
and now the one-handed typing poem,
one finger doing pushups and pull-ups,
yet another opportunity to grapple with
the challenges of existence.
Simple acts of creativity, healing, caring
keep despair at bay.
Friend bestows beloved companion of her youth,
Olympia Model 9 Portable,
clean action, smooth typing
lifelong quest for the perfect typewriter
Model 9 of the Buddha’s eightfold path.
All words fraught with significance
little bell pinging, light at the end of a typed line,
liberation at the start of every sentence,
the page we strive so hard to reach is
the page we are already on.
- Paul Hellweg
(1 poem added 04.24.14)
editor's note: Populate pages with pertinent passages; approach a plane of existence, achieve relevance through writing. - mh
The sun
Under a conceiving sun
the poppies rise up to meet
its rays in a flurry of colors
as the shallow clouds
drift like a thin fog
in the rose-drenched sky.
- Dawnell Harrison
(1 poem added 04.23.14)
editor's note: Proliferate in the light; poppies, poets, all! - mh
The Color Blind Cannot Fly Planes
He fetused himself adjacent the floorboards of my bungalow for six months leaving behind a soft stench of abortion I can't scrub out. A stark naked minimalist. He wore nothing but brilliance. The kind you only find in the mentally morose. He possessed not and scowled at possession. Sell your kidneys sell your pussy sell your soul. He said people are like clouds. They follow you around and piss on you when they're angry. He had come to the conclusion that we are merely fuck trophies. That our flaws are not what make us perfect, but what make us flawed. That we are textured like crotch rot and our only differences are the direction of the grain. Some of us are thorned and wilted parts and some of us are soft petals but we all die and shit right after. I inquired about his hang up. Only after six months he told me, as a child he always wanted to fly planes....
- Kelsey Gray
(added 04.22.14)
editor's note: Tell me I'm inadequate for having too much? Savant, avaunt! - mh
REALLY OLD PIZZA
I ate some really old pizza.
It was almost definitely
A mistake move.
Like how the people
Of Pompeii were already
Doomed by their lead dishes
Or how hookworms creep
On the bare feet of the poor
Patrons of poo holes in the South.
What poison or unwanted enzyme
Have I thrown into my mouth?
Over all these years what rare
Mold spores have I introduced
To my pink little insides?
The worst part is I wasn’t
Even hungry, just bored.
Thrills killed more cats
Than curiosity. No doubt.
- Alex L. Swartzentruber
(added 04.21.14)
editor's note: A safe snooze or a dangerous diversion? Pass the pizza! - mh
Éclairs!
I like you – you said
over the smouldering ends of a non perfect day.
I’d marry you if you wore your doc martins
and I was the marrying kind.
However, I’m not, so we won’t
we’ll just rub along.
Be a love
pass me that last, chocolate éclair.
I think you are pretty – you said
before
removing your horned rimmed glasses.
Well – you might be, if not for
your hair – and your gormless blank stare.
Plus, I never do compliments -
they're just so incredibly dumb!
I think you suit me – you said
stretching your languid limbs.
I’ve always thought
it such a sin – that you are dreadfully thin,
though nothing a good meal couldn’t solve.
I think you love me – you said
rising slowly from your eminent pose.
Yes, I expect I might – in the dead
of the night – with my faculties’
void of all sense.
However, I know we're not meant – so
don’t take offense; just take your éclair
and go shove…
- Poppy Scarlett
(added 04.20.14)
editor's note: Chocolate; in the end, as at the start? Um, maybe not so slippery nor so sweet... - mh
••• Short Stories •••
Need a read? Well we got just what you’re needing! Here's what Short Story Editor Tyler Malone has to say about this pick-of-the-week short story, "Cooder" by Oliver Zarandi… "The next time you wonder what's going on all around you, don't look up and expect answers to speak down to you from high in the sky. Doodle it out, from the deepest darkness. All the lines will turn into something that might not be an answer, but it could be a meaning." Here's a taste to tempt you…
The funeral was big.
Cooder sat at the back. He was dressed in a black suit. He hadn’t shaved. He fiddled with a puzzle. He twisted it left. He twisted it right.
He could not solve it.
He’d probably never solve it.
The person next to him told him to shush. Cooder slouched into his chair and scowled. He slouched so low. He was being swallowed by the chair.
His ass was too big to be swallowed entire.
The commotion in the church, it died down. Can you call the people in a funeral an audience?
It’s some entertainment, Cooder thought.
He sat up in his chair. His shoes were patent. A woman behind him laughed and said the gentleman in front looked cheap.
Cooder released a clap of wind from his asshole.
Choke on it.
How can you stop there? You can’t, can you? Get the rest of your read 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...
Knowin’ It,
Johnny O
Chief Editor
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
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