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Grats in advance!
The Mad Swirl Staffers

•••••••

What art is, in reality, is this missing link, not the links which exist. It’s not what you see that is art; art is the gap.

Marcel Duchamp

••• The Mad Gallery •••

GRAPE WAFFLES AND FIVE IRONS ~ Rip Bender

To see all of Rip’s whimsically primitive yet sophistically dark works, as well as our other resident artists (50+ and counting!) take a virtual stroll thru Mad Swirl’s Mad Gallery!

••• The Poetry Forum •••

This last week on Mad Swirl’s Poetry Forum… we took a wild whirl with a bad, bad girl; we looked above for life in love; we made not light of a wretched plight; we haiku’d three nearby the sea; we slung a new slant on a cock fight rant; we meted means to eat your greens; we pondered our fate, might change be too late? Our questions are not suggestions. ~ MH Clay

Spinning sprinkler by Hem Raj Bastola

There are not any
Swirling clouds above.
Sun is so warm
And pleasing.
Offering some heat
In the winter days.

Immense silence
Rings in my ears.
Going between the lines:
Basking in the sun.
Scavengers are gyrating
I can see them,
Reading for the prey.

Winter
On its final performance
Has not left
The theater yet!
The gale along the sun
Is mild and soothing.

Peach tree
Has already
Started blooming
Along with prevailing winter.
I doubt human race is:
Heading to the light?
Or, heading
To the dark!

As untimely
Acting seasons
Did you hear it’s a threat!
Or imbalance immediate?
Regarding this
Ecological change
I have seen
Many ears deaf
Which is already
Too late to realize.

Where as
The gale is trying
To turn the pages
Of my book.
And I hear only
The sprinkler
By the garden
Spinning.

July 27, 2024

editors note: Can you hear it? – mh clay

Semper Infidelis by Mark Young

You might complain,
whine, throw a fit, but
technology has delivered
a proven, revolutionary
thin film light source
which protects the believer
against the hatred of
satanic forces. I’m not
quite sure how others
might describe this,
but the Marine Corps
calls it consumerism
& thinks it’s played a
vital role in combat-
readiness & terrorist
prevention by forcing
animals to put vegetables
on the plate when
they eat other animals.

July 26, 2024

editors note: Best for a balanced diet. Eat up! – mh clay

The Only Funny Thing About a Cock Fight Is Its Name by Tyler Malone

Genesis Sunday sunrise, when god slept
through erratic bullet holes shot behind the sun’s back.
What was left of themselves, flags blessed in barbwire dance
living property line alongside peach bulb color decay,
iced sweet tea cleaned teeth guzzled by land squatters
away from city utilities but not waters of life—
chicken wire cages, masked roosters tethered to stakes,
roped flight, a tied low down menagerie told blue sky,
keeps everyone down.

Healing cymbals moseyed mesquite trees, Buddhists—
combat veterans, their neighboring temple with no Jesus,
just shrine lizards, wet frogs on shade-cool stone floors,
shaved heads for fewer problems when kissing mirrors
sick from war, they hung hunting fence flags,
horseback Buddha jewels bound for us as pack hunters,
windhorse riders glorified ghosts that took time to haunt.

God suits as a name for slop trekked everywhere from nowhere,
hot copper claws, no rumor of ice water, only drownings, sweat
spit across Coke black teeth that named children to witness
the sun open in apology that it didn’t notice us sooner
but asked questions of how we dared to spend half of our days
—judged with zen, of course, as mama said there’d be these days
but she didn’t know mana heaven sent as sunfire acid ash.

god
has always been a very tall person, on high on prowl
coming down to drink off someone’s else’s tongue, never
finds a home to roost as heat seeps from people in exodus
as milk boils without question and honey gold flags writhe
at a time of day live oaks kept quiet about what happened w/
honed gore-hungry clucks as hanshō hand bell rings kept
trailer park spirits lifted tornado-high down dirt road nirvana,
no sweat or prayer escaped a man in red bandanna gloves
as masks lifted and birds were cured to life blind to rage
as young brothers took one another to the butcher shop—
an eye disappeared in a gory rooster talon-dash.

There for one another until the very end, and we couldn’t
be at fault for body-on-fire screams, muted prayer cymbals,
Eden garden pets with open chest exposed organ skin,
blood mud, enough for a lifetime of chicken seconds
feathers at feet of the future flush with dharma,
it demanded a quiet rooster under quiet sun,
a committed talon deep in a throat, a quiet song
in feathered full body death twitch, a soft head
detached in peaches, death dressed up for church service
at a dead thing fence—reptile spines, owl head, boar, doe
fossils, sun bright mortismiles. A new rooster ornamented
windhorse prayer fence flag bullet holes with no rattle
of demolished brain death fresh for reincarnation.

“We’re blessed with Sunday supper—” the feather mass
was gathered, lightened after spirit evaporated into void to return
as a numinous grand slam! Won’t it be nice to be as tall as god
again
sulfuric hellspit well water cleanses hands for church,
Sunday god looked like dry river bed aluminum logos,
claw-drawn blood names death match roosters call ringside
gawkers needing to be seen and heard as if lives depend on
layered innumerable observers thickly wide-eyed to renew
hope we’ll renew as wandering thoughts across existence,
divine providence is what falls through freely given wind
ensuring god sees what existed and teaches us how to die
once.

July 25, 2024

editors note: With one death to give, why give it to a chicken outfit like this? – mh clay

3 sea haiku by Guest Poet DJ Tyrer

sand, sea, sangria
break from mundane drudgery
illicit romance

retreat sea, away!
flow back, revealing the mud
sucking, squelching, slick

waiting for a bus
seagulls raucously echo
a deep engine thrum

July 24, 2024

editors note: A secret tryst, a seaside shanty. – mh clay

PLIGHT by Heller Levinson

battered down, scorched, hemmorhoidal,
gnarled, . . . without
options, . . pitted peculiar, the
stuff of heath & jagged incline, a
fungus-threaded tapestry,
built to dismember, to bruise
easily, to lament automatically,
rigged to a demolition algorithm,
to an outmoded geography,
to tuberous fetches,
with graphs the new homestead,
only this
puss-oozing exudation

July 23, 2024

editors note: Call a nurse! – mh clay

In Love by Beate Sigriddaughter

She limps through paradise, sometimes
with an aching heart. Her crutches are dancing
and books. Anything to avoid reality, really.
When she dies, she wants to be able to say this
was a damn good story. With her insufferable
insecurity, she frequently feels frumpy
in the neighborhood of everybody’s fantasies.
Learned modesty might be the trouble here.
She never understood how her unruly
exuberance could be so irritating to others.
The last time she was going to save the world,
many lilacs ago, everybody seemed keen
on talking her out of it. About that time, too,
she fell in love with a world that kept
cautioning her she simply wasn’t good enough—
without even specifying for what. Still,
she keeps applauding stars and junipers
with unrequited adoration because
the moment she is not in love everything hurts.

July 22, 2024

editors note: Till we leave it, gotta love it. – mh clay

SHE by Guest Poet Karen Cline-Tardiff

She climbed into the backseat, sat on everyone,
Popped her gum then threw it out the window.
She was the girl who flung herself through the
roof of a moving vehicle going 80 miles an hour
down Harry Hines Boulevard on a Friday night
She was broken into so many pieces no one
could count her scars or her heartaches but
she didn’t stop to collect those fragments
of a past she was running away from. No she
never knew where she was going from one
day to the next hour or even what she would
do once she got where she thought she was going.
She hid behind loud-mouthed obscenities and
flashed her tits at passing cars because she could.
She was on a rollercoaster laughing as she felt
her stomach drop because she realized she did
have one after all, despite not eating since…when?
White crosses from the gas station and liquor from
across the Oklahoma border where they never
asked for her ID because she was sex walking.
She danced to Trent Reznor and got loaded at
the Lizard Lounge and did blow in the gender-doesn’t-
matter bathrooms with whoever had some.
She was a lanky drink of water with alcohol breath
and a death wish of uncertain methods of how to get there.
She slit her wrists in the bathroom so no one
would have to clean up after her and the last
thing she heard was her mother’s disappointed
voice in her head upset about the stain it might leave.
It was the silence letting the voices seep in.
She turned on the faucet, plunged her wrists
under the water and wrapped towels around them
held in place with duct tape and zip ties, she swore
it was the latest fashion when she was at the club
later that night, pushing everyone aside to dance.
She was whiskey on the rocks and speed on the tongue,
she was the fastest, the loudest, the -est of everything.
She fucked them in the parking lot under the highway,
she blew them in the back of other strangers’ cars.

She disappeared late one night and to this day no one
knows where she went or how she got there.
She doesn’t remember, can’t recall, wouldn’t tell
you if she could. But she’s quieter. Slower. Smaller.
Less loud and less -est. Contemplative. Quiet.
Writing poems about her past before she burns them.

July 21, 2024

editors note: Writing vs. dying; what happens next? – mh clay

••• Short Stories •••

If you’re looking for a story that strums your strings, “The Grudges We Carry“ by Contributing Writer & Poet Marianne Szlyk might be the melody you need.

Here’s what Short Story Editor Tyler Malone has to say about this read’o the week:

The soundtrack to the ride plays at all times, but certain sparks never become a fire. But no matter how small, isn’t there warmth, still?

Here’s a few notes to get this ditty started:

Music to the People ~ Tyler Malone

At dinner, Mike Connelly, their host, holds forth while everyone else, even his wife Mitzi, listens.

“Future of Man was never a very good band. They were the original nepotism babies. Except for their drummer. He should have sung or rather growled ‘Hey, Joe’ instead of that whiny kid Frankie Gottlieb. And I could have channeled Jimi Hendrix better than little Joey Butler ever could. I don’t see the point of DJ Kristy, but she sure was cute. Too cute for young Frankie, though.”

The Future of Man. A band Mary hasn’t heard about in a long time. A band that used to mean so much to her, she thinks as she feels a catch in her throat. She swallows some white wine to drown that catch. It wouldn’t do to cry now. She will cry at home while she listens to The Future of Man’s songs. This morning Kristy emailed her that Frankie had died yesterday…

Groove on over right here to get the whole tune.

••• Open Mic •••

Join Mad Swirl this 1st Wednesday of August (aka 08.07.24) when we’ll be doin’ the open mic voodoo that we do do at our OC home, BARBARA’S PAVILLION!

Hosts Johnny O & MH Clay will open the mad mic, starting with some musical grooves brought to you by Swirve (Chris & Tamitha Curiel, Gerard Bendiks).

This month we will be featuring local Poet Roderick Richardson! MH says: Roderick’s work is brilliant satire and social commentary; addressing racism, economic disparity, the foibles of relationships, and more. You can’t miss this show.

Come one. Come all. Come to participate…

(preRSVP at our Facebook event page or send a message to openmic@madswirl.com)

Come to appreciate…

(join us LIVE at Barbara’s Pavillion- located at 323 Centre St, Dallas -OR- tune in to our Facebook LIVE feed starting at 8pm)

Come to be a part of this collective creative love child we affectionately call… Mad Swirl!

P.S. Here is the full line-up of remaining features for 2024:

September: Desmene Statum
October: PW Covington
November: Mad Swirl Open Mic 20th Anniversary
December: Holiday Special