The Best of Mad Swirl : 12.05.15
“We keep moving forward, opening new doors, and doing new things, because we're curious and curiosity keeps leading us down new paths.” ~ Walt Disney
••• The Mad Gallery •••
“viewpoint-two ” (above) by featured artist Eleanor Leonne Bennett. To see more Mad works from Eleanor, and our other diverse contributing artists, please visit our Mad Gallery.
••• The Poetry Forum •••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we dried bards on branches, versified chances; we pined over a postal inefficiency; we plundered and killed in the name of god's will; we tried to cull the bad men from delightfully mad men (hard to find and hold); we witnessed the blanch of rainbow color, strove for the strength of doomsday valor; we sought out the zen of the lord through our pen; we fumbled in fancy free on what is supposed to be. Full is as full can be. ~ MH Clay
perfection by Carl Kavadlo
this poem’s not going down
the way it’s supposed to be.
your reaction will probably
not be
the way it’s supposed to be.
my life is not
the way
it’s supposed to be.
my job…
the moment is not
the way
it’s supposed
to be.
my meditation is never
the way
it’s supposed to be.
every rule i read in a
book. they never apply to me –
they’re not the way they’re
supposed to be.
the food,
the drink,
the air
are not the way
they’re supposed to be.
agreements are not the way
they’re supposed to be.
expectations are
never, never, never the way
they’re supposed to be.
vacations,
recreations,
anticipated fun – they’re
not the way they’re supposed to be.
whoever made up these pictures
sure didn’t do it
the way
he’s supposed to be.
and yet
everything’s perfect
because nothing is the way
it’s supposed to be.
and THAT’S the way
it’s supposed to be
December 5, 2015
editors note: We suppose so… – mh clay
seek out the lord by J.J. Campbell
i learned as a child
the monsters under
my bed were there
to protect me
they failed
much like everyone
else in my childhood
they never explained
in therapy how i was
to move on from that
one asshole said just
get over it and seek
out the lord
i grabbed a pen and
decided to take up
drinking instead
most of my former
friends think of me
as a sociopath now
i almost think
about taking the
time to care but
i’m running low
on vodka
more important
matters are at
hand
December 4, 2015
editors note: For some, there’s victory in vodka. – mh clay
DOOMSDAY by Ajise Vincent
I.
Soon, we shall witness
the bleaching of the rainbow,
perhaps the bittering of hopes
by pregnant, yet barren enigmas,
that seek the brew of our tomorrow, today.
II.
Then, we shall see
Impoverished cadavers
scamper over spilt morphines
to nurse the conundrum of their woes. Dutch disease.
III.
Then, dreams shall wear
the shame of sack clothes to
cover the nudity of their sagging breasts.
IV.
Then, elders shall break kola nuts
to behold the molars of maggots
feasting on the endocarp of decorum.
V.
Wirra! We shall cry for peace
but it shall be scarce like perpetuity.
VI.
Call me a prophet of doom
Lo! I don’t give a damn.
December 3, 2015
editors note: Prophecy from poetry; life will tell the difference. – mh clay
It’s 1 am by Peggy Flora
Time to think
About men
Why they
Follow me around
Fix my car
Fill me up
Fight and bore
They pretend
Then go to war
Show up no more
Smile and grin
Rape a friend
Rule and run
Stand in my sun
Ask for more
Give less
Yell and hit
Bruise my lip
Shut me out
Shut me in
Tie my hands
Break my back
Leave their kin
Screw and fuck
Display their nuts
Lie about their cut
Keep me up
Love me
Hate me
Drive me insane
Make me wait
Say nice things
Compliment a tart
Play with my heart
spend
Spend
Spend
Work at night
Cheat and steal
Make illegal deals
Spread disease
Drink some more
Do it again
Its 1 am
December 2, 2015
editors note: If you’re gonna wash this one right out of your hair – lather, rinse and DON’T repeat. – mh clay
Crusader (iv) by Michael Corrigan
Conquest now, rather than crusade, the captains and nobles march out to subdue and colonise as much of Northern Syria as they can. Terrible slaughters at Albara and Marrat, the populations massacred, survivors sold in to slavery.
Towns garrisoned to control the region but then a fiercesome winter, food runs short, garrisons starve, cannibalism is recorded as the Soldiers of God reach a new low and still the golden city of Jerusalem, the wellspring of their faith, lies waiting, away down the southern road.
Anchored,
war dogs chained,
moved so far
then not at all,
at Albara and Marrat
we brought
red slaughter and slavery,
before the hunkerdown
of garrison.
In our hellscape
of that northern winter
truths told, never forgotten,
sights seen, better forgotten,
when the food ran out
Marrat began
to eat its dead.
The holy ones told us
we would know
life eternal in the gaze of God,
neglecting to mention
hell is also forever
and Jerusalem a dream,
slowly fading in the gloom.
Gods Will, Gods Will, Gods Will.
December 1, 2015
editors note: Mr. Corrigan revisits us with another installment of his Crusader series; historical poetry about a region ravished still today. An ancient narrative, yet so timely – thanks, Mick! – mh clay
Autumn by Peycho Kanev
You are waiting for a letter to arrive,
but who still writes letters these days anyway?
The trees on the street are deader than dead,
their branches stretch out like black skeletons,
strips of fading sunlight stream through
the yellow curtains and time pours in slower
than the air in an empty hourglass.
It gets dark, difficult to see through the window.
You are anxious and confused.
The street is empty.
Everything else is now and now.
And then the wind starts to blow violently
and opens your mailbox
without putting anything in it.
November 30, 2015
editors note: Leaves, unlike letters, turn and fall. Letters, unlike leaves, don’t turn at all. – mh clay
Intergalactic Hitch by Tom Pescatore
hollow skeleton hobo
poets hang on branches
in the sun, weightless
like bird’s wings
flapping old toothless
jaws, readin’ with
archaic sounds,
swinging torn shoes,
biting tin collars,
up on the wire
handkerchief to break
impending fall, over
all beady heads
singing songs,
tweed jackets like
lightning spark up
a breeze, a fantasy
shower, there’s not much
left in this dimension gate
they gotta be going
no one listening no one
believing,
there, out there,
beyond that golden orb
is another gal-
axy far gone
ears and eyes
to turn on
flowers to give
gardens to sow.
November 29, 2015
editors note: After the poets conquer this world, there’s always the next one… – mh clay
••• Short Stories •••
Need-a-Read? Well then you’ve come to the right place!
This week's featured story comes Contributing Poet & Writer Chuck Taylor. Here is what Short Story Editor Tyler Malone had to say about "If Dog is God Spelled Back Ways, What is Cat?": "We need to talk about ourselves, see ourselves and our desires and the blood we might want to spill. After all that, then we can talk about what everyone needs to talk about: the value of life. Human life. Humanity, the only religion anyone needs to believe in."
Here's a few a few nibbles to get you meowin' for more:
When Markie was a freshman at Irving High, he used to lie in bed and think about murdering his parents. He did not think about getting caught. He did not think about what he’d do with the bodies. He merely thought of getting rid of their unendurable pressure. Markie planned to do it in the dead of night, when his parents would be dead asleep.
It would be easy.
Mark did not mention his plans to his sister Linda or to his school buds Isaac and Lorie. Markie planned use the sharp Buck knife he’d bought at a downtown Irving hunting store a month ago, to quickly and efficiently slit their throats, one at a time. They would have no opportunity to make a sound and alert each other or his sister.
He wished to kill his parents because they fought all the time. His father drank and cursed. His mother was a shut-in, although no one acknowledged the fact. They’d lived in the Irving ten years, but his mother had no friends and rarely left the house. Father wanted to move closer to his job in south Dallas. He was sick of his long commute to work and back, but mother would not listen to his pleas. She told them they could not move because it would disrupt the children’s educations, but Markie knew that was a lie. Mother was too afraid to live anywhere else.
His parents would fight late into the night. When they finally went to bed—his father sometimes on the couch—Markie would lie in his bed as stiff as a Prussian military officer. Thinking of putting his parents out of their misery seemed an act of mercy and a blessed chance to sleep again for him and his sister...
To get the rest of your meow on you gotta case that mouse right over here!
••• Mad Swirl Open Mic •••
Oh what a night it was in the land of Swirl’n mic Mad-ness! This past 1st Wednesday Mad Swirl-abrated our new open mic home at The Underpass. As much as we’re going to miss our old stomping grounds, we really dig the vibe of our new home! Our inaugural blast-off was proof that this swirl’n we be doin’ isn’t even close to stoppin’!
Thanks to all who came out to help share in the Cool-Tide Swirl-a-brations. What a night of the beat-utifullest poetry and music and comedy it was! Here’s a shout out to all who graced us with their words, their songs, their divine madnesses…
(See who was who right here. Photos courtesy of Dan “the man” Rodriguez)
Hosts:
Johnny O
MH Clay
Mad Cast:
Chris Zimmerly
Opalina Salas
L Boogie
Carlos Salas
Maggie Smith
Brett “BA” Ardoin
Cj Critt
•••
James “Bear the Poet” Rodehaver
Crystal Fulbright
Daniel Evans
Josh Weir
Vic Victory
Euan Figg
Bekah Caldwell
Jennifer
Lindsey
Chris Sykes
HUGE thanks to Swirve (Chris & Tamitha Curiel, along with special guest drummer, Clark from KRUDE) for keeping the beat til the wee hours of the night. We got taken to another dimension of time and space on the wings of their jazzy madness!
More HUGE thanks to fantastic photogs Dan Rodriguez (he captured these scenes) and Scott Wayne McDaniel for sharing their mad eye and giving y’all a taste of the night’s mic madness.
Thanks to Mike at The Underpass for opening up his establishment to us mad ones and making us feel right at home.
And finally we would like to thank ALL of you who freely shared their hand claps, finger-snaps, hoots and howls with all the mad ones who got up on this sacred mad swirlin’ mic.
We look forward to ALL the m-adventures to come at The Underpass in 2016! Stay tuned…
•••••••
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' Curious,
Johnny O
Chief Editor
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
Madelyn Olson
Visual Editor
••• The Mad Gallery •••
“viewpoint-two ” (above) by featured artist Eleanor Leonne Bennett. To see more Mad works from Eleanor, and our other diverse contributing artists, please visit our Mad Gallery.
••• The Poetry Forum •••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we dried bards on branches, versified chances; we pined over a postal inefficiency; we plundered and killed in the name of god's will; we tried to cull the bad men from delightfully mad men (hard to find and hold); we witnessed the blanch of rainbow color, strove for the strength of doomsday valor; we sought out the zen of the lord through our pen; we fumbled in fancy free on what is supposed to be. Full is as full can be. ~ MH Clay
perfection by Carl Kavadlo
this poem’s not going down
the way it’s supposed to be.
your reaction will probably
not be
the way it’s supposed to be.
my life is not
the way
it’s supposed to be.
my job…
the moment is not
the way
it’s supposed
to be.
my meditation is never
the way
it’s supposed to be.
every rule i read in a
book. they never apply to me –
they’re not the way they’re
supposed to be.
the food,
the drink,
the air
are not the way
they’re supposed to be.
agreements are not the way
they’re supposed to be.
expectations are
never, never, never the way
they’re supposed to be.
vacations,
recreations,
anticipated fun – they’re
not the way they’re supposed to be.
whoever made up these pictures
sure didn’t do it
the way
he’s supposed to be.
and yet
everything’s perfect
because nothing is the way
it’s supposed to be.
and THAT’S the way
it’s supposed to be
December 5, 2015
editors note: We suppose so… – mh clay
seek out the lord by J.J. Campbell
i learned as a child
the monsters under
my bed were there
to protect me
they failed
much like everyone
else in my childhood
they never explained
in therapy how i was
to move on from that
one asshole said just
get over it and seek
out the lord
i grabbed a pen and
decided to take up
drinking instead
most of my former
friends think of me
as a sociopath now
i almost think
about taking the
time to care but
i’m running low
on vodka
more important
matters are at
hand
December 4, 2015
editors note: For some, there’s victory in vodka. – mh clay
DOOMSDAY by Ajise Vincent
I.
Soon, we shall witness
the bleaching of the rainbow,
perhaps the bittering of hopes
by pregnant, yet barren enigmas,
that seek the brew of our tomorrow, today.
II.
Then, we shall see
Impoverished cadavers
scamper over spilt morphines
to nurse the conundrum of their woes. Dutch disease.
III.
Then, dreams shall wear
the shame of sack clothes to
cover the nudity of their sagging breasts.
IV.
Then, elders shall break kola nuts
to behold the molars of maggots
feasting on the endocarp of decorum.
V.
Wirra! We shall cry for peace
but it shall be scarce like perpetuity.
VI.
Call me a prophet of doom
Lo! I don’t give a damn.
December 3, 2015
editors note: Prophecy from poetry; life will tell the difference. – mh clay
It’s 1 am by Peggy Flora
Time to think
About men
Why they
Follow me around
Fix my car
Fill me up
Fight and bore
They pretend
Then go to war
Show up no more
Smile and grin
Rape a friend
Rule and run
Stand in my sun
Ask for more
Give less
Yell and hit
Bruise my lip
Shut me out
Shut me in
Tie my hands
Break my back
Leave their kin
Screw and fuck
Display their nuts
Lie about their cut
Keep me up
Love me
Hate me
Drive me insane
Make me wait
Say nice things
Compliment a tart
Play with my heart
spend
Spend
Spend
Work at night
Cheat and steal
Make illegal deals
Spread disease
Drink some more
Do it again
Its 1 am
December 2, 2015
editors note: If you’re gonna wash this one right out of your hair – lather, rinse and DON’T repeat. – mh clay
Crusader (iv) by Michael Corrigan
Conquest now, rather than crusade, the captains and nobles march out to subdue and colonise as much of Northern Syria as they can. Terrible slaughters at Albara and Marrat, the populations massacred, survivors sold in to slavery.
Towns garrisoned to control the region but then a fiercesome winter, food runs short, garrisons starve, cannibalism is recorded as the Soldiers of God reach a new low and still the golden city of Jerusalem, the wellspring of their faith, lies waiting, away down the southern road.
Anchored,
war dogs chained,
moved so far
then not at all,
at Albara and Marrat
we brought
red slaughter and slavery,
before the hunkerdown
of garrison.
In our hellscape
of that northern winter
truths told, never forgotten,
sights seen, better forgotten,
when the food ran out
Marrat began
to eat its dead.
The holy ones told us
we would know
life eternal in the gaze of God,
neglecting to mention
hell is also forever
and Jerusalem a dream,
slowly fading in the gloom.
Gods Will, Gods Will, Gods Will.
December 1, 2015
editors note: Mr. Corrigan revisits us with another installment of his Crusader series; historical poetry about a region ravished still today. An ancient narrative, yet so timely – thanks, Mick! – mh clay
Autumn by Peycho Kanev
You are waiting for a letter to arrive,
but who still writes letters these days anyway?
The trees on the street are deader than dead,
their branches stretch out like black skeletons,
strips of fading sunlight stream through
the yellow curtains and time pours in slower
than the air in an empty hourglass.
It gets dark, difficult to see through the window.
You are anxious and confused.
The street is empty.
Everything else is now and now.
And then the wind starts to blow violently
and opens your mailbox
without putting anything in it.
November 30, 2015
editors note: Leaves, unlike letters, turn and fall. Letters, unlike leaves, don’t turn at all. – mh clay
Intergalactic Hitch by Tom Pescatore
hollow skeleton hobo
poets hang on branches
in the sun, weightless
like bird’s wings
flapping old toothless
jaws, readin’ with
archaic sounds,
swinging torn shoes,
biting tin collars,
up on the wire
handkerchief to break
impending fall, over
all beady heads
singing songs,
tweed jackets like
lightning spark up
a breeze, a fantasy
shower, there’s not much
left in this dimension gate
they gotta be going
no one listening no one
believing,
there, out there,
beyond that golden orb
is another gal-
axy far gone
ears and eyes
to turn on
flowers to give
gardens to sow.
November 29, 2015
editors note: After the poets conquer this world, there’s always the next one… – mh clay
••• Short Stories •••
Need-a-Read? Well then you’ve come to the right place!
This week's featured story comes Contributing Poet & Writer Chuck Taylor. Here is what Short Story Editor Tyler Malone had to say about "If Dog is God Spelled Back Ways, What is Cat?": "We need to talk about ourselves, see ourselves and our desires and the blood we might want to spill. After all that, then we can talk about what everyone needs to talk about: the value of life. Human life. Humanity, the only religion anyone needs to believe in."
Here's a few a few nibbles to get you meowin' for more:
When Markie was a freshman at Irving High, he used to lie in bed and think about murdering his parents. He did not think about getting caught. He did not think about what he’d do with the bodies. He merely thought of getting rid of their unendurable pressure. Markie planned to do it in the dead of night, when his parents would be dead asleep.
It would be easy.
Mark did not mention his plans to his sister Linda or to his school buds Isaac and Lorie. Markie planned use the sharp Buck knife he’d bought at a downtown Irving hunting store a month ago, to quickly and efficiently slit their throats, one at a time. They would have no opportunity to make a sound and alert each other or his sister.
He wished to kill his parents because they fought all the time. His father drank and cursed. His mother was a shut-in, although no one acknowledged the fact. They’d lived in the Irving ten years, but his mother had no friends and rarely left the house. Father wanted to move closer to his job in south Dallas. He was sick of his long commute to work and back, but mother would not listen to his pleas. She told them they could not move because it would disrupt the children’s educations, but Markie knew that was a lie. Mother was too afraid to live anywhere else.
His parents would fight late into the night. When they finally went to bed—his father sometimes on the couch—Markie would lie in his bed as stiff as a Prussian military officer. Thinking of putting his parents out of their misery seemed an act of mercy and a blessed chance to sleep again for him and his sister...
To get the rest of your meow on you gotta case that mouse right over here!
••• Mad Swirl Open Mic •••
Oh what a night it was in the land of Swirl’n mic Mad-ness! This past 1st Wednesday Mad Swirl-abrated our new open mic home at The Underpass. As much as we’re going to miss our old stomping grounds, we really dig the vibe of our new home! Our inaugural blast-off was proof that this swirl’n we be doin’ isn’t even close to stoppin’!
Thanks to all who came out to help share in the Cool-Tide Swirl-a-brations. What a night of the beat-utifullest poetry and music and comedy it was! Here’s a shout out to all who graced us with their words, their songs, their divine madnesses…
Hosts:
Johnny O
MH Clay
Mad Cast:
Chris Zimmerly
Opalina Salas
L Boogie
Carlos Salas
Maggie Smith
Brett “BA” Ardoin
Cj Critt
•••
James “Bear the Poet” Rodehaver
Crystal Fulbright
Daniel Evans
Josh Weir
Vic Victory
Euan Figg
Bekah Caldwell
Jennifer
Lindsey
Chris Sykes
HUGE thanks to Swirve (Chris & Tamitha Curiel, along with special guest drummer, Clark from KRUDE) for keeping the beat til the wee hours of the night. We got taken to another dimension of time and space on the wings of their jazzy madness!
More HUGE thanks to fantastic photogs Dan Rodriguez (he captured these scenes) and Scott Wayne McDaniel for sharing their mad eye and giving y’all a taste of the night’s mic madness.
Thanks to Mike at The Underpass for opening up his establishment to us mad ones and making us feel right at home.
And finally we would like to thank ALL of you who freely shared their hand claps, finger-snaps, hoots and howls with all the mad ones who got up on this sacred mad swirlin’ mic.
We look forward to ALL the m-adventures to come at The Underpass in 2016! Stay tuned…
•••••••
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' Curious,
Johnny O
Chief Editor
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
Madelyn Olson
Visual Editor
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