There is a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in.

Leonard Cohen

••• The Mad Gallery •••

Balance #5 by Shloka Shankar (created in collaboration with Vishal Prabhu)

To immerse yourself in Shankar’s (& Prabhu’s) uniqueness, as well as our other resident artists, take a virtual stroll thru Mad Swirl’s Mad Gallery!

••• The Poetry Forum •••

This last week on Mad Swirl’s Poetry Forum… we strained in strife o’er afterlife; we learned the rule of man and mule; we stopped pursuit of forbidden fruit; we came from under to feed a hunger; we had no fit just lack of it; we sought a boat to stay afloat; we raised a rant ‘bout the money plant; we were seen all ‘round when caught, pants down. We feel, all; reveal all. ~ MH Clay

Kompromat by Richard Evans

half-dressed and or naked
genitalia of the highest order is on display

then in walked the king of all media
this moment crystalized to a shock jock

the smell of access Hollywood
permeating from their fingers
high-ranking descendants of the Bolsheviks
hiding behind a concealed lens

lodged in the heart of a dossier
that night of reckoning to be sure

pieces of a puzzle being assembled
then glued together by senate testimony

if you were not paying attention, you missed it
those who are subjective usually do

September 21, 2024

editors note: Word gets around when caught, pants down. – mh clay

ASPIDISTRA AHOY! by Amita Sarjit Ahluwalia

Stunned by the truth and higgledy-piggledy-ness of leaves
Eyes, birds, butterflies and tiny insects wander as in mazes
But cannot escape and keep returning into the churning
Of iridescent ideas and messy emotions, elementary instincts
Fluttering hovering landing tasting flying buzzing culling lulling
Realising the spring as in season and in well or water
Of you choice afforded by indulgent parents
Earth and Sky , cousins Wind, Water, Snow, Fire, Rain and Dew
What did you ask for in that labyrinth of grasses
Tall and green crowned with bulrushes and feathery white tassels
Or flowing in water like the wet hair of girls
Lifted and tossed over their arms filled with unruly tributes
Of long-stemmed bunches of wild prairie flowers
And the laughter of children spilling into the darker sadnesses of life
Like komorebi, like leaf-dappled sunlight, on a mossy forest floor
Reminding you of the grinding of routine in city walls
Pressing in around you like the daily commute and soul-sapping money-work
That you do and learn how banknotes are not green leaves
And never shall be? What did you pray for in your despair, dripping drops from straight wet long brown hair?
Your case is hopeless, said the powers-that-be,
Be it before or after the election, and regardless of who wins,
Because you cannot, but do keep trying.
Cling to the money plant, and with Orwell,
Keep the Aspidistra flying.

September 20, 2024

editors note: And your sh*t shovel moving. – mh clay

THE LAST LIFEBOAT by John L. Yelavich

We’re all challenged by extremes.
A changing society inundated us,
with anxiety’s wasteful pessimism.

Gone are those safe, sweet days,
when life wasn’t so cynical,
opinions insightful, not so critical.

The world is a troubled place,
compassion doled out in increments,
void of grace, mercy, and gratitude.

Greed derailed us from those in need,
we sidestep homeless on the streets,
while veterans fight for paltry benefits.

An impassive congress worries us all,
they’ve become self-serving whores,
and mercenaries for D.C. lobbyists.

Special interests are front and center,
with voices loud and rancorous,
all seeking their piece of the pie.

Once a country of dignified orators,
statesman-like debate has waned,
compromise is now a four-letter word.

Political bloggers mixed bag of fodder,
is often caustic and misses the mark,
leaving the ill-informed with ambiguity.

Collaborative sources: broken, dispirited,
the truth is questionable and hard to find,
often conveyed with smoke and mirrors.

What’s our destiny, what lies ahead?
Each day we will never truly know.
What chance do we have to make it right?

Future isn’t laden with trust, hope and light,
storms ahead, search for that last lifeboat,
stay afloat, don’t be a postscript’s footnote.

September 19, 2024

editors note: Remind me – when were those “safe, sweet days?” – mh clay

Hosed by Marjorie Pezzoli & Christina Chin

(photo by Marjorie Pezzoli)

Jumble sales
all the hoses
don’t fit

Norge Repair failure
I kept the pencil

September 18, 2024

editors note: And, the warranty card? (We welcome Marjorie to our crazy congress of Contributing Poets with this submission. Read more of her madness on her new page – check it out.) – mh clay

under the table, you get scraps by Guest Poet Casey Renee Kiser

he said i wasn’t any kind
of centerfold,
he’d seen it all before and really,
i was barely a centerpiece,
more like a side dish, or a corner
piece of a side dish,
worthy of only plastic utensils

i sat with my stuffed animals
under the table
until Shame left the room
my inner child mumbled
something about bedtime
and nightlights. i said,
you’re not helping

i only came out from under
his splintered table
when the hunger took hold
of my tongue,
whipping me around and back
into shape

September 17, 2024

editors note: Working up an appetite as entree or (soon to be) absent oer d’oeuvre. – mh clay

Unlit neon cabaret by Guest Poet Sebastian Mejia

Unlit neon cabaret
Framed by deep purple Texas sage
Mismatched furniture
via exquisite corpse
Adorn the bare buffet

Bordering the stage in the halal strip club
He brushes aside the flier on his table
An earnest promise of
Big Tits and Homemade Hummus

–How bout it, habibi?–

Fully nude spare a rattling belt
She glides through the flat passing sea
Of the nearly empty club

–The usual?–

He fights the urge to avert his gaze
Sweat rolling down his forehead
Like rain on a treated car window
Amoeboid splitting and joining

–Turkish Coffee? Six creams, three sugars?–

He wipes his brow and nods his head
Disturbed and comforted
By the ease for which she remembered his order

–Oh and are you gonna be sucking my toes again?–

He rushes out spraying cologne and praying for forgiveness
Fruitless attempts to hide
The shame and artificial coconut

But like pushing on a public hand sanitizer dispenser
That ends up being empty
He feels even dirtier in his quest for absolution

–See you next week, habib–

September 17, 2024

editors note: One halal of a time the imam would not absolve. – mh clay

JERUSALEM by David Allard

Me ride a mule
into the warm white water
and jump down
and wash me mule
as the light she dims and the stars
they start to jewel up the sky

Me braids and beads
swing as me scrub

The mule she whinny and tremble
so me murmur “don’t worry”
as me rub away the day’s dry sweat
and the water licks me legs
faithless mermaid’s tongues

Fat white man
his face burnt
his eyes sunk and shrunk
from the day’s white light
from folds of skin and wild grey hair
he call me from his long beach chair
“Heyu, Judah boy
don’t let yer fuggin mule
shit on the sand again” –
from his long beach chair
and me think of a shark beached
when the waters parted
longing for one last mouthful
of sweet live flesh

Me mount the mule bareback
and we ride out in the sea
dripping moonlit diamonds
then out the sea and
into the dark hill
where palm fronds they dizzy dance and sway
before the rising storm.

September 16, 2024

editors note: Best to shelter from sharks in a storm. (We welcome David to our crazy congress of Contributing Poets with this submission. Read more of his madness on his new page – check it out.) – mh clay

Eyes Of Dead Remembrance by Randall Rogers

Wondering
How they think
Do and feel
In Heaven
How will it be
The passing
To their state
Of time
Complete indifference
When mind’s eye
Leaves the building
Who wants an
Afterlife
If there’s no God?

September 15, 2024

editors note: Is there is; or, is there ain’t? – mh clay

••• Short Stories •••

Drift on into this week’s featured read, “The Lament“ by Contributing Writer Mehreen Ahmed.

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

The storm never stops, but the eye–the eye moves.

Here’s a few waves to get you on your way:

Homesteady ~ Tyler Malone

The wind was rough. I woke up. In the early dawn, the door rattled in the storm. My pain increased. I held on to the flimsy bed frame. A sweet summer’s day, the winds revved up in the hands of a novice driver. Five years of age. Another midmorning, some clouds had gathered. I opened the windows and a sudden gust of wind whipped my face as it passed through the hut. My hair blew wild over my face, veiling it in a mass of dark locks. I saw the layers of dark clouds in the distance; each layer, a different shade of gray. The daisies down the mountain danced in the ferocity of the winds. Yellow little souls pushing up and the bleeding blades of grass. There was a sudden knock on the door. A ship had wrecked off the peninsula…

Get the rest of this requiem right here.