To create one’s world in any of the arts takes courage.
Georgia O’Keeffe
••• The Mad Gallery •••
“Down the Drain” by Resident Artist Louella Lester
To see all of Louella’s naturally charming leafy scenes, as well as our other past featured artists, visit our Mad Gallery!
••• The Poetry Forum •••
This last week on Mad Swirl’s Poetry Forum… we wrote it as sane to make poetry from pain; we would to not bandy about with nose candy; we couldn’t wait, picked one from eight; we found some space in a sacred place; we Thursday lost, a few dimes tossed; we put up with more for convenience store; we Shakespeare spoiled to stop big oil. Our tale-ful toil can feelings roil; that’s our intent, anyway. ~ MH Clay
THE LIVELY ARTS IN LONDON’S WEST END by Brian Wood
At the old play we watch, when the daughter
Tells us “There’s nothing ill can dwell in such
A temple: if the ill spirit have so
Fair a house, good—” she is cut off by two
Would be protestors, who brandish three blue
Signs: Stop Oil Now. Stop The Big Banks. They throw
Confetti for some reason, perhaps much
Taken with the crowd’s surprised light laughter.
A few confused people (and who can blame
Them?) clap, assuming this must be The New
Art, but no, it is Occupy Something.
And by the time we arrive at Act III
(“How does thy honour? Let me lick thy shoe”)
The police have removed these confetti
Activists, one grinning, one sly, chanting
“I am become death; Big Oil is my name.“
Nothing good comes without change: one must run
A great risk. The debt we owe, to Havel,
Tyndale, and Voltaire, is deep. Ecrasez
L’infame sounds good in books but doing so
Another thing. Now protest is a show,
Meant for the web, and all your friends can say
Like, wow, and dude. Today’s iPhone rebel
Is a party of one, persuading none.
And sadly that is perhaps for the best;
Tyndale was first strangled, and then burned at
The stake, for the great sin of writing that
Which is boren of sprete, is sprete; today
He would be lectured, fined, and home by two.
We may rue that indifference is our new
Creed, but at least there’s no auto da fe,
A soul purged by fire and smoke, doubly blessed.
November 15, 2025
editors note: It’s no longer enough to “protest too much.” – mh clay
Hanging Out the Window by Guest Poet Jonathan Hayes
Still, in our underwear,
we yell, “Murderer!”
at the man hanging out his window
next building over from us,
as he knocks the pigeon nest
off his brick window ledge.
Yet, we will support his store
in the morning when I buy
my $1.50 24oz Budweiser,
and you will comment
on how the shelves have dust
and the prices are almost at cost.
November 14, 2025
editors note: Tolerance grows with convenience. – mh clay
forever lost Thursday afternoon by Preacher Allgood
back in the days of the twenty-cent burger
a dime got you three minutes on a pay phone
and three dimes got you a frosted mug of draft beer
and a bad number in their lottery got you shipped off to their war
and Trailways had a bus stop at a gas station in an out of the way town
every other Thursday they would drop off
an old grandmother back from visiting her grand kids
or a life insurance salesman following up on a lead
and sometimes a bus rat with a thirst for a beer
and one week you’re that bus rat
hair down to your shoulders and a satchel full of nothing
a handful of dimes in your pocket
you throw them on a worn bar top like they were magic beans
you hope they grow into vines that snake into the sky
but you won’t mistake them for a stairway to heaven
the bartender smokes Old Gold cigarettes and you bum one
an old gal on a barstool gives you one hell of an evil eye
the beer arrives in its frosted mug and the juke box coughs up a Lefty Frizzel
and you climb those vines into the clouds on a forever lost Thursday afternoon
November 13, 2025
editors note: Lost for what beer costs? Show me the (stair)way! – mh clay
Gnosis #2 – “The City pub” by Michael Holme
The beer’s unconsecrated,
but it’s a leveling drink.
People flock here in the day.
The pews give them a safe place.
I drift: an unbeliever
not having common thinking.
The truth is spider’s webbing;
time strengthening belonging.
I only see mirages.
The bar’s a cool oasis.
They don’t shun me for coming.
It strengthens their conviction.
Regulars are mainly male.
The whole’s less than adding parts.
I think Boddington’s bitter –
traps me. The barmaids read me.
The jukebox might be progress:
a lead to further comfort;
but an offer to play pool,
might be a cultic practice?
Paranoia’s consciousness.
November 12, 2025
editors note: Put your paranoia in the corner pocket. – mh clay
One out of… by Patrick Sweeney
one out of the eight things happy people do
November 11, 2025
editors note: Be in the number to pick a number. – mh clay
9 A.M. by Guest Poet Zayeed Anwar
I’m here to talk about addiction, my addiction
it is not noble, nor kind
there’s a drawbridge i have to cross at nine a.m. today
there are cars I have to beat before nine a.m. today
this is the fastest and slowest i can drive
on a highway with one hundred and forty dollars
half my savings, checkings – i’m not good with money
or vices, or staying around people for too long
i spend my time alone – i think i look better naked
i spend my time naked and alone
there’s white dust on the floor
and before nine a.m. today I search the carpet
on the floor, i’m so messy sometimes
when i’m inhaling, exhaling, pieces fall out of me
i think there’s a drawbridge i can pull down
lifelines, i love my family, and cocaine
i love cocaine; i love cocaine
i love addiction, and my family
i hope you know i am begging through the screen
or paper, or booklet, or bible
is it tired to say drug is a religion
i wish i didn’t blush, and look forward to,
and change my schedule, miss my work
i do it for him – cocaine
cocaine is a human construct, gendered
cocaine is a man who fucks me and is mean to me
November 10, 2025
editors note: Thanks for your honesty. Who else would like to share? – mh clay
THE ULTIMATE I POEM by Chuck Taylor
I have not shared here the poetry
of me brushing my teeth, the poetry
of my morning breakfast routine,
the story of the pills I swallow and why
I gave up shaving sixty years ago.
I am sure you’re curious to know
if I eat fried junk or funky vegetarian,
and I’ve not told you of my showers,
haircuts, and the removal of my
black rubber boots in the back
hallway that pisses my spouse off
after I’m done walking in the snow.
You are certain to want to know
if I go for beer or pot or both,
but my standard sexuality is cluttered
by the misdeeds of our known
male past. We have heard enough
of Juliet and Romeo. The future of
sex and love lies with the formerly
dispossessed. We Americans like
to think the future is more hopeful
than the past. Meanwhile I return
to telling you of the brand of cigars
I so dearly smoked, and the kind
of bikes I owned and rode around
on the roads of childhood. No more
here of mom and dad. Thanks to
Sigmund Freud for sending all us
artists on that never ending quest.
Have I told you of my houses? Did
I describe my cars and favorite toys?
Is the personal the only knowledge
we can trust in our misinformation
age? Only stupid poets are driven
by their hunger for money or fame.
Will I ever say enough on how the
will got me what I wanted and then
how storms of desire overwhelmed,
sending me down dark lost alleys?
I am very troubled and I’m sure you
you are dying to hear my horrid
little secrets. Oh, you have heard
it all before and you’re sick of all
the constant complaining? You say
you’ve got problems of your own?
Have you considered turning to
poetry to unburden your pain?
We can make each other worse.
November 9, 2025
editors note: Shameless pain measuring. – mh clay
••• Short Stories •••
Listen up! If you need a read, “Ah, Texas“ by Contributing Writer & Poet Chuck Taylor just might be what you’re needin’ to hear!
Here’s what Short Story Editor Tyler Malone has to say about our featured read:
We grow as Texas grows. Both big, both immense; both different.
Here’s how this one sounds off:
Lone Star Blur by Tyler Malone
It’s me you see in the photo on the web from the 1988 news article from the American Statesman. I am being arrested. Wasn’t I handsome, even if I looked stressed.
That was forty years ago when I worked for the Texas School for the Deaf. When I was released, I moved to Japan to teach English in Kobe. Luckily the Japanese must not have done a thorough background check.
I am not a professional writer. I hope you can put up with my rambling ways. What I have to say is important.
The Deaf School remains south of the Colorado River on Congress in Austin about a mile from the capitol building. Parts of the Deaf School then were over one hundred years old.
I worked the night shift in a boys’ cabin under lovely live oak trees. My main job was to oversee the boys’ overnight sleep starting at ten PM. Then I had to make sure they stayed in bed and did not slip off to one of the girl’s dorms. I was supposed to check their rooms every half hour on the dot to see if they were still in bed. And for the first months I did…
Ramble on over right here to get the rest of this read on!
•••••••
The whole Mad Swirl of everything to come keeps on keepin’ on… NOW! Every second, every minute, every hour, every day, every week, every month, every year, every decade, every EVERY there is! Wanna join in the mad conversations going on in our Mad Swirl world? Then come by whenever the mood strikes! We’ll be here…
Creating Worlds,
Johnny O
Chief Editor
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
Madelyn Olson
Visual Editor