“Art is the objectification of feeling.”

Herman Melville

••• The Mad Gallery •••

“Ruptured by Featured Artist Andrea Damic

Andrea Damic is returning to the Mad Gallery with a collection that once again transforms the familiar into something much more delightfully disorienting. Through playful manipulations of perspective, Damic’s abstractions seem to shift and breathe all on their own. Each piece invites the eye to wander, equal parts psychedelic and precise. This latest body of work is a reminder that perception is never quite as fixed as it seems… so step inside and get wonderfully lost. ~ Madelyn Olson

To see ALL of Andrea’s delightfully disorientating & psychedelically precise works, as well as the rest of our Resident Artist’s works, visit our Mad Gallery!

••• The Poetry Forum •••

This last week on Mad Swirl’s Poetry Forum… we stopped adrift, angelic lift; we dithered a dish of women as fish; we ticked our tally, alone in an alley; we put down gun to smile for fun; we were blind right in sunlight; we risked no neck for a terrace wreck; we sang gold zingers as night bridge singers; we froze words of cut birds. For all we saw we thawed. ~ MH Clay

Monday Morning 9:08 by Jeff Grimshaw

Something just passed through this sun kissed intersection
The dust is still spinning its way back to the concrete
& I hear the ancient muffler rocking in the distance

My hands are so cold I said to Janine this morning
They are covered with dew was there ice on my tires
But now the curb is warming up & I can smell bacon

Parrot wings flapping & parrots eyes blinking on rooftops
Why are they looking at me what is their shimmering game
The shadows of the clouds are brighter than the clouds

People in windows cut birds out of book pages
& sailed them into the sky, the higher they rise
The easier to touch them with my frozen hands.

August 1, 2026

editors note: Some cold recall for this summer heat; pretty neat. – mh clay

Gold Digger by Guest Poet Joey Da’rrell Cloudy

She take my money when I’m in need
Yeah, she’s a triflin’ friend indeed
Oh, she’s a gold digger
Way over town that digs on me
Uh -Kanye West

Tonight we are drunk as we walk across the old south side bridge, singing “Gold Digger” with impoverished irony.

We are brothers, two homeless old warrior poets living in a shelter on the edge of downtown.

The moon is full as we stroll above the mesquite and cottonwood trees growing along the banks of the muddy Trinity.

I lean on the crooked rune carved walking stick that once belonged to my dead father.

Everyday I genuflect before the alter a white void as I write with the devotion of a zealous monk.

Only recently have I realized that it has been over a decade since I shared my bed with a woman. Though I did not notice.

It is a long time to spend in a Theta state.

I think of Li Po drunkenly embracing the reflection of this moon on the Yangtze River.

I keep walking, wondering how many good years I have left in me.

How many good poems I got left in me.

We are still singing,

I wonder how much money I have left for the whores.

July 31, 2026

editors note: As we all wonder, just keep singing. – mh clay

THEIR TERRACE WAS A WRECK OF PRIVILEGE by Bradford Middleton

A big storm came last night & it battered our poor little terrace
To within an inch of its life as I merely begged for mercy,
‘please don’t harm my records, my books or my typer’ I asked
& thankfully the night passed & it didn’t take long to realise
We’d got lucky. The roof terrace on the 700k flat was a wreck
Of furniture & broken glass as clearly the carnage had come
A hell of a lot closer than even my worst fears but as I looked out
It became clear.

They were nowhere to be seen & I immediately knew their type;
The kind who come down looking for a second home but only
When the sun shines and they can pretend this god-damn hell-
Hole is something like a Costa del Brighton!

July 30, 2026

editors note: These ones, who annoy the hoi polloi. (But, gotta say, Brighton’s a delight when the sun shines.) – mh clay

nobody has ever by Patrick Sweeney

nobody has ever known the sun like the blind man
on the corner of Chester Avenue at high noon

July 29, 2026

editors note: How hot was it…? – mh clay

Livid-free by Timothy Pilgrim

Well, maybe, you know
with a little luck the shooter
will not pull trigger, parents might sense
something’s off, have a talk
see if the boy is, well, alright.
Get him some counseling. Lock up
Beretta, Colt, Glock. Maybe he’ll decide
today is the day not to blast targets
skulk to school, take aim.
You know, breathe deep, exhale
make some friends. Begin to smile
not smolder inside. Discover
life’s a special gift worth savoring
if not livid that way.

July 28, 2026

editors note: Livid free is lead free; lighter for all. – mh clay

Alone In the Alley by Guest Poet Chris Callard

Pothole puddle shimmering street light yellow,
wet gravel crisp underfoot.
Tilt back head while the rain lightly returns.
Mouth open, fresh hallowed air inhaled,
filling that cruel cavity
that unfurled its fire at her.
No cleansing by any droplets is deserved.
No cleaning out of mouth conceivable.

July 28, 2026

editors note: Better start with rain, then no end in fire. – mh clay

Mermaids by Amita Sarjit Ahluwalia

They sit about on rocks. Mostly, they sing or comb their hair, staring at mirrors. Doubtless, they are vain creatures, fish-bodied female merfolk, but think of scales.
Vocal music, unaccompanied, since their instruments of exchange are seashells.
Inland Revenue does not know them: no income, no tax, no interest.
They are the opposite of stamp duty. Postmen dream of them.
Like fish but also like women, they however live three centuries, then turn into sea-foam. Their young ones are like tadpoles.
Some used to be part birds. Their songs
lure sailors to death on treacherous rocks.
At worst, they are sirens; at best, faithless.
Their namesakes scream on ambulances. These days that is of little use. Human lives are worthless. Traffic matters, though. Either way, all die eventually.
One does wonder about their nether parts, as one would about anything wreathed in seaweed, such as sea-horses, sea-snakes, seagulls, flapping herons, bobbing brown mice, drowsy water-rats and bubbles on frothy waters.
One would not like to think of them as lobsters in pots waiting to be curried.

July 27, 2026

editors note: So much to think of them; what must they think of us? – mh clay

The Gummi Bear King by Jonathan Hayes

for Daniel Johnston

He was as friendly as Casper the Ghost, and just as haunted with a child’s face,
and a little bit too nice to strangers — while he played a mean chord organ,
his guitar strumming showed how his sneaker laces came undone and things fell apart.

But, oh boy, could he sing, like a fool turned into an angel lifting people up, up, and away.

July 26, 2026

editors note: Angelic lift for souls adrift. – mh clay

••• Short Stories •••

If you’re in need of a petite read, “Coming Up Short“ by Contributing Writer Edward N McConnell just might measure up!

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

Some of us are always coming up short, but from there, we can grow.

Here’s a “short” tease:

Photo by Tyler Malone

I had been trying to watch an adult cable channel through a scrambled signal. All I could make out was a blurred image of a man who looked a lot like the Hunger Games’ Caesar Flickerman trying to sound like Walter Cronkite. Through static interference, I heard him ask three female adult film entertainers, “Under what height do ladies consider a man to be too short to date?”

One of the group answered, “A man’s average height is five feet-eight, so under that.”

How stupid. I’m average height … five feet-seven. Given what that young woman does for a living, how could she be so ill-informed?

What I should have done was ignore it. Instead, hoping to get a clearer look at this woman, I grabbed some tools and rushed outside to tinker with the wiring and connections in the cable junction box. Then, realizing my son had a hockey game, I abandoned my quest.

While at the arena, I sought the advice of an experienced cable signal stealer. I asked him, “How do I get a clearer picture for a cable channel I don’t pay for?”…

Don’t sell this shorty story short & get the rest of this tiny tale here!

•••

Do you need a read… or don’t you? If that is where your mind is at then “Confounded“ by Contributing Writer & Poet Anthony Ward is the read for you!

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

Either way, we’re lost to one another in the cracks of one another’ s reality. But we can call names into the crevices to see who’s down below.

Here’s how this mix-up begins:

“Drinks?” by Tyler Malone

“Do you remember the time we went to the lake and you got chased by that swan?” Adam asked her, brushing a stray thatch of sandy hair behind her ear.

She looked at him blankly, revoking the same thatch of hair from her ear, letting it fall back into place.

“I remember. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. And there was a wasp you kept swatting away as you tried to eat your strawberry ice cream. You were so happy then.” Adam looked at her, taking her in, then looked away in dismay.

“Don’t you remember the museum. When you knocked one of the glass exhibits and I just managed to grab it in time?”

She looked sympathetically into his eyes.

“Look. You’ve got me mistaken for someone else. I’ve never met you before.”

Adam looked at her intently, hoping for a shift in her hazel eyes. Though they appeared to look through him as if he wasn’t quite there, hoping he would disappear.

He had caught her eye from the other end of the bar. Like she had seen him somewhere but couldn’t place him. She thought he looked alright and accepted his gaze to come on over…

If this bewildered read grabbed you, then slide on over here to get the rest of this read!

••• Open Mic •••

Join Mad Swirl this 1st Wednesday of August (aka 08.05.26) when we’ll be doin’ the open mic voodoo that we do at Barbara’s Pavillion!

We will get things started with some musical grooves brought to you by special musical guest, Tocayo starring Carlos Salas! Then, starting at 8pm(ish), hosts Johnny O & MH Clay will set the stage for some open mic madness!

This month we will be featuring Tyler Malone & launching his book “Son of a Chicken Killer“ (brought to you by Mad Swirl Press). Here’s a bit about Tyler & his book:

Tyler Malone is from Texas and lives in the United States (for now.) He’s a photographer and poet who’s working on his first novel. Son of a Chicken Killer is his only first book worth mentioning.

Taking care of the art of others has been a long-lasting source of volcanic bliss, and he knows so because he’s been the short fiction editor for Mad Swirl since 2012. He’s seen the world through stories up to 1,000 words, and they have filled the space between his ears and Earth’s upper atmosphere.

Come one. Come all.

Come to participate…

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

Come to swirlabrate…

(join us LIVE at Barbara’s Pavillion- located at 323 Centre St, Dallas OR watch us on Facebook LIVE)

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

•••••••

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…

Feelin’ It,

Johnny O
Chief Editor

MH Clay
Poetry Editor

Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor

Madelyn Olson
Visual Editor