The Best of Mad Swirl : 05.10.14
”There are some days when I think I'm going to die from an overdose of satisfaction.” Salvador Dali
••• The Mad Gallery •••
good dreams(s) (above) by featured artist Madelyn Olson. To see more Mad works from Madelyn, 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 found friendship, freely bequeathed, brushed on broad canvas; we meted meaning from "Velvety vengeance melted"; we bore the ebullient rebuff of big boys; we withstood the sting of the o' the lone star state (cactus coitus interruptus); we embarked upon an aching need for equine equanimity; we acquiesced to the construct of a carnivore's craft (building block, bone shafts); we contemplated outbursts ballistic as sub-conscious constructs atavistic - hammer cocked, consequences blocked. Every step forward, no turning back; own the future, release the past. ~ MH Clay
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
9mm
Hold the cold weight steady
almost not metal but still heavy
balanced like virility
easy touch deadly
doesn’t understand unready
loaded safety off double indemnity.
Matte black
defense same as attack
fiction is as fact
act or react
brass pack won’t redact once it's shot
a hole is what you’ve got.
Fit cool grip to hand
what’s to understand except
potential energy
firing cap lucidity
conservation of death kinetic
power equal and opposite to will
shoot miss scare don’t care shoot hit kill.
- Randall Johnson
(2 poems added 05.10.14)
editor's note: When resolve is cold as the gun, cold as this poem, we've all cause to fear. Run! Hide! (Another one on Randall's page; a mystery mosaic, no lie! Check it out.) - mh
ARTS & CRAFTS
Dedicated, single-minded
he saves all the bones from every thing he eats,
cleans them, dries them, fits them together
into intricate new patterns that he says
live within the bones themselves –
chicken bones, steak bones, fish bones,
bones from rabbits, snakes, pigeons, possums,
God only knows what –
all wired together, they teeter on every
flat surface in his den, simultaneous
conversation starters and stoppers.
He’d prefer to be vegetarian for the sake of
his health, but you have to suffer for your art
and sometimes for your craft.
- Jeffrey Park
(1 poem added 05.09.14)
editor's note: Though all gotta suffer, not all gotta starve. - mh
Mirrored Manes
With windows down and
Roaring gusts pouring
Through the cracks, our
Laughter was drowned
And I inhaled your
Long hair, which swished
Across the space between
Our seats and whispered
Into my wide open
Ears.
Outside, dusk-purple
Fields rushed past, but
The silhouettes of eight still
Horses, necks declined
Toward a stream, manes
Frenzied in the same breeze
Held my gaze as I felt
That they, and you, and I,
Were untamed –
Existing as a single wild being
Mirrored across asphalt,
Grass, and time, through
The window panes.
- Catherine McQuade
(2 poems added 05.08.14)
editor's note: Wild anima infuses both through paned perfection. Yes! (Another from Genevieve on her page. A confessional realization, check it out!) - mh
Thinkin’ ‘Bout Texas
downshifting up Ranger Hill
the west opens wide
like a girl who can’t say “no”
because she’s not that pretty
but you don’t really know her yet
keep driving even though you’re unsure
and haven’t seen a speed limit sign since
you don’t know when
this is Texas
it gets so hot that it rains devils
asphalt like a bowie knife cuts through crisp grassland
all the way to Monahans
strange sands
where I once spoke the names of my enemies
spit in a bottle
and buried it deep
my favorite color is west
is sky the size of God
is rusty barbed wire
is the blur of heat on the horizon
pecos peppered desert
gang banged by oilfield pumps
right next to wallflower wind farms
left unloved by the breeze
all dressed up and no wind to blow
the lone star above scorches everything
dry and lonely
even the ground separates from itself
leaving cracks so deep
that dogs fall in
this place will kiss you like a cactus
but thank God it doesn’t embrace
it knows it’s a cactus
so it spreads out
and dares you
- Victory
(3 poems added 05.07.14)
editor's note: Texas will take your love, no matter where you're from, but on her terms. Open wide... (We are pleased to welcome Victory to the ranks of our Contributing Poets with this submission. She has been a long-time regular at our monthly Mad Swirl Open Mic here in Dallas; her work is sharp as cactus, sweet as bluebonnets and big as our Texas sky. Check out her madness on her new page.) - mh
Revelation
I ask you to go with me,
To be together;
You reply you're busy.
Busy with the Big Boys from
Town.
I ask that you wait
For me,
You reply with respect
Then disrespect me with him.
Now you ask why
I don't love you
And I reply
Because you never let me.
- Eoghan Madden
(added 05.06.14)
editor's note: The loving giver, when rebuffed, will conclude that enough is enough. See if the Big Boys will help you, now. - mh
Suede
Troubling dreams:
A ruby red crescendo crosses brutal
feathers
Softly bruising Love’s laughter
Velvety vengeance melted,
delicious;
Your taste so sweet & warm…
Alluring beauty, glistening in
the air, delicate & rare;
A silky soul with a romantic role
(Is my mysterious Muse with an
unseen use)?
A beauty inspired prize, very
small in size:
These troubling dreams:
Who knows what it means?
- Michael R. King
(1 poem added 05.05.14)
editor's note: I could stand for such a muse to trouble my dreams, "Velvety vengeance melted, delicious" sounds tasty to me :) - mh
Shadows
crept across my day, freezing
my all ready wet and damp limbs
ill prepared for the suddenness
of the rain, the hail, the floods
pounding at my half dead carcass
as I dragged it across the night
scraping knees, bloodied,
to the refuge of the shelter...
made of cardboard and particle board
magazines, newspapers my bed.
Somehow you found me
in my rubble, collapsing
lent your hand, pulled me close
to your heart, kicking aside the imitations of life
I called home
without someone
like you.
We re-write the present
for the future
retouching the past with brushstrokes
only artists of elegance can make
until our canvas is readied for new paint
earth tones that breed clarity and calmness
erasing the bleakness
of the blackened sky
that caused the shadows
the self-hatred, the fear
of a man who believed
he was not worthy of friendship
let alone love.
Let us look for others
as the one slave you set free
and pay it forward
shall we?
- Joseph D. DiLella
(2 poems added 05.04.14)
editor's note: Yes, we shall! When the universe smiles on us, why not smile on others? (Another straight shooter from Joseph on his page, check it out.) - mh
••• Short Stories •••
We here at Mad Swirl know exactly what you need. You need a read! And what's more exciting than watching golf on TV? Reading a story about golf! Seriously, this story really is lots more exciting! Here's what Short Story Editor Tyler Malone has to say about this pick-of-the-week short story, "The Cosmic Cardinal Coastal Club" by Neil Post… "Men love to watch other men chase balls, it’s true. Balls mean a lot to a lot of people. To some of us, though, they just roll as absurdly as the rest of the world. But we love it—we love how they roll so perfectly, so elegantly. We love the hypnotic swirl." Here's a taste to tempt you…
Golf on television. What’s up with that? Do you know anyone who plays golf?
Here it is, Sunday afternoon, and I have finished my chores, emptied the garbage, cleaned the sink, brushed-out the crapper, and now, when I’m ready to sit down on the couch, there it is: another dumb golf game.
I am not knocking golf. Sure, golf is a fine sport for middle-aged men who like knocking their balls around on grass, but if anyone wants to watch golf, all anyone has to do is go to a golf course and watch people play, like, golf. Get it?
Golf is way too slow for television, but for as long as this dude has lived, all I get is the old televised golf game from name your country club here. Sure, Phil Nickolson is a fine golfer. I like his television commercial where he’s teaching children to, well, golf. I cannot remember what the golfer is advertising but it certainly is not needed in this place.
Get it?
Well do ya'? Of course you don't, ‘cos you didn't click the link to get the rest of your read on! 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...
Bein’ Quite Satisfied,
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 found friendship, freely bequeathed, brushed on broad canvas; we meted meaning from "Velvety vengeance melted"; we bore the ebullient rebuff of big boys; we withstood the sting of the o' the lone star state (cactus coitus interruptus); we embarked upon an aching need for equine equanimity; we acquiesced to the construct of a carnivore's craft (building block, bone shafts); we contemplated outbursts ballistic as sub-conscious constructs atavistic - hammer cocked, consequences blocked. Every step forward, no turning back; own the future, release the past. ~ MH Clay
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
9mm
Hold the cold weight steady
almost not metal but still heavy
balanced like virility
easy touch deadly
doesn’t understand unready
loaded safety off double indemnity.
Matte black
defense same as attack
fiction is as fact
act or react
brass pack won’t redact once it's shot
a hole is what you’ve got.
Fit cool grip to hand
what’s to understand except
potential energy
firing cap lucidity
conservation of death kinetic
power equal and opposite to will
shoot miss scare don’t care shoot hit kill.
- Randall Johnson
(2 poems added 05.10.14)
editor's note: When resolve is cold as the gun, cold as this poem, we've all cause to fear. Run! Hide! (Another one on Randall's page; a mystery mosaic, no lie! Check it out.) - mh
ARTS & CRAFTS
Dedicated, single-minded
he saves all the bones from every thing he eats,
cleans them, dries them, fits them together
into intricate new patterns that he says
live within the bones themselves –
chicken bones, steak bones, fish bones,
bones from rabbits, snakes, pigeons, possums,
God only knows what –
all wired together, they teeter on every
flat surface in his den, simultaneous
conversation starters and stoppers.
He’d prefer to be vegetarian for the sake of
his health, but you have to suffer for your art
and sometimes for your craft.
- Jeffrey Park
(1 poem added 05.09.14)
editor's note: Though all gotta suffer, not all gotta starve. - mh
Mirrored Manes
With windows down and
Roaring gusts pouring
Through the cracks, our
Laughter was drowned
And I inhaled your
Long hair, which swished
Across the space between
Our seats and whispered
Into my wide open
Ears.
Outside, dusk-purple
Fields rushed past, but
The silhouettes of eight still
Horses, necks declined
Toward a stream, manes
Frenzied in the same breeze
Held my gaze as I felt
That they, and you, and I,
Were untamed –
Existing as a single wild being
Mirrored across asphalt,
Grass, and time, through
The window panes.
- Catherine McQuade
(2 poems added 05.08.14)
editor's note: Wild anima infuses both through paned perfection. Yes! (Another from Genevieve on her page. A confessional realization, check it out!) - mh
Thinkin’ ‘Bout Texas
downshifting up Ranger Hill
the west opens wide
like a girl who can’t say “no”
because she’s not that pretty
but you don’t really know her yet
keep driving even though you’re unsure
and haven’t seen a speed limit sign since
you don’t know when
this is Texas
it gets so hot that it rains devils
asphalt like a bowie knife cuts through crisp grassland
all the way to Monahans
strange sands
where I once spoke the names of my enemies
spit in a bottle
and buried it deep
my favorite color is west
is sky the size of God
is rusty barbed wire
is the blur of heat on the horizon
pecos peppered desert
gang banged by oilfield pumps
right next to wallflower wind farms
left unloved by the breeze
all dressed up and no wind to blow
the lone star above scorches everything
dry and lonely
even the ground separates from itself
leaving cracks so deep
that dogs fall in
this place will kiss you like a cactus
but thank God it doesn’t embrace
it knows it’s a cactus
so it spreads out
and dares you
- Victory
(3 poems added 05.07.14)
editor's note: Texas will take your love, no matter where you're from, but on her terms. Open wide... (We are pleased to welcome Victory to the ranks of our Contributing Poets with this submission. She has been a long-time regular at our monthly Mad Swirl Open Mic here in Dallas; her work is sharp as cactus, sweet as bluebonnets and big as our Texas sky. Check out her madness on her new page.) - mh
Revelation
I ask you to go with me,
To be together;
You reply you're busy.
Busy with the Big Boys from
Town.
I ask that you wait
For me,
You reply with respect
Then disrespect me with him.
Now you ask why
I don't love you
And I reply
Because you never let me.
- Eoghan Madden
(added 05.06.14)
editor's note: The loving giver, when rebuffed, will conclude that enough is enough. See if the Big Boys will help you, now. - mh
Suede
Troubling dreams:
A ruby red crescendo crosses brutal
feathers
Softly bruising Love’s laughter
Velvety vengeance melted,
delicious;
Your taste so sweet & warm…
Alluring beauty, glistening in
the air, delicate & rare;
A silky soul with a romantic role
(Is my mysterious Muse with an
unseen use)?
A beauty inspired prize, very
small in size:
These troubling dreams:
Who knows what it means?
- Michael R. King
(1 poem added 05.05.14)
editor's note: I could stand for such a muse to trouble my dreams, "Velvety vengeance melted, delicious" sounds tasty to me :) - mh
Shadows
crept across my day, freezing
my all ready wet and damp limbs
ill prepared for the suddenness
of the rain, the hail, the floods
pounding at my half dead carcass
as I dragged it across the night
scraping knees, bloodied,
to the refuge of the shelter...
made of cardboard and particle board
magazines, newspapers my bed.
Somehow you found me
in my rubble, collapsing
lent your hand, pulled me close
to your heart, kicking aside the imitations of life
I called home
without someone
like you.
We re-write the present
for the future
retouching the past with brushstrokes
only artists of elegance can make
until our canvas is readied for new paint
earth tones that breed clarity and calmness
erasing the bleakness
of the blackened sky
that caused the shadows
the self-hatred, the fear
of a man who believed
he was not worthy of friendship
let alone love.
Let us look for others
as the one slave you set free
and pay it forward
shall we?
- Joseph D. DiLella
(2 poems added 05.04.14)
editor's note: Yes, we shall! When the universe smiles on us, why not smile on others? (Another straight shooter from Joseph on his page, check it out.) - mh
••• Short Stories •••
We here at Mad Swirl know exactly what you need. You need a read! And what's more exciting than watching golf on TV? Reading a story about golf! Seriously, this story really is lots more exciting! Here's what Short Story Editor Tyler Malone has to say about this pick-of-the-week short story, "The Cosmic Cardinal Coastal Club" by Neil Post… "Men love to watch other men chase balls, it’s true. Balls mean a lot to a lot of people. To some of us, though, they just roll as absurdly as the rest of the world. But we love it—we love how they roll so perfectly, so elegantly. We love the hypnotic swirl." Here's a taste to tempt you…
Golf on television. What’s up with that? Do you know anyone who plays golf?
Here it is, Sunday afternoon, and I have finished my chores, emptied the garbage, cleaned the sink, brushed-out the crapper, and now, when I’m ready to sit down on the couch, there it is: another dumb golf game.
I am not knocking golf. Sure, golf is a fine sport for middle-aged men who like knocking their balls around on grass, but if anyone wants to watch golf, all anyone has to do is go to a golf course and watch people play, like, golf. Get it?
Golf is way too slow for television, but for as long as this dude has lived, all I get is the old televised golf game from name your country club here. Sure, Phil Nickolson is a fine golfer. I like his television commercial where he’s teaching children to, well, golf. I cannot remember what the golfer is advertising but it certainly is not needed in this place.
Get it?
Well do ya'? Of course you don't, ‘cos you didn't click the link to get the rest of your read on! 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...
Bein’ Quite Satisfied,
Johnny O
Chief Editor
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
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