The Best of Mad Swirl : 05.20.17

The Best of Mad Swirl : 05.20.17
"My works are an imitation of my own past and present." ~ Barbara Hepworth ••• The Mad Gallery ••• “LITTLE LAMB” (above) by featured artist Joseph Shepard. To see more of Joseph’s mad collages, as well as our other featured artists, visit our Mad Gallery! ••• The Poetry Forum ••• This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we[read more]

The Best of Mad Swirl : 05.13.17

The Best of Mad Swirl : 05.13.17
"I have begun to think of life as a series of ripples widening out from an original center." ~ Seamus Heaney ••• The Mad Gallery ••• “MEAT” (above) by featured artist Joseph Shepard. Mad Swirl’s newest featured visual artist, Joseph Shepard, while a bit of a renaissance artist, really wow’d us with his collage work that we just[read more]

New Featured Artist : Joseph Shepard

New Featured Artist : Joseph Shepard
Mad Swirl’s newest featured visual artist, Joseph Shepard, while a bit of a renaissance artist, really wow’d us with his collage work that we just can’t resist sharing. Each collage is incredibly unique and though a bit of a blur when minimized, you can really get lost in them when you look up close. At[read more]

Cubby Hole

I crawl through the extremities of a cubby hole
Sheltered through the cracks of a lonely shelter
Repeating myself through the stark crevices
A story to be told over baseless tea.

Watching the Catholics watching
The prim waitresses milling about
An insult overheard, though, blank to offers
Of salvation through works, cussing the wasters.

Buttonholing the professors, slick with complements
The plagiaristic soul skims the laptop
Scans his grievance to the highest bidder,
Probably chuckling at his desk in his office

Ghosts remain in their territory. All I know
Is he didn’t vacate this earth soon enough
An exile from propriety, offering my honour
The orgasmic grail never settling matters.

Enough money to eat and drink
Some satellite watching eats at your soul
A limiting barcode sends you to hell
All your persuasions burning in your brain.

I sit in the cubby hole, darkened, safe
Until what’s over with comes around again
Never loving you, in stead of research
I crawl out again, wiser and better.

– Patricia Walsh

Recently Published

Letter to my Therapist

Dear Fiona,
My dear therapist
I am sorry
I am sorry for ghost white lies
I say
You labeled me
PTSD or ptsd or PeeTee Es Dee
And blah blah blah
It[read more]


he might just be that man
sinking into the sidewalk
as you walk by he
smiles at you but
continues downward
to that place we call
and he is glad to[read more]

To my child-eyes

from The Baseball Key

To my child-eyes
The gear looked like knights’ armor.
The implicit danger of the aptly titled foul tip and
My nads covered by a reinforced[read more]

Dying in a Fire in Your Son’s Bedroom

Dying in a Fire in Your Son’s Bedroom

The marriage was over. Pete realized the damage was irreparable when Julie, in a manic episode, disappeared without warning and returned three days later with a twelve-hundred-dollar puppy she morbidly named Kitty Genovese. Having been replaced emotionally and physically, Pete took over the room of his twelve-year-old son Elliott, who was then expatriated to the couch. Three days later a brand new bunk bed was delivered to the house in a cardboard box covered with damp handprints. Elliott took up permanent residence in his sister’s bedroom. Pete’s guilt was assuaged and[read more]
Digging the Day

Digging the Day

In the early bright of this damned yet blessed universe, the sweet taste of white madness numbs my tongue and cigarette smoke inhaled fills my lungs. At the foot of the bed, that chick’s panties lay over my feet, while sheets are leaking off the bed all over the floor. It goes that way, doesn't it? We slept with an open window, now feeling winter’s bite, but before that, we rode the carousel of snow covered horses with sharp shoulders which poked us here and there. We rode up and down,[read more]


Rubber tires don’t stick to asphalt in August as boys stick to bragging while drinking. Longnecks and short stories in a shuttlebus jammed on a Texas highway nowhere near wide enough. “Don’t say anything about what we’re talking about, we’re different. We just needed to get out of high school and grow.” I assure groomsmen and their groom I’m as trustworthy as the dead. “All that matters,” continues the best man, the library of a groom’s affairs, “was none of us were with the same girl.” The groomsman, still smelling of youth and[read more]