The Best of Mad Swirl : 06.21.14
”There may be more beautiful times, but this one is ours.” Jean-Paul Sartre
••• The Mad Gallery •••
universe is (above) by featured artist Mike Fiorito.
Mike Fiorito? Mike Fiorito? Mike Fiorito… that name sounds so familiar. Oh yeah, he’s a contributing short story writer on Mad Swirl! But what’s his submission doing in the Visual Submissions inbox? Oh, he’s an artist too! And Mike is returning to the mad virtual stage this time with some collages that - dare we say - gracefully combine boobs, butts, skin, (and more skin) with frogs, fish, satellites and...wait, is that Spiderman? Needless to say, this work stirred up a handful of confusing spaces inside us so we thought we'd better pass it on. After all, this ain't called Mad Swirl for nothin'! The calm and collected chaos of these little blurbs are enough to make anyone feel crazy. We always assumed combining sex with space with art with amphibians with - yes, that is Spiderman - was damn near impossible but leave it to Mike Fiorito to prove us wrong! The kind of crazy combo that's right up the Mad Swirl alley - so what say you? Down to take a stroll? - Madelyn Olson
••• The Poetry Forum •••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we went where we're going, found a kid and a spark; we tingled in present tenses, spinning a spell of senses; we seized a stranger's hand in a wreck of the day; we picked through the chirps of an avian throng, soon to become our lover's new song; we slept through the sway of ocean waves, a dreamer on deck; we eulogized a dead finch, perfume whiff of poems remiss, not seen, the broken things, granted only a sisterly kiss; we finished with a finger-painted lament and child's indictment of adult appetites sated in some young sorrow. Shake off those weights, more verses wait on the morrow. ~ MH Clay
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
Stuffing Hanks
One day I will cry forever.
Not like a terrace loser,
or a baby-faced softy,
you know, a terminal cry.
I will stoke my engine with
nights-without-sleep and invasions,
childhood floggings and hidden wounds,
attacks and black-suited fiends.
I won’t forget to douse the unexpected
with rivers of anal blood and
floods of small-boy tears.
I will hold up all of those walls
I’ve fallen off and hidden behind
with screaming wrongs
and decorate my sky
with pointing children’s fingers.
A cortege of forbidden questions
will at last assemble
and trod with notice
to a brand new place of old
where every squeezed-open
pair of perfect ears
will finally embrace
my slowest form of death.
And they will no longer speak of the
odd-little-boy who grew to be
that strange-kind-of-fella,
always the loner decorating corners,
the weirdo and the dark horse
and I will meet the dark father
dressed in dresses from the dark box,
the groomer of my un-lived life;
I will wear my coat of fury and
beat and stomp and slap and bite down hard,
return the pent-up painful years of screams,
accuse and insult and verbally stab deep.
I will hand back shame,
stuff hanks of guilt deep into his larynx;
I will pleasure for my first time.
That same day a man will
fall into the carefully-planned
death of a family and each season
his only friend who understood him
will refuse to yield the buried
pictures of childhood he’d sown.
- Gene Barry
(2 poems added 06.21.14)
editor's note: Some abuse for the abuser from a crying child triumphant. (Another one from Gene on his page, about ostriches or ostrich tendencies - check it out.) - mh
Stiletto Elegy
A tear abased, a finch dead mid-air, berated in haste
is it too late?
is it too late, now that I wear black on black
no ink to scribble your name
in margins of a summer night's air
a poet’s muse, love sprayed from one ounce flacons
in careful measures in open –air
a name half whispered half screamed
on lips bitten in crinkled dreams
vituperations on owl's spit
tangential cloying fervor, credulous eyes
broken heels
broken spirits in verbose lines
is it too late
to leave a sororal kiss
on throbbing pulse on your forehead
and rest barefoot
in midnight cello jazz jams
- Silva Zanoyan Merjanian
(1 poem added 06.20.14)
editor's note: No, not too late; so long as you keep your hands to yourself and your feet on the floor. - mh
I Dream the Sea
I dream the sea wherever I may lie.
The wax and wane of moon pulling tide
to lull me into deeper seas and darker skies.
The ocean's always been my lullaby,
the crash of wave my hush.
And turning over,
currents swirl as sand shifts
to roll me up in cerulean arms.
Rocking me back and forth,
back and forth
as I drift away once more.
- Heather M. Browne
(1 poem added 06.19.14)
editor's note: Bed as boat, sleeper as sailor. (With this poem we welcome Heather to our crazy confab of Contributing Poets. Read more of her madness on her new page.) - mh
Spring, you
You
a metaphor
made up of two-syllables
continuously speak between
my lonely soul and disappearing heart
a melodious voice—
birds: seagulls, robin (maybe?)
send their notes at my narrow-eyed window
I lie awake
Waiting for your song
In this deaf world,
You create a new song in me.
You are my new song.
- Arun Budhathoki
(1 poem added 06.18.14)
editor's note: A sweet song to call back a disappearing heart. - mh
Seize the Day
radio playing, laughter transforms
into screams, metal crunching and
closing in, a flash of red hair,
or is it blood
the smell of dirt and smoke,
hands pull me from the wreckage,
covered in crimson water that
is not my own
searching eyes and choked shrieks,
where are they, where are-
face-down, still, twisted into
unnatural positions, unconscious,
the deafening screams are my
own, falling to my knees
helpless, seeing red but not in
anger, somewhere an ambulance
arrives, parents and bystanders
watch with unwavering fear
they scream for their mother, and
she is not breathing anymore-
uncontrollable shaking, a breath is
finally taken, but the battle is not won,
rushing, bright lights, tears and mud
staining my cheeks
she can only see shadows, his neck
is broken, another scream, a phone goes
off in the next room, a man in uniform
takes my hand and doesn't let go
- Brittany Zedalis
(added 06.17.14)
editor's note: No matter how gruesome or painful, each day is yours - grab on! - mh
The Spell of the Senses
Grief distracts you
like a grocery cart
dragging one rear wheel.
You’ve forgotten
the spell of the senses.
But one whiff of a dark
purple hyacinth
forces you to forget
all of winter’s fury,
or the long wail of a lost child
crying uncontrollably
focuses your attention
like a black hearse passing,
or the touch of a tongue-tip
twirling around a lover’s nipple
returns you to this evanescent
body of whispers,
where every caress
celebrating the flesh
leaves a trail of tingling.
- Bill Wolak
(2 poems added 06.16.14)
editor's note: Oh, yes! That "tingling trail" ever taints our perceptions of reality. (Another one from Bill on his page - an item left in lost-and-found. Check it out!) - mh
RHINOCEROS
I don't know where you're going
only that you've been there.
How do I know?
Let me be that secret.
I knew you when you were just an eye,
just another starry, starry night.
Perhaps you were just another lie,
or maybe something special.
I like a mirror just as much as the next man,
but you can not be that for me.
There's too much memory,
and now we see as through a glass darkly.
Too many times I've put off.
Too many tomorrows I've lost.
You, you are only a kid.
And I, I am only a spark.
- satnrose
(3 poems added 06.15.14)
editor's note: Riddle resplendent in eye night spark kid, life alive and awake. I'm watching... (two more from satnrose on his page; a stranger at the door and a door in lightning flash, blink dream, time transpired - check'em out. - mh
••• Short Stories •••
Need a read, don't'cha? We're kinda sharp like that. Almost detective-like! Well, need no more... we got just the one for you!
Here's what Short Story Editor Tyler Malone has to say about this pick-of-the-week short story, “Kathleen Malone, Genius Detective” by Alyssa Black… "Childhood is cruel because it’s not constant. The moment we begin to use our imagination is when we figure out how to survive, and then the battle begins." Here's a preview for you…
"Esmeralda seems to really like you."
"She's a cat."
"Right, and a cat has no motivation to lie about how she feels about others. She’s very useful when trying to decipher the intentions of those who are in question."
"Does that mean I can leave now?"
"No, no, you won't get off that easy. Even if you're not directly involved, you might know about others who are of interest to me."
"And if I refuse to tell?"
She shot off quickly, with fear-inducing ferocity, "If you refuse to tell, than I will have no choice but to go back to the drawing board. Considering the time and space, and resources of this endeavor, your refusal to cooperate could ultimately result in his death."
"I chose to accept that risk. After all, it's every man for himself out there."
"Man or woman, I hardly think that any of us would make it past adolescence if we all treated each other in such fashion."
"Whatever, I made it this far. What do I care who's responsible for that?"
Detective Malone could see she wasn't going to get through to Dr. Sparring. Not tonight.
“If you’re not going to talk, I have no choice but to let you go, as there are no charges against you.”
“Fantastic. Thanks for wasting my time,” replied Dr. Sparring.
“My pleasure. Thanks for allowing an innocent man to die tonight.” With that, Dr. Sparring left, slamming the door of Detective Malone’s cubicle on his way out.
“I know Dr. Sparring knows more about the kidnapping than he leads on,” Malone exclaimed to her empty office. “Maybe I should trace his footsteps…”
…
“Kathleen! Dinner’s ready,” Daddy called from the kitchen.
“I’ll be right there!” cried Katie as she turned off the TV. She ran to the kitchen table with her Siamese Cat Beanie Baby stuffed in the back pocket of her jeans.
Wanna keep investigation’? Then sleuth your way 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...
Appreciatin’,
Johnny O
Chief Editor
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
Madelyn Olson
Visual Editor
••• The Mad Gallery •••
universe is (above) by featured artist Mike Fiorito.
Mike Fiorito? Mike Fiorito? Mike Fiorito… that name sounds so familiar. Oh yeah, he’s a contributing short story writer on Mad Swirl! But what’s his submission doing in the Visual Submissions inbox? Oh, he’s an artist too! And Mike is returning to the mad virtual stage this time with some collages that - dare we say - gracefully combine boobs, butts, skin, (and more skin) with frogs, fish, satellites and...wait, is that Spiderman? Needless to say, this work stirred up a handful of confusing spaces inside us so we thought we'd better pass it on. After all, this ain't called Mad Swirl for nothin'! The calm and collected chaos of these little blurbs are enough to make anyone feel crazy. We always assumed combining sex with space with art with amphibians with - yes, that is Spiderman - was damn near impossible but leave it to Mike Fiorito to prove us wrong! The kind of crazy combo that's right up the Mad Swirl alley - so what say you? Down to take a stroll? - Madelyn Olson
••• The Poetry Forum •••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we went where we're going, found a kid and a spark; we tingled in present tenses, spinning a spell of senses; we seized a stranger's hand in a wreck of the day; we picked through the chirps of an avian throng, soon to become our lover's new song; we slept through the sway of ocean waves, a dreamer on deck; we eulogized a dead finch, perfume whiff of poems remiss, not seen, the broken things, granted only a sisterly kiss; we finished with a finger-painted lament and child's indictment of adult appetites sated in some young sorrow. Shake off those weights, more verses wait on the morrow. ~ MH Clay
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
Stuffing Hanks
One day I will cry forever.
Not like a terrace loser,
or a baby-faced softy,
you know, a terminal cry.
I will stoke my engine with
nights-without-sleep and invasions,
childhood floggings and hidden wounds,
attacks and black-suited fiends.
I won’t forget to douse the unexpected
with rivers of anal blood and
floods of small-boy tears.
I will hold up all of those walls
I’ve fallen off and hidden behind
with screaming wrongs
and decorate my sky
with pointing children’s fingers.
A cortege of forbidden questions
will at last assemble
and trod with notice
to a brand new place of old
where every squeezed-open
pair of perfect ears
will finally embrace
my slowest form of death.
And they will no longer speak of the
odd-little-boy who grew to be
that strange-kind-of-fella,
always the loner decorating corners,
the weirdo and the dark horse
and I will meet the dark father
dressed in dresses from the dark box,
the groomer of my un-lived life;
I will wear my coat of fury and
beat and stomp and slap and bite down hard,
return the pent-up painful years of screams,
accuse and insult and verbally stab deep.
I will hand back shame,
stuff hanks of guilt deep into his larynx;
I will pleasure for my first time.
That same day a man will
fall into the carefully-planned
death of a family and each season
his only friend who understood him
will refuse to yield the buried
pictures of childhood he’d sown.
- Gene Barry
(2 poems added 06.21.14)
editor's note: Some abuse for the abuser from a crying child triumphant. (Another one from Gene on his page, about ostriches or ostrich tendencies - check it out.) - mh
Stiletto Elegy
A tear abased, a finch dead mid-air, berated in haste
is it too late?
is it too late, now that I wear black on black
no ink to scribble your name
in margins of a summer night's air
a poet’s muse, love sprayed from one ounce flacons
in careful measures in open –air
a name half whispered half screamed
on lips bitten in crinkled dreams
vituperations on owl's spit
tangential cloying fervor, credulous eyes
broken heels
broken spirits in verbose lines
is it too late
to leave a sororal kiss
on throbbing pulse on your forehead
and rest barefoot
in midnight cello jazz jams
- Silva Zanoyan Merjanian
(1 poem added 06.20.14)
editor's note: No, not too late; so long as you keep your hands to yourself and your feet on the floor. - mh
I Dream the Sea
I dream the sea wherever I may lie.
The wax and wane of moon pulling tide
to lull me into deeper seas and darker skies.
The ocean's always been my lullaby,
the crash of wave my hush.
And turning over,
currents swirl as sand shifts
to roll me up in cerulean arms.
Rocking me back and forth,
back and forth
as I drift away once more.
- Heather M. Browne
(1 poem added 06.19.14)
editor's note: Bed as boat, sleeper as sailor. (With this poem we welcome Heather to our crazy confab of Contributing Poets. Read more of her madness on her new page.) - mh
Spring, you
You
a metaphor
made up of two-syllables
continuously speak between
my lonely soul and disappearing heart
a melodious voice—
birds: seagulls, robin (maybe?)
send their notes at my narrow-eyed window
I lie awake
Waiting for your song
In this deaf world,
You create a new song in me.
You are my new song.
- Arun Budhathoki
(1 poem added 06.18.14)
editor's note: A sweet song to call back a disappearing heart. - mh
Seize the Day
radio playing, laughter transforms
into screams, metal crunching and
closing in, a flash of red hair,
or is it blood
the smell of dirt and smoke,
hands pull me from the wreckage,
covered in crimson water that
is not my own
searching eyes and choked shrieks,
where are they, where are-
face-down, still, twisted into
unnatural positions, unconscious,
the deafening screams are my
own, falling to my knees
helpless, seeing red but not in
anger, somewhere an ambulance
arrives, parents and bystanders
watch with unwavering fear
they scream for their mother, and
she is not breathing anymore-
uncontrollable shaking, a breath is
finally taken, but the battle is not won,
rushing, bright lights, tears and mud
staining my cheeks
she can only see shadows, his neck
is broken, another scream, a phone goes
off in the next room, a man in uniform
takes my hand and doesn't let go
- Brittany Zedalis
(added 06.17.14)
editor's note: No matter how gruesome or painful, each day is yours - grab on! - mh
The Spell of the Senses
Grief distracts you
like a grocery cart
dragging one rear wheel.
You’ve forgotten
the spell of the senses.
But one whiff of a dark
purple hyacinth
forces you to forget
all of winter’s fury,
or the long wail of a lost child
crying uncontrollably
focuses your attention
like a black hearse passing,
or the touch of a tongue-tip
twirling around a lover’s nipple
returns you to this evanescent
body of whispers,
where every caress
celebrating the flesh
leaves a trail of tingling.
- Bill Wolak
(2 poems added 06.16.14)
editor's note: Oh, yes! That "tingling trail" ever taints our perceptions of reality. (Another one from Bill on his page - an item left in lost-and-found. Check it out!) - mh
RHINOCEROS
I don't know where you're going
only that you've been there.
How do I know?
Let me be that secret.
I knew you when you were just an eye,
just another starry, starry night.
Perhaps you were just another lie,
or maybe something special.
I like a mirror just as much as the next man,
but you can not be that for me.
There's too much memory,
and now we see as through a glass darkly.
Too many times I've put off.
Too many tomorrows I've lost.
You, you are only a kid.
And I, I am only a spark.
- satnrose
(3 poems added 06.15.14)
editor's note: Riddle resplendent in eye night spark kid, life alive and awake. I'm watching... (two more from satnrose on his page; a stranger at the door and a door in lightning flash, blink dream, time transpired - check'em out. - mh
••• Short Stories •••
Need a read, don't'cha? We're kinda sharp like that. Almost detective-like! Well, need no more... we got just the one for you!
Here's what Short Story Editor Tyler Malone has to say about this pick-of-the-week short story, “Kathleen Malone, Genius Detective” by Alyssa Black… "Childhood is cruel because it’s not constant. The moment we begin to use our imagination is when we figure out how to survive, and then the battle begins." Here's a preview for you…
"Esmeralda seems to really like you."
"She's a cat."
"Right, and a cat has no motivation to lie about how she feels about others. She’s very useful when trying to decipher the intentions of those who are in question."
"Does that mean I can leave now?"
"No, no, you won't get off that easy. Even if you're not directly involved, you might know about others who are of interest to me."
"And if I refuse to tell?"
She shot off quickly, with fear-inducing ferocity, "If you refuse to tell, than I will have no choice but to go back to the drawing board. Considering the time and space, and resources of this endeavor, your refusal to cooperate could ultimately result in his death."
"I chose to accept that risk. After all, it's every man for himself out there."
"Man or woman, I hardly think that any of us would make it past adolescence if we all treated each other in such fashion."
"Whatever, I made it this far. What do I care who's responsible for that?"
Detective Malone could see she wasn't going to get through to Dr. Sparring. Not tonight.
“If you’re not going to talk, I have no choice but to let you go, as there are no charges against you.”
“Fantastic. Thanks for wasting my time,” replied Dr. Sparring.
“My pleasure. Thanks for allowing an innocent man to die tonight.” With that, Dr. Sparring left, slamming the door of Detective Malone’s cubicle on his way out.
“I know Dr. Sparring knows more about the kidnapping than he leads on,” Malone exclaimed to her empty office. “Maybe I should trace his footsteps…”
…
“Kathleen! Dinner’s ready,” Daddy called from the kitchen.
“I’ll be right there!” cried Katie as she turned off the TV. She ran to the kitchen table with her Siamese Cat Beanie Baby stuffed in the back pocket of her jeans.
Wanna keep investigation’? Then sleuth your way 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...
Appreciatin’,
Johnny O
Chief Editor
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
Madelyn Olson
Visual Editor
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