The Best of Mad Swirl : 05.24.14
”A poem is a naked person... some people say that I am a poet.” Bob Dylan
••• The Mad Gallery •••
you think i’m pretty without any make-up on (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 rebuilt behind roadblock a new vehicle of expectation, destined to crash; we addressed a dandy, dapper Dan abroad with mad dogs and Englishmen; we derived from dropped division the stresses of a stymied statistician; we sought to revel in our rubble, arrested by weak, fetal recall; we found a frail ingredient to make one culinarily obedient; we fought the freeze from a cold night with up and down, nude root, hot flight; we vaunted vulgar mom, eschewed errant sons, pulled health from death and hope from our mythology. An urban paradise of the mind! ~ MH Clay
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
Songs from a small city (i).
Dublin is a small city
continuously under construction,
a poundshop Venice of the heart,
stuck in the still place
between what’s been
and what will be next.
Windy, windey, vulgar mother
singing songs from a well of sadness
her sons on the corner comparing erections
while simultaneously lighting their farts.
Shades of the lost adrift on dark water
As rakes and hoes, pros and cons
drink to the health of her glorious dead
or the myth of a better tomorrow.
- Michael Corrigan
(3 poems added 05.24.14)
editor's note: Such denizens dally in every cityscape, only the farts smell differently. Inhale to identify your unique urban aroma. (With this posted poem, we welcome Michael to our crazy confab of Contributing Poets. See two more about his small city, along with others of his madness, on his new page. Way to go, Mick!) - mh
Love Flight
Plant a kiss on my lips
with your whole fire
so that I can know
your bones.
Time has made you nude.
My vision is interwoven
with the roots;
the roots which grow
from our hands and feet
and only go down
to the floor.
I'm flying up and down
between your nudity
and the floor.
Around me
a winter's night whistles.
- Bhargab Chatterjee
(added 05.23.14)
editor's note: Cold Winter's nights; the best time for serious tree climbing. :) - mh
I Don't Like Onions.
The scar goes from here to here, she says,
pulling down her shirt at the neck
to show us where they opened her chest,
removed something with an unpronounceable name,
and closed her back up again.
One clavicle will always be higher than the other, she says.
They put me back together crooked.
I look from her uneven bones
down to the sandwich she made for me
and I don't taste the onions.
- Logen Cure
(added 05.22.14)
editor's note: Unwilling to offend, the empathic altruist eats. - mh
COUNT DOWN
I see how it all adds up:
Unfolded response,
received tucked in.
I recall compiling &
assaying top down:
I got there,
inserted.
Now I know the likelihood:
Traversing parcel,
freight belayed.
I patched the crosshairs &
veered the meter:
I saw distilled,
spun off.
Option reset.
I figured out the nonstop:
Unfolded incoming
w/ all of the above.
I discerned undoing &
renewed wherewithal:
I clocked out,
forestalling.
I got the allocation unwound:
Equable conveyance,
itemized & defenseless.
I spied preterition &
added unforeseen:
I arrived,
divided.
Account revised.
- Craig Kurtz
(1 poem added 05.20.14)
editor's note: No matter how you account, use long or short division, you'll reach no fixed amount, but need constant revision; life's tally. - mh
You can tell he’s standing out in style
to repel friends; in a dark
Gieves and Hawkes suit.
It gives it away, wearing
an ironed red shirt and blue silk tie,
in 25 degrees C plodding
down the street. With neat hair
and no shades to hide
his uninterested gaze,
he’s always on foot.
The height of the sun
is his P45. He doesn’t
want inclusion. In autumn
he’ll don his Crombie
with matching black
polished brogues.
I don’t know his agenda
but he’s a beacon
in a town of fast-food,
tattoos and hoodies.
- Michael Holme
(2 poems added 05.19.14)
editor's note: Whereas clothes make the man, sometimes armor is made of clothes; protection from all but noonday sun. (Note: A P45 is a British document detailing termination of employment. However, we don't have one of these for Michael. Instead, we are happy to welcome him back to the ranks of our raucous Contributing Poets. See another new one with the rest of his madness on his reinstated page.) - mh
The Road to Happiness Road
is cordoned off,
again. Caution signs and scaffoldings
line both sides of twin sawhorses – painted
yellow – for emphasis – acting as barricades.
Rumor is, the last trespasser
lost it at the first intersection, took out half
the block when her head – unable to adjust
to the actualization of its own
imagined ideal – exploded.
The hard hats will arrive in the morning
with new blueprints, born from another
brain. They will toil in silence, futilely
trying to re-build what is inherently
designed to crack, crumble, crash.
- A.J. Huffman
(1 poem added 05.18.14)
editor's note: Better to rebuild repeatedly than to condemn unconditionally. - mh
••• Short Stories •••
Need a read? Good, ‘cos we got one! Don’t let the title fool you... "Clowns", by Ron Riekki, is a sober reminder to be responsible. Here's what Short Story Editor Tyler Malone has to say about this pick-of-the-week short story: "Send them in, all of them!"…
photo by Tyler Malone
The frat near Whittier decided to have a clown party. It was Good Friday and seemed like the thing to do.
Nine teenagers from the party decided to cram into a top-down convertible and drive home. It’s what clowns do. Pile into a car. But clowns usually don’t do that drunk on a major California highway.
The car hit a tree going seventy-miles-per-hour. None of the clowns had seatbelts on. Most of the clowns went through the front windshield. Or over the front windshield. Some hit the tree. Some went past the tree.
They landed in parking lot. They landed on grass. They landed on each other.
We arrived to find a pile of clowns.
Whoa! Didn't see that one coming, did ya'? How could you leave that teaser? 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...
Standin’ Naked,
Johnny O
Chief Editor
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
••• The Mad Gallery •••
you think i’m pretty without any make-up on (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 rebuilt behind roadblock a new vehicle of expectation, destined to crash; we addressed a dandy, dapper Dan abroad with mad dogs and Englishmen; we derived from dropped division the stresses of a stymied statistician; we sought to revel in our rubble, arrested by weak, fetal recall; we found a frail ingredient to make one culinarily obedient; we fought the freeze from a cold night with up and down, nude root, hot flight; we vaunted vulgar mom, eschewed errant sons, pulled health from death and hope from our mythology. An urban paradise of the mind! ~ MH Clay
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
Songs from a small city (i).
Dublin is a small city
continuously under construction,
a poundshop Venice of the heart,
stuck in the still place
between what’s been
and what will be next.
Windy, windey, vulgar mother
singing songs from a well of sadness
her sons on the corner comparing erections
while simultaneously lighting their farts.
Shades of the lost adrift on dark water
As rakes and hoes, pros and cons
drink to the health of her glorious dead
or the myth of a better tomorrow.
- Michael Corrigan
(3 poems added 05.24.14)
editor's note: Such denizens dally in every cityscape, only the farts smell differently. Inhale to identify your unique urban aroma. (With this posted poem, we welcome Michael to our crazy confab of Contributing Poets. See two more about his small city, along with others of his madness, on his new page. Way to go, Mick!) - mh
Love Flight
Plant a kiss on my lips
with your whole fire
so that I can know
your bones.
Time has made you nude.
My vision is interwoven
with the roots;
the roots which grow
from our hands and feet
and only go down
to the floor.
I'm flying up and down
between your nudity
and the floor.
Around me
a winter's night whistles.
- Bhargab Chatterjee
(added 05.23.14)
editor's note: Cold Winter's nights; the best time for serious tree climbing. :) - mh
I Don't Like Onions.
The scar goes from here to here, she says,
pulling down her shirt at the neck
to show us where they opened her chest,
removed something with an unpronounceable name,
and closed her back up again.
One clavicle will always be higher than the other, she says.
They put me back together crooked.
I look from her uneven bones
down to the sandwich she made for me
and I don't taste the onions.
- Logen Cure
(added 05.22.14)
editor's note: Unwilling to offend, the empathic altruist eats. - mh
COUNT DOWN
I see how it all adds up:
Unfolded response,
received tucked in.
I recall compiling &
assaying top down:
I got there,
inserted.
Now I know the likelihood:
Traversing parcel,
freight belayed.
I patched the crosshairs &
veered the meter:
I saw distilled,
spun off.
Option reset.
I figured out the nonstop:
Unfolded incoming
w/ all of the above.
I discerned undoing &
renewed wherewithal:
I clocked out,
forestalling.
I got the allocation unwound:
Equable conveyance,
itemized & defenseless.
I spied preterition &
added unforeseen:
I arrived,
divided.
Account revised.
- Craig Kurtz
(1 poem added 05.20.14)
editor's note: No matter how you account, use long or short division, you'll reach no fixed amount, but need constant revision; life's tally. - mh
You can tell he’s standing out in style
to repel friends; in a dark
Gieves and Hawkes suit.
It gives it away, wearing
an ironed red shirt and blue silk tie,
in 25 degrees C plodding
down the street. With neat hair
and no shades to hide
his uninterested gaze,
he’s always on foot.
The height of the sun
is his P45. He doesn’t
want inclusion. In autumn
he’ll don his Crombie
with matching black
polished brogues.
I don’t know his agenda
but he’s a beacon
in a town of fast-food,
tattoos and hoodies.
- Michael Holme
(2 poems added 05.19.14)
editor's note: Whereas clothes make the man, sometimes armor is made of clothes; protection from all but noonday sun. (Note: A P45 is a British document detailing termination of employment. However, we don't have one of these for Michael. Instead, we are happy to welcome him back to the ranks of our raucous Contributing Poets. See another new one with the rest of his madness on his reinstated page.) - mh
The Road to Happiness Road
is cordoned off,
again. Caution signs and scaffoldings
line both sides of twin sawhorses – painted
yellow – for emphasis – acting as barricades.
Rumor is, the last trespasser
lost it at the first intersection, took out half
the block when her head – unable to adjust
to the actualization of its own
imagined ideal – exploded.
The hard hats will arrive in the morning
with new blueprints, born from another
brain. They will toil in silence, futilely
trying to re-build what is inherently
designed to crack, crumble, crash.
- A.J. Huffman
(1 poem added 05.18.14)
editor's note: Better to rebuild repeatedly than to condemn unconditionally. - mh
••• Short Stories •••
Need a read? Good, ‘cos we got one! Don’t let the title fool you... "Clowns", by Ron Riekki, is a sober reminder to be responsible. Here's what Short Story Editor Tyler Malone has to say about this pick-of-the-week short story: "Send them in, all of them!"…
The frat near Whittier decided to have a clown party. It was Good Friday and seemed like the thing to do.
Nine teenagers from the party decided to cram into a top-down convertible and drive home. It’s what clowns do. Pile into a car. But clowns usually don’t do that drunk on a major California highway.
The car hit a tree going seventy-miles-per-hour. None of the clowns had seatbelts on. Most of the clowns went through the front windshield. Or over the front windshield. Some hit the tree. Some went past the tree.
They landed in parking lot. They landed on grass. They landed on each other.
We arrived to find a pile of clowns.
Whoa! Didn't see that one coming, did ya'? How could you leave that teaser? 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...
Standin’ Naked,
Johnny O
Chief Editor
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
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