The Best of Mad Swirl : 04.30.17
"Everything starts as somebody's daydream." ~ Larry Niven
••• The Mad Gallery •••
“NORM” (above) by featured artist David Ross. To see more of David’s mad illustrations, as well as our other featured artists, visit our Mad Gallery!
••• The Poetry Forum •••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we tippled tea in ecstasy; we shed tears for a daughter; we bit a lying dogger; we trained face to no smiler be; we took the sheen from gangrene; we pushed back doom in a waiting room; we got an old bod out of bed smiling. Every day a new one. ~ MH Clay
MY OLD BODY by Bradford Middleton
I wake up all alone
And for once am grateful as
The muscles in my back
And arms hurt bad this morning
But at least I have peace
And time to ease my poor old
Body back into some kind of
Older state back when it could
Handle so much more than just
A night in bed all alone
April 29, 2017
editors note: Coming to grips, while loosening your grip. – mh clay
Waiting Room by Lisa Moak
These are the days we dread, the days of unknowing. Life is fragile as an egg. You never know when a crack will appear and the yolk will spill away. Your test came back—wrong. We wait, more tests are done, more waiting. The longer we wait the more scenarios we concoct, dreaming about dark tumors flooding organs, masses teeming with life waiting to erupt. We google, we ask, we read, still we wait. Your smile has left as you turn your light inside searching for answers, questioning what you ate, drank, or smoked in the past. “I am healthy, or so I thought,” the sadness in your voice apparent. You feel betrayed. You run, you do yoga, eat sensibly, watch your weight and drink in moderation, but now this organ inside mocks you. You can’t see or feel it. You only have heard of it and its rebellion. The phone doesn’t ring today.
We wait.
April 28, 2017
editors note: May our scenarios run unfounded. Please, let it be “negative.” (We welcome Lisa to our crazy congress of Contributing Poets with this submission. Read more of her madness on her new page – check it out.) – mh clay
this was the first time I’d seen gangrene by Tom Pescatore
this was the first time I’d seen gangrene
afterward I had a portrait drawn of me
I paid nothing for it
tho he only needed
15 dollars to grab a bed to sleep for the night
it was 100 degrees and the air
soured
this was the first time I’d seen gangrene
it grew from his leg like fungus
hard as sponge
soft and death-like against the pants he struggled
to pull up
the color was dull
and muffled
I forced the thin white paper into my bag
knowing it would crease and tear
knowing it
would come to nothing in some trash bin
somewhere
this was the first time I’d seen gangrene
April 27, 2017
editors note: Disturbed; would draw the disease, while the disease draws you. – mh clay
Handshakes Are a Gateway Salutation by Ryan Quinn Flanagan
to be avoided at
all costs
a ruse of the Russian
or the Chinese –
let’s say the Chinese
for effect…
Disarming
just like Oppenheimer
before the bomb.
Getting you to smile
when your face should
know better.
April 26, 2017
editors note: Every salesman’s ploy, to be every buyer’s boy. – mh clay
Swelling of Lies in His Throat by Bhargab Chatterjee
Gradually
I have become accustomed
to the biting
of my unfaithful dog.
Every time
his uneasy canines
get locked
into the bloodless flesh
of my thigh,
I shout in pain
until my neck
gets as thin
as truth.
When my flesh is torn apart
and the dog is free,
he develops a huge swelling
of lies
in his throat.
April 25, 2017
editors note: No truth? No training! – mh clay
If I had a daughter by Aekta Khubchandani
If I had a daughter
I’d have tears in my eyes
If I had a daughter
I’d erase the word ‘love’
And emphasize on slaughter
If I had a daughter
I’d treat her like a son
I’d maybe tear her apart
Hoping she isn’t left
With much of a heart
If I had a daughter
I’d train her brain
To earn money
And forget all about
Paradise, love and honey
To talk to praise
And talk to be praised
If I had a daughter
I’d make her wear
Long shorts and
Summer full sleeved tops
If I had a daughter
I’d treat her like a son
And tell her
To walk like a lady
To swallow her sorrows
And to be rough and tough
To hold her chin up
And take in the tears
Before they dare
To slip and fall
If I had a daughter
I’d tell her that
Red is for love not
But for blood
That flows and blots
If I had a daughter
I’d have tears in my eyes.
April 24, 2017
editors note: Shouldn’t be; but so, it is. – mh clay
Green Tea Bedroom by Mike Zone
Lost in the moment
the sight of C’s saucer shaped eyes
void dark
anything but desolation
millions of galaxies
born
ignited
splendid illumination
entwined nudes like a cosmic serpent
staring at cherry blossoms
on a blue canvas background
April 23, 2017
editors note: Firecracker space love blossoms in the blue. – mh clay
••• Short Stories •••
Happy Need-a-Read Day! This week's tale comes from Contributing Writer Jenean McBrearty.
Here's what short story editor, Tyler Malone has to say about this week's featured read:
"We don’t need an artist to tell us that we’re works of art, but keep searching for genius to explain us, validate us, make us something more than what we see, something more than an assembly of struggle and routine. Still, that’s the grove where beauty grows and grows and grows until it dies."
Here's a 278 words of "There’s a Word for That" to get you goin':
(photo "Sound Decay"by The Second Shooter)
“There’s a French word for the expressions Manet paints on his models. Gayua’s anomie. There is no more moral constraint. And why not? The liberte, equalite and fraternite of 1793 has dissolved all social conventions into pulp. They’re now called pretentions. Modernists are all around us. Manet understood the exhaustion of life that has made us nothing more than stunned observers,” Leticia Dumond, remarked to the other guests. She’d accidentally met Manet in 1881, when he’d returned to Paris in failing health and began work on his last Salon painting, A Bar at the Follies Bergere. Ernest Chesneau, the art critic, had become unwell with gout while visiting the Dumonds, his long-time friends.
“Manet has inquired about my health, the beggar,” Chesneau said dismissively. “Leticia, please deliver my reply tout suite.” On the back of his calling card, he wrote: It’s my impression I’ll survive.
Fourteen-year-old Leticia had handed the card to Manet’s maid, and she accepted it just as Manet descended the stairs. “Who is this lovely young messenger?” he asked. She’d stuttered her name, curtsied, and bolted. Twelve years later she recalled the meeting with pride, being the only guest of Mme. LaFranc’s who’d met the painter of the controversial Olympia—the painting that was still a topic of conversation to the bourgeois ladies of Calais.
How Leticia loved to retell the story whenever Manet’s name was spoken! This being Tuesday, and Tuesday being Jeane LaFranc’s luncheon day, her half dozen well-dressed friends were once again delivering their commentaries on propriety and performances of French artists they admired. They were also well versed in the personal problems of Jeane’s Friday better-dressed supper friends.
This Tuesday was special...
Get the rest of the 718 delish words of this tale right here!
••• Open Mic •••
••• Open Mic •••
Join Mad Swirl & Swirve this 1st Wednesday of May (aka 05.03.17) at 8:00 SHARP as we continue to swirl up our mic madness at our mad mic-ness home, Dallas’ City Tavern!
This month we will be hosting the 2nd Annual Dr. Googily-Eyes Healing Circus & Mad Swirlin’ Medicine Show: Inciting the Rise of YES and the Fall of NO. (‘Nuff said? yeah, we thought so;)
Come on out, one & all. Get a heapin’ helpin’ of musical mad grooves from Swirve and if the spirit is movin’ ya get yourself a spot on our open mic list. Come to be a part of this collective creative love child we affectionately call Mad Swirl. Come to participate. Come to appreciate. Come to swirl-a-brate!
Catch us swirlin' up our madness at The City Tavern located at 1402 Main Street • Dallas, TX
P.S. If you're a Facebook'r and want to get on our pre-list, visit our event page and let us know you're gonna be there.
•••••••
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...
Day Dreamin',
Johnny O
Chief Editor
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
Madelyn Olson
Visual Editor
••• The Mad Gallery •••
“NORM” (above) by featured artist David Ross. To see more of David’s mad illustrations, as well as our other featured artists, visit our Mad Gallery!
••• The Poetry Forum •••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we tippled tea in ecstasy; we shed tears for a daughter; we bit a lying dogger; we trained face to no smiler be; we took the sheen from gangrene; we pushed back doom in a waiting room; we got an old bod out of bed smiling. Every day a new one. ~ MH Clay
MY OLD BODY by Bradford Middleton
I wake up all alone
And for once am grateful as
The muscles in my back
And arms hurt bad this morning
But at least I have peace
And time to ease my poor old
Body back into some kind of
Older state back when it could
Handle so much more than just
A night in bed all alone
April 29, 2017
editors note: Coming to grips, while loosening your grip. – mh clay
Waiting Room by Lisa Moak
These are the days we dread, the days of unknowing. Life is fragile as an egg. You never know when a crack will appear and the yolk will spill away. Your test came back—wrong. We wait, more tests are done, more waiting. The longer we wait the more scenarios we concoct, dreaming about dark tumors flooding organs, masses teeming with life waiting to erupt. We google, we ask, we read, still we wait. Your smile has left as you turn your light inside searching for answers, questioning what you ate, drank, or smoked in the past. “I am healthy, or so I thought,” the sadness in your voice apparent. You feel betrayed. You run, you do yoga, eat sensibly, watch your weight and drink in moderation, but now this organ inside mocks you. You can’t see or feel it. You only have heard of it and its rebellion. The phone doesn’t ring today.
We wait.
April 28, 2017
editors note: May our scenarios run unfounded. Please, let it be “negative.” (We welcome Lisa to our crazy congress of Contributing Poets with this submission. Read more of her madness on her new page – check it out.) – mh clay
this was the first time I’d seen gangrene by Tom Pescatore
this was the first time I’d seen gangrene
afterward I had a portrait drawn of me
I paid nothing for it
tho he only needed
15 dollars to grab a bed to sleep for the night
it was 100 degrees and the air
soured
this was the first time I’d seen gangrene
it grew from his leg like fungus
hard as sponge
soft and death-like against the pants he struggled
to pull up
the color was dull
and muffled
I forced the thin white paper into my bag
knowing it would crease and tear
knowing it
would come to nothing in some trash bin
somewhere
this was the first time I’d seen gangrene
April 27, 2017
editors note: Disturbed; would draw the disease, while the disease draws you. – mh clay
Handshakes Are a Gateway Salutation by Ryan Quinn Flanagan
to be avoided at
all costs
a ruse of the Russian
or the Chinese –
let’s say the Chinese
for effect…
Disarming
just like Oppenheimer
before the bomb.
Getting you to smile
when your face should
know better.
April 26, 2017
editors note: Every salesman’s ploy, to be every buyer’s boy. – mh clay
Swelling of Lies in His Throat by Bhargab Chatterjee
Gradually
I have become accustomed
to the biting
of my unfaithful dog.
Every time
his uneasy canines
get locked
into the bloodless flesh
of my thigh,
I shout in pain
until my neck
gets as thin
as truth.
When my flesh is torn apart
and the dog is free,
he develops a huge swelling
of lies
in his throat.
April 25, 2017
editors note: No truth? No training! – mh clay
If I had a daughter by Aekta Khubchandani
If I had a daughter
I’d have tears in my eyes
If I had a daughter
I’d erase the word ‘love’
And emphasize on slaughter
If I had a daughter
I’d treat her like a son
I’d maybe tear her apart
Hoping she isn’t left
With much of a heart
If I had a daughter
I’d train her brain
To earn money
And forget all about
Paradise, love and honey
To talk to praise
And talk to be praised
If I had a daughter
I’d make her wear
Long shorts and
Summer full sleeved tops
If I had a daughter
I’d treat her like a son
And tell her
To walk like a lady
To swallow her sorrows
And to be rough and tough
To hold her chin up
And take in the tears
Before they dare
To slip and fall
If I had a daughter
I’d tell her that
Red is for love not
But for blood
That flows and blots
If I had a daughter
I’d have tears in my eyes.
April 24, 2017
editors note: Shouldn’t be; but so, it is. – mh clay
Green Tea Bedroom by Mike Zone
Lost in the moment
the sight of C’s saucer shaped eyes
void dark
anything but desolation
millions of galaxies
born
ignited
splendid illumination
entwined nudes like a cosmic serpent
staring at cherry blossoms
on a blue canvas background
April 23, 2017
editors note: Firecracker space love blossoms in the blue. – mh clay
••• Short Stories •••
Happy Need-a-Read Day! This week's tale comes from Contributing Writer Jenean McBrearty.
Here's what short story editor, Tyler Malone has to say about this week's featured read:
"We don’t need an artist to tell us that we’re works of art, but keep searching for genius to explain us, validate us, make us something more than what we see, something more than an assembly of struggle and routine. Still, that’s the grove where beauty grows and grows and grows until it dies."
Here's a 278 words of "There’s a Word for That" to get you goin':
“There’s a French word for the expressions Manet paints on his models. Gayua’s anomie. There is no more moral constraint. And why not? The liberte, equalite and fraternite of 1793 has dissolved all social conventions into pulp. They’re now called pretentions. Modernists are all around us. Manet understood the exhaustion of life that has made us nothing more than stunned observers,” Leticia Dumond, remarked to the other guests. She’d accidentally met Manet in 1881, when he’d returned to Paris in failing health and began work on his last Salon painting, A Bar at the Follies Bergere. Ernest Chesneau, the art critic, had become unwell with gout while visiting the Dumonds, his long-time friends.
“Manet has inquired about my health, the beggar,” Chesneau said dismissively. “Leticia, please deliver my reply tout suite.” On the back of his calling card, he wrote: It’s my impression I’ll survive.
Fourteen-year-old Leticia had handed the card to Manet’s maid, and she accepted it just as Manet descended the stairs. “Who is this lovely young messenger?” he asked. She’d stuttered her name, curtsied, and bolted. Twelve years later she recalled the meeting with pride, being the only guest of Mme. LaFranc’s who’d met the painter of the controversial Olympia—the painting that was still a topic of conversation to the bourgeois ladies of Calais.
How Leticia loved to retell the story whenever Manet’s name was spoken! This being Tuesday, and Tuesday being Jeane LaFranc’s luncheon day, her half dozen well-dressed friends were once again delivering their commentaries on propriety and performances of French artists they admired. They were also well versed in the personal problems of Jeane’s Friday better-dressed supper friends.
This Tuesday was special...
Get the rest of the 718 delish words of this tale right here!
••• Open Mic •••
••• Open Mic •••
Join Mad Swirl & Swirve this 1st Wednesday of May (aka 05.03.17) at 8:00 SHARP as we continue to swirl up our mic madness at our mad mic-ness home, Dallas’ City Tavern!
This month we will be hosting the 2nd Annual Dr. Googily-Eyes Healing Circus & Mad Swirlin’ Medicine Show: Inciting the Rise of YES and the Fall of NO. (‘Nuff said? yeah, we thought so;)
Come on out, one & all. Get a heapin’ helpin’ of musical mad grooves from Swirve and if the spirit is movin’ ya get yourself a spot on our open mic list. Come to be a part of this collective creative love child we affectionately call Mad Swirl. Come to participate. Come to appreciate. Come to swirl-a-brate!
Catch us swirlin' up our madness at The City Tavern located at 1402 Main Street • Dallas, TX
P.S. If you're a Facebook'r and want to get on our pre-list, visit our event page and let us know you're gonna be there.
•••••••
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...
Day Dreamin',
Johnny O
Chief Editor
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
Madelyn Olson
Visual Editor
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