The Best of Mad Swirl : 07.12.14
”This world is but a canvas to our imagination.” Henry David Thoreau
••• The Mad Gallery •••
woman with fish (above) by featured artist Mike Fiorito. To see more Mad works from Mike, and our other contributing artists, please visit our Mad Gallery.
••• The Poetry Forum •••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we saw icon and acolyte as one; we deftly words arranged, turned beautiful to strange; we unsettled an upset, then rested (sit, heel, wag tail); we skirted a scene of headless wonder, diverted around and out from under; we preserved as pure a twin demure, someone to blame when fingers are pointing; we admired apocalyptic fervor as simplicity in the true survivor; we proffered poetry as the currency best to buy some peace and recognition. We are all identified by our brand! ~ MH Clay
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
Crisis
It's a small village hiding big lives
Aghast with colour and sound,
Red earth warms the footprint
As green arbours pour
Shelter from the rising sun.
It also rises, day by day
Perfect in structure
Oblivious to the moans of man.
Nature blesses, man curses
The unstructured mind.
The hurting, not knowing
The way to exist.
Who pays the piper?
What pays the piper?
Thirty pieces of silver?
The little person in the village
Of big lives,
Is preparing to go with
The setting sun. The shame.
They sit opposite each other
Counting coins to drink coffee
To keep that aura of sophistication.
So no one will know.
Play music. Keep clean.
Sleep longer each morning
To stay warm.
They read poetry
It is free.
They will be free
If the plan works.
- Sheighle Birdthistle
(1 poem added 07.12.14)
editor's note: It's no little thing to work a plan, obscured by the big shadow. (Welcome Sheighle to our random ranks of Contributing Poets, congratulations! Read more of her special madness on her new page.) - mh
Paradise
Most people find the Jehovah’s Witness to be
at best a nuisance, at worst a plague. I don’t.
When I am sick, they come to my door and see
how I am doing, and when I invite
them to come in, they always refuse, but nicely.
Seeing I am bored, they give me pamphlets
to read about the coming end of days.
I don’t care much about what one or the other says;
my eye is drawn to the lurid illustrations
depicting a post-apocalyptic world.
It is populated only by nuclear families
having picnics on checkered cloths spread
on green grass beneath cartoonish trees
while abstract bluebirds flutter overhead.
The scene’s cartoonish ugliness seems to me
paradisiac in its lack of complexity.
- Tobias Griffin
(1 poem added 07.11.14)
editor's note: Starting to wonder if the real survivors of the apocalypse will be those who didn't ask questions... Thanks, Tobias! (We welcome Tobias as our newest Contributing Poet with this accepted poem. Read more of his madness on his new page.) - mh
Appropriation
To paint hard buds upon your chamber door
to be allowed to load this brush with gorge:
I distance from this dream, otherwise
the cage would burst; the bloody gas
would fix in augured death. But life
it is that our result will be; complete
we will this circle: in perfect crime a twin
bringing me my alibi, chastity kills
with masterpiece began by marking
- Silas Gorin
(1 poem added 07.10.14)
editor's note: To make yours, pass it on. - mh
The Head
I saw a dead body today.
I did not see the head.
I was on my way back from La Limpieza,
driving the route the Walking Man walks
I was thinking about the Advisor, the Bad
guy, the Tattler. I was coming around
a dangerous curve, a curve where I have
witnessed the aftermath of many an accident,
skid marks, trucks turned over, logs spilled
onto the road, cars with front ends smashed
in, windshields shattered. Coming around
the curve I slowed down then stopped
for a white-gloved policeman with his palm
held out. My white truck reflected
in his sunglasses. There was a dark blue
pickup behind him. I waited while the traffic
passed from the other direction. The police-
man then waved me forward, his lips and chin gravely
set. I tapped my toe on the accelerator, hoping the cop
would not notice that my seatbelt was unfastened, and drove slowly
past the dark blue pickup. The cab was caved
in, the passenger door open. I saw a man, no,
I saw a body wearing a blue plaid
shirt and blue jeans, the right arm
extended, the hand still gripped
to the gear shift. The crushed cab roof
formed a vee that inverted
directly into the middle
of the body’s shoulders,
right where the neck should be.
There was no blood, but
I did not see the head.
I saw a dead body today.
I did not see the head.
I was thinking about the Advisor, the Bad
Guy, the Tattler.
- Stephen Page
(1 poem added 07.09.14)
editor's note: You won't take with you head nor toe. When it's time to go, you go. (We welcome Stephen to our crazy confab of Contributing Poets with this submission. See more of his madness on his new page.) - mh
Our Place
A Political Ethics Ambulance "accidentally"
runs over some "dogs".
Human yelping fills my head.
Vodka to the rescue!
"Canoes for thirsty homeless!"
"Curtsy for the King!"
A beautifully crafted commercial speech
sways public opinion back into its place.
In repose, we thank Thee.
- Dave Fleming
(added 07.08.14)
editor's note: Yup... so long as we remember to take our meds. - mh
Randomination
Turn INNOCENCE into fiction of houses apart, Sunday mass appeal, cigarette stubs, imagination, bus terminals, missus jabber job, wanted: drunk elephants, butterfly wings, Dougie faith, the crucifixion of clowns, Chekhov’s gun, wet nurse mummies—the pyramids, manuscripts, Nutella dream-spread, the suck-cess/pool, story deadlines, love and power lines, pizza porn phrases, Uganda stanzas, madstupid editor.s, disappearances, genie in a nostril, mirror mirror wonderwall, push magic, run river, hippo touch, sergeant sardine in ICU, coffeens, daffodils, sands, your coralline smile, politik swine search, jalousied jealousy, metallic cops, friends with Benetton, Bloc Party rocks, redsun trees covered in words, words, words, words, words, words, words———Words
to make yourself strange, beautiful.
- Lawdenmarc Decamora
(added 07.07.14)
editor's note: Yes! I feel like I've been tickled all over. Take me again, Beautiful! - mh
Love or Simply Artistic Admiration?
Graphic artist,
encapturing the madness,
Swirling,
With contours and shades
Emphasizing like adjectives,
Inadvertently describing
A world on fire
To the deranged children
Raised on the cinema
Of John Waters and Tim Burton.
With the prophecy of talent,
Like the universe is massive,
Her mind expands at the light speed
She boils my mind like eggs
And ecstasy
Oh Maiden of the Heavenly Olson,
Prophet with an Artist’s pen
And paper,
Freeing souls with the imagery of
What lies beneath the countenance
Of our culture,
Liberate me with the
Softness of your fairy wings,
And let these words ring true,
Eyes wide and beautiful.
Savior of the poet’s existence,
Keeper of your Nickelodeon/Steadman legacy,
And given half a chance,
I’d be your Hunter
With whom you could chase the centuries.
- R.A. Hernandez
(1 poem added 07.06.14)
editor's note: His brain, scrambled thought soufflé; his undaunted love, muse-smitten devotee. (This mad Contributing Poet is our feature at the September Open Mic. N. Texas Swirlers, come see Robert's mad mojo, Sep 3.) - mh
••• Short Stories •••
Need a read? Here's what Short Story Editor Tyler Malone has to say about this pick-of-the-week short story, "Waiting All Day for the Mailman” by Jim Meirose… "Some people, a lot of them, say that they want to die as they lived: asleep, asleep and useless." Here's a taste to tease ya’:
photo by Tyler Malone
I’m awake, I’m awake—I only look asleep because I am in the daily trance of waiting for the mailman; I’m sitting on the front couch with a cold coming on. But my mood is good—the mailman will come. She will—
When the mailman comes, it will just be wonderful! Who knows what she will bring what it can be what can it be what will it be—
Oh! Silly me! I dozed off—I peer out the window—still no mailman. I go to make a coffee in my Keurig machine to keep me awake—need to be awake, need to be, for the mailman—the machine does its job and I go back to the front couch, and set the coffee down on the coffee table how appropriate how appropriate—
I might be money, I always expect money this time of month. This week there should be a check to live on to help live on to have to cash to use—
Oh gosh—the coffee didn't help. My God, shake me! I am waking, again. And it’s probably your fault, you let me fall asleep—you’re sitting right there. Tell me, tell me; have I missed the mailman? You would have seen her coming. You would have heard the tap of the mailbox lid—I don’t have a dog to let me know but you could have barked, because different monies come different times of the month to live on to help live on to have to cash to use; but other things might come in the mail too. Surprises maybe—maybe some kind of prize—or one surprise—
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...
Imaginin’,
Johnny O
Chief Editor
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
••• The Mad Gallery •••
woman with fish (above) by featured artist Mike Fiorito. To see more Mad works from Mike, and our other contributing artists, please visit our Mad Gallery.
••• The Poetry Forum •••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we saw icon and acolyte as one; we deftly words arranged, turned beautiful to strange; we unsettled an upset, then rested (sit, heel, wag tail); we skirted a scene of headless wonder, diverted around and out from under; we preserved as pure a twin demure, someone to blame when fingers are pointing; we admired apocalyptic fervor as simplicity in the true survivor; we proffered poetry as the currency best to buy some peace and recognition. We are all identified by our brand! ~ MH Clay
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
Crisis
It's a small village hiding big lives
Aghast with colour and sound,
Red earth warms the footprint
As green arbours pour
Shelter from the rising sun.
It also rises, day by day
Perfect in structure
Oblivious to the moans of man.
Nature blesses, man curses
The unstructured mind.
The hurting, not knowing
The way to exist.
Who pays the piper?
What pays the piper?
Thirty pieces of silver?
The little person in the village
Of big lives,
Is preparing to go with
The setting sun. The shame.
They sit opposite each other
Counting coins to drink coffee
To keep that aura of sophistication.
So no one will know.
Play music. Keep clean.
Sleep longer each morning
To stay warm.
They read poetry
It is free.
They will be free
If the plan works.
- Sheighle Birdthistle
(1 poem added 07.12.14)
editor's note: It's no little thing to work a plan, obscured by the big shadow. (Welcome Sheighle to our random ranks of Contributing Poets, congratulations! Read more of her special madness on her new page.) - mh
Paradise
Most people find the Jehovah’s Witness to be
at best a nuisance, at worst a plague. I don’t.
When I am sick, they come to my door and see
how I am doing, and when I invite
them to come in, they always refuse, but nicely.
Seeing I am bored, they give me pamphlets
to read about the coming end of days.
I don’t care much about what one or the other says;
my eye is drawn to the lurid illustrations
depicting a post-apocalyptic world.
It is populated only by nuclear families
having picnics on checkered cloths spread
on green grass beneath cartoonish trees
while abstract bluebirds flutter overhead.
The scene’s cartoonish ugliness seems to me
paradisiac in its lack of complexity.
- Tobias Griffin
(1 poem added 07.11.14)
editor's note: Starting to wonder if the real survivors of the apocalypse will be those who didn't ask questions... Thanks, Tobias! (We welcome Tobias as our newest Contributing Poet with this accepted poem. Read more of his madness on his new page.) - mh
Appropriation
To paint hard buds upon your chamber door
to be allowed to load this brush with gorge:
I distance from this dream, otherwise
the cage would burst; the bloody gas
would fix in augured death. But life
it is that our result will be; complete
we will this circle: in perfect crime a twin
bringing me my alibi, chastity kills
with masterpiece began by marking
- Silas Gorin
(1 poem added 07.10.14)
editor's note: To make yours, pass it on. - mh
The Head
I saw a dead body today.
I did not see the head.
I was on my way back from La Limpieza,
driving the route the Walking Man walks
I was thinking about the Advisor, the Bad
guy, the Tattler. I was coming around
a dangerous curve, a curve where I have
witnessed the aftermath of many an accident,
skid marks, trucks turned over, logs spilled
onto the road, cars with front ends smashed
in, windshields shattered. Coming around
the curve I slowed down then stopped
for a white-gloved policeman with his palm
held out. My white truck reflected
in his sunglasses. There was a dark blue
pickup behind him. I waited while the traffic
passed from the other direction. The police-
man then waved me forward, his lips and chin gravely
set. I tapped my toe on the accelerator, hoping the cop
would not notice that my seatbelt was unfastened, and drove slowly
past the dark blue pickup. The cab was caved
in, the passenger door open. I saw a man, no,
I saw a body wearing a blue plaid
shirt and blue jeans, the right arm
extended, the hand still gripped
to the gear shift. The crushed cab roof
formed a vee that inverted
directly into the middle
of the body’s shoulders,
right where the neck should be.
There was no blood, but
I did not see the head.
I saw a dead body today.
I did not see the head.
I was thinking about the Advisor, the Bad
Guy, the Tattler.
- Stephen Page
(1 poem added 07.09.14)
editor's note: You won't take with you head nor toe. When it's time to go, you go. (We welcome Stephen to our crazy confab of Contributing Poets with this submission. See more of his madness on his new page.) - mh
Our Place
A Political Ethics Ambulance "accidentally"
runs over some "dogs".
Human yelping fills my head.
Vodka to the rescue!
"Canoes for thirsty homeless!"
"Curtsy for the King!"
A beautifully crafted commercial speech
sways public opinion back into its place.
In repose, we thank Thee.
- Dave Fleming
(added 07.08.14)
editor's note: Yup... so long as we remember to take our meds. - mh
Randomination
Turn INNOCENCE into fiction of houses apart, Sunday mass appeal, cigarette stubs, imagination, bus terminals, missus jabber job, wanted: drunk elephants, butterfly wings, Dougie faith, the crucifixion of clowns, Chekhov’s gun, wet nurse mummies—the pyramids, manuscripts, Nutella dream-spread, the suck-cess/pool, story deadlines, love and power lines, pizza porn phrases, Uganda stanzas, madstupid editor.s, disappearances, genie in a nostril, mirror mirror wonderwall, push magic, run river, hippo touch, sergeant sardine in ICU, coffeens, daffodils, sands, your coralline smile, politik swine search, jalousied jealousy, metallic cops, friends with Benetton, Bloc Party rocks, redsun trees covered in words, words, words, words, words, words, words———Words
to make yourself strange, beautiful.
- Lawdenmarc Decamora
(added 07.07.14)
editor's note: Yes! I feel like I've been tickled all over. Take me again, Beautiful! - mh
Love or Simply Artistic Admiration?
Graphic artist,
encapturing the madness,
Swirling,
With contours and shades
Emphasizing like adjectives,
Inadvertently describing
A world on fire
To the deranged children
Raised on the cinema
Of John Waters and Tim Burton.
With the prophecy of talent,
Like the universe is massive,
Her mind expands at the light speed
She boils my mind like eggs
And ecstasy
Oh Maiden of the Heavenly Olson,
Prophet with an Artist’s pen
And paper,
Freeing souls with the imagery of
What lies beneath the countenance
Of our culture,
Liberate me with the
Softness of your fairy wings,
And let these words ring true,
Eyes wide and beautiful.
Savior of the poet’s existence,
Keeper of your Nickelodeon/Steadman legacy,
And given half a chance,
I’d be your Hunter
With whom you could chase the centuries.
- R.A. Hernandez
(1 poem added 07.06.14)
editor's note: His brain, scrambled thought soufflé; his undaunted love, muse-smitten devotee. (This mad Contributing Poet is our feature at the September Open Mic. N. Texas Swirlers, come see Robert's mad mojo, Sep 3.) - mh
••• Short Stories •••
Need a read? Here's what Short Story Editor Tyler Malone has to say about this pick-of-the-week short story, "Waiting All Day for the Mailman” by Jim Meirose… "Some people, a lot of them, say that they want to die as they lived: asleep, asleep and useless." Here's a taste to tease ya’:
I’m awake, I’m awake—I only look asleep because I am in the daily trance of waiting for the mailman; I’m sitting on the front couch with a cold coming on. But my mood is good—the mailman will come. She will—
When the mailman comes, it will just be wonderful! Who knows what she will bring what it can be what can it be what will it be—
Oh! Silly me! I dozed off—I peer out the window—still no mailman. I go to make a coffee in my Keurig machine to keep me awake—need to be awake, need to be, for the mailman—the machine does its job and I go back to the front couch, and set the coffee down on the coffee table how appropriate how appropriate—
I might be money, I always expect money this time of month. This week there should be a check to live on to help live on to have to cash to use—
Oh gosh—the coffee didn't help. My God, shake me! I am waking, again. And it’s probably your fault, you let me fall asleep—you’re sitting right there. Tell me, tell me; have I missed the mailman? You would have seen her coming. You would have heard the tap of the mailbox lid—I don’t have a dog to let me know but you could have barked, because different monies come different times of the month to live on to help live on to have to cash to use; but other things might come in the mail too. Surprises maybe—maybe some kind of prize—or one surprise—
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...
Imaginin’,
Johnny O
Chief Editor
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
Comments