Take a walk on the wild side.

Lou Reed

••• The Mad Gallery •••

“acuportel into the occult body revisited” by Mitchell Pluto

Mad Swirl is welcoming Mitchell Pluto back to the gallery this month with pieces that seem to burst themselves right open with color and chaos. Pluto layers paper and paint and transforms everyday scraps into dynamic compositions, each piece an integral part of the whole, feeling both spontaneous and deeply intentional. His work carries a raw energy, blurring the line between disorder and design. We’re not sure how he does it, but whatever he’s doing is working, and we’re blown away time and time again. ~ Madelyn Olson

To see all of Mitchell’s colorfully chaotic compositions, as well as our other resident artists, visit our Mad Gallery!

••• The Poetry Forum •••

This last week on Mad Swirl’s Poetry Forum… we found a haven with book mavens; we recalled what’s to like to read open mic; we meant for men a rodent blend; we took slow breaths, fired a quick death; we shamed the dopes with unclean hopes; we went whiskey sippin’, dark sky trippin’; we hustled proud for the lunch crowd; we got nothing lasting from past blasting. Blast anyway! ~ MH Clay

INTO DARK BROOKLYN STREETS by Mel Waldman

Into
dark Brooklyn streets

I
travel & explore forbidden places in Old Brooklyn & now
across labyrinthine streets curving around infinity

&
through lacunas I go craving revelations I can’t know

&
the eerie universe opens up
& drifting into Café Bizarro on Kings Highway
I discover a backroom sanctuary
a sacred tomb/private galaxy
for swallowing a vast Cappuccino Phantasmagoria
with a pinch of Jungian Shadow & still, I don’t know

But
soon, I rush slowly across decades to our antediluvian house on East 7th Street
the other side of Ocean Parkway & our barren universe
& listening to the roar & rumble, grumble & growl, & blast & boom
of the ferocious beat of unreality
I search for the lost boy of my youth

&
gazing into my broken soul punctured with sin & traumas,
I whisper to myself, “Can’t stay. Forever, I am far away.”
Can’t find the vanishing truth in the blast & boom of unreality.

& into
dark Brooklyn streets

I
travel again across labyrinthine streets curving around infinity

&
through lacunas I go craving revelations I can’t know

March 1, 2025

editors note: The searching is as engaging as the knowing. Travel and crave away! – mh clay

BOHO BREAKDOWN by Colleen Boueil

My tie-dye attitude has faded
every color wrung out in neutral
as I travel the world in my mind.
Wisdom always spins in frenzied grayscale
on vintage Technics turntables.
Needle’s been skipping a lot
but I’m still listening to my soul.
Boho attitude used to push me through
with young sips of Passion Pink and Spanada.
Mateus bottle took center stage
candles replaced the spirits…
lit up my flaxen waxen lifestyle.
All those drips of slow pastel tears
landed across dulled Formica counters.
Lunch crowds were always waiting though
swiveling around and around on red vinyl seats
counting thirsty green-eyed Kamikaze flies
and never quite grasping those brass rings.
I was hustling for coin to get educated
breathing inward virtual puffs of Boz
just doin’ like you do in New York
goin’ another round, not lookin’ down…
Maybe one day I’ll get to Portugal.

February 28, 2025

editors note: Don’t give up! We’ll get there one day. – mh clay

Slurred Philosophy by Richard LeDue

Sipping whisky while Beethoven turned
vinyl into thunder, and the thrift store
where you bought the record
was its own symphony
with a secondhand kitchenware orchestra.
Of course, we were both blacking out,
so our melody faded into the night,
but we didn’t notice,
and instead slurred philosophy
clearly making no sense.
The hangover proving we survived
just to do it all again
the next Saturday, when the dark sky
would willingly eat more of us
than forgotten music.

February 27, 2025

editors note: Those truths, evident only in their moments, demand replay. – mh clay

White Cotton Panties by Desmene M. Statum

I threw my period panties in the trash.
I have bled my last bloody Saturday, Sunday, Monday… ever.
White, 100% cotton
easily bleached
with salt and hydrogen peroxide,
cold water wash, then hot water rinsed,
granny panties.
I chuckled to myself
as I walked to the trash
and let go of reproduction
at the ending of my
genetic resurrection.
If men only knew,
how much time we spend
removing the evidence
of our own wounds,
if they considered the efforts
we started
as barely teenagers
to save our Guess jeans
satin blue skater skirts
and hiding our womanhood
with tie-dye, two pieces and tampons.
Would they wound us
so boldly
so flippantly, pettily?
Maybe you should run
from me
if your hopes are unclean,
unclear, murky,
or only self-serving.

February 26, 2025

editors note: Take a look inward fellas. Should you run? – mh clay

Transcend by Guest Poet Catherine Zickgraf

She smokes in bed now when undisturbed
by disowned hair coiled like snakes in her
sheets, dusted with skin off her legs, or by
ashes like cremation in her blanket ripples.

How chill her calm, resting well in a mess,
igniting a quick death or inhaling it slowly.

February 25, 2025

editors note: It’s coming how it will, so rest in your mess. – mh clay

That Operose Capybara by KJ Hannah Greenberg

That operose capybara reached to nestle among the farm’s ducks.
Such industry, such effort, found the feathery brutes grooming fur.
Interspecies socialization can occur when two-legged guardians allow
Various critters to mingle in safe domains, especially enclosures where
Predators might think twice about tasting rodent flesh or waterfowl skin.

In contrast, no mucky marshes ever foiled human plenums’ admixing.
Among resident halls, more importantly in government bureaus, people blend.
Certain cases of intermingling result in the worst sorts of legal coming together.
Free speech and press remain limited in their capacity to critique brawny leaders.
Too often, unlike chummy capybaras, human rodents are ill-disposed to help others.

February 25, 2025

editors note: Can we be capybaras? Or, are we rats? – mh clay

IT WAS BEAUTIFUL & MADE ME SMILE by Bradford Middleton

It’s 10pm Friday night & Mudhoney
Are in town & I’m sat here working on
These words as last night I did it again.

I went out & read my words to a
Crowd in a bar on the street of ill-
Repute & it was beautiful.

I read three short poems & it made
Me feel alive as the crowd clapped
Their approval at the end as I just
Slipped away, smoking a joint all
The way back to my room with
A smile on my face.

February 24, 2025

editors note: This is why; smiles all around. – mh clay

Friends of the Library Book Sale by Brian Wood

Books make us as much as we make them; they
Linger like late snowmelt, gushing in May;
Their hold on us must be the how and why
Of this byzantine book sale, put on by
Our local library. Mile upon mile
Of books, most priced at three dollars each, while
Helpful volunteers fill your shopping cart
Until it groans. If some recondite part
Of you needs a copy of Rabbit, Run,
Mike And Psmith, Put Out More Flags, or The Sun
Also Rises, you are in the right place.
This old steamy warehouse is a strange space
For books, but it is full of people who
Scoop up titles with both hands. Music, True
Crime, Food, Horror, Crafts, History, Romance…
There is a glow in this room, just a glance
Of happiness, impossible to name
Or isolate. My wife senses the same
And laughs at my full shopping bags: she says
“You may have problems.” In a happy daze,
I nod; a passing stranger then tells me
“You can’t have a problem with books.” Simply

Not true, of course, but you know what she means.
A great book is a gift, the soul of dreams,
And great writing opens a window you
Did not know was closed. An old book is new
Here, and a good one, a text that still lives,
Is like a last rain which so lately gives
Life to a lost summer, today’s blazon
Of wisdom sometimes light and now solemn;
For books make us as much as we make them.

February 23, 2025

editors note: Can’t think of a better problem to have! – mh clay

••• Short Stories •••

This weekend’s featured story, “Evil“ by Contributing Writer & Poet Chuck Taylor may not bring you salvation but it sure is one fun read!

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

Blessings are stories, so listen. They’re on the breeze.

Here’s how this attempted saving begins:

“End of Dead” by Tyler Malone

“Do you fear Satan?”

The street preacher asked Simon in front of the University Co-op. It was a cold December day and Simon was about to go in the store to shop for books to give as presents. Simon stopped and stood on the wide sidewalk of Guadalupe Street. The preacher was wearing a black shirt with a white preacher’s collar. The bookstore was right across from the University of Texas.

“Why do you ask?”

“You look troubled,” the preacher said

“I’m squinting because I’m walking into the sun,” Simon said.

“You ought to fear Satan.”

“Why?”

“He’s all around. He’ll get you. Just wait.”

“He won’t bring me a cup of coffee?”

“Ah, a worldly one.”…

See if Satan ends up getting him before the coffee comes, right here.

•••

If you’re needing a warming of the heart, “Bringing Home a Friend“ by Contributing Writer Sunil Sharma is sure to give you the warmest of fuzzies!

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

Magic is written onto the face of slim trees. It waits for you.

Here’s how this touching tail begins:

“Bringing Home a Friend” by Tyler Malone

“Do not leave me in the cold, please?”
The old man is startled. Nobody’s around. Of late, his head, full of noise.
He shrugs.
Time to go home!

Dark mantle with patches of grey, over the city.
The Snow Cap Park, Mountainberry Road, Brampton—bleak expanse.
Night arrives early in the wintry Canada with attendant solitude.

4.55 pm.
Gloom soon develops into an icy night.
The windows glow, red eyes of giants.
Silvery grass and grounds shimmer in the failing light.

The old man tightens the overcoat, pulls down the cap, straps on red gloves—a three-minute drill in safety.
“Do not leave me, grandpa,” the soft voice pleads.
Like a kid lost in the dark woods.

Dusk turns everything into shadowy figures.
“Take me home, please!” Same child-like pleading.
Nothing.

“I am HERE!”
Grandpa glances at the bench.
“Inside the pocket-book.”

There!
A pug with round eyes looks back from the glossy cover.
Grandpa bends down painfully, picks up the gift sent by a mysterious force.

As the book gets unwrapped, the squat figure leaps out of its pages, a grown-up dog.
A low, soft voice says, “Thanks grandpa for saving me.”…

Walk that mouse of yours right here & get the rest of this story.