“Words are made for a certain exactness of thought, as tears are for a certain degree of pain. What is least distinct cannot be named; what is clearest is unutterable.”
••• The Mad Gallery •••
The Hamburderler ~ Chuck Hatton
To see ALL of Hatton’s mad satirically illustrated renditions, as well as our other featured artists (45 total!), visit our Mad Gallery!
••• The Poetry Forum •••
This last week on Mad Swirl’s Poetry Forum… we full life followed from one small swallow; we dated in bubbles, millennium rebels; we recalled soup talks from knife in box; we brought dead to mind in a spit shoe shine; we sought sweet bliss in a corpse’s kiss; we held mass in a glass; we words forsook for what cats took. We find what we mind, in words opined. ~ MH Clay
The cats will know by Lidia Chiarelli
Among flowers and sills the cats will know it. – Cesare Pavese
A silver moon rises
a diaphanous path
on the ocean
Only a lonely cat
leads our way
The wind moans
and whispers its ancient story
Other days will come
it will be the time
of missing words
A time when
all our memories
one by one
in the winter silence.
March 16, 2019
editors note: Feline fraternize, find words or freeze. – mh clay
Chalice by Milenko Županović
in the mirror
of the past
at the bottom
March 15, 2019
editors note: What do you see at the bottom of yours? – mh clay
BEAUTIFUL CORPSE by Mel Waldman
(the words of a character in the unpublished short story, The Paranoid)
Beautiful corpse, beloved Mother of Creation, you are lovelier than life itself; Lilliputian perfection and little woman of grace, celestial creature and beloved lover, you are my exquisite corpse.
Beautiful corpse, I kiss your cold face and brush against a vast emptiness, a chilling Void. I kiss your vacant face. But you’re not there. I disappear inside your nothingness. Yet when I kiss your majestic mask of death, I become one with you, Mother of Creation, my lover. When I kiss your celestial face, I fall in love forever.
Beautiful corpse, Mother of Creation, you are lovelier than life itself; I close my ebony eyes, kiss your ghostly image, and receive your love. Your icy lips kiss my burning face and when ice and fire meet, we bless each other.
Now, I disintegrate, dissolve, and disappear; I drift into eternity and reunite with you and the sacred earth; I receive the blessing, the bliss, and the perfect moment when we are one; a beautiful corpse in death, in dust, one.
March 14, 2019
editors note: The closer comes that great reunion, the more ready we will be. – mh clay
HENRY’S ASHES by K.W. Peery
to Spanish Springs
had just been
at Our Mother
my spit shine
baby brother Jim
struggled to sing
March 13, 2019
editors note: When sad is a song and a recollection, there’s nothin’ like a spit shine shoe reflection. – mh clay
Snap by Phil Huffy
What sort of chap collects pocket knives,
consigned to basements, sheds and drawers?
Taken out, looked at and put back, sometimes
in an original box with a wildlife scene.
Their service often limited to the laceration
of writing paper and deconstruction of boxes.
Recipients of tiny drops of 3 in 1 oil to assure
smooth opening and a decisive snap,
their owners holding them as time travelers
to youthful and carefree days.
What sort of chap remembers the ancient kitchen
in which he watched Dad smoke, learned
to say “More soup, please,”
and received a red pocket knife, all for his own,
not knowing that he would someday dream of still
March 12, 2019
editors note: The sort who likes to have memories on hand. (We welcome Phil to our crazy congress of Contributing Poets with this submission. Read more of his madness on his new page – check it out.) – mh clay
Bubble Dater by Anish Vyavahare
On an urban Saturday evening
the drug of alcohol and loud noise,
and the lit thrill
of a police protected night
dulls our weekday serfdom,
it quells our existential thoughts,
it better maintains the spell –
the weekend keeps us enthralled.
Let us stay indoors
in case we match well
while we swipe right and left,
us disconnect-ed bubbles
floating in private space,
we meet in a virtual haze
fending off fantasies
of instant chemistry and
to humdrum exotic foreign vacays.
Let us chat inane,
unmade on long distance beds,
we need only look good in our DPs
while I chat with two,
you chat with four,
our eggs are in many baskets,
our pizzas are in square boxes,
our subscriptions are for binge watches,
we last till 3 before we drop off to sleep,
we dream wet
while we realise it is, but, a dream,
you, and I, millenium rebels,
we just hopped ship
onto another mainstream.
March 11, 2019
editors note: Anyone with connectivity and agile thumbs can play this game. – mh clay
Drink Me Small by Rose Aiello Morales
There’s a hard place where the heart goes,
recessed in forgotten lobes
retained from the time we knew no happy.
Now the frontal sings of joy, despair,
water flows, its drops are prescient,
telling us which way to go.
You’re a rock shined in places
other times rubbed raw with grief
abandoned in a far-off cave, a shroud.
The stone lies heavy on a chest
of doubt and pain, lifted, you see,
a gem appears in calloused hands
and somewhere in the labyrinth of turns
there is a pinpoint door, a needle of life,
drink me small and you shall find it.
March 10, 2019
editors note: One small sip, no easy quip, to pull diamonds from your breast. – mh clay
••• Short Stories •••
This week’s Need-a-Read feed comes from Mad Swirl first-timer John L. Yelavich.
Here’s what Short Story Editor Ty Malone has to say about John’s hope-filled tale, “Hands of Steel, Not Today“:
“Expectations? Kick ‘em to the curb! That’s the only way to dance down the street, not looking for a car or a kiss to hit you, but to know you’ll experience life.”
(photo “The Spectre” by Ty Malone)
Get yo’ read on right here!
••• Open Mic •••
Join Mad Swirl this 1st Wednesday of April (aka 04.03.19) at 8:00 SHARP when as we swirl up the mic at our mad mic-ness home, The Regal Room (located inside the Independent Bar & Kitchen) in the heart of Deep Ellum)!
This full-color, 82-page poetry collection is…
“about recalling the past and letting go. It’s about the town I call home and the poets I call friends. It’s about love and remorse, outrage and abandonment, but also hope. It’s about a woman’s journey through changes; aging, addictions, laments, misgivings, to eventual empowerment.”
If that teased ya the way it should have, then come and get you a copy for the most excellent price of $20!
Mad musical grooves from Swirve will start us off. After that, join in & share in the Mad Swirl’n festivities.
Come to be a part of this collective creative love child we affectionately call Mad Swirl Open Mic.
Come to participate.
Come to appreciate.
Come to Swirl-a-brate!
For you ‘bookers out there, check out our Facebook event page and get yourself a spot on our pre-list!
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…
Short Story Editor