“I have always felt that I am the sum total of my parts.”

Andres Serrano

••• The Mad Gallery •••

“Butterfly” by Featured Artist Andrea Damic

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 clouded sky with wandering eye; we curbed doubts with handouts; we felt best with open chest; we lightless bumbled, drunken stumbled; we broke our word though Brahms was heard; we would to tarry with cache to carry; we marked the mean pristine. We did! ~ MH Clay

Pristine by Susie Gharib

Pristine is the morning air
in the wake of the chastisement of heavy rain.
All shriveled, the litter of empty streets
is shrunk with mourning
and thoroughly drenched with muddy tears.

Pristine is the evening breeze
that has parted with the odors of engines
and human fatigue,
reclining on silver-tinted leaves,
exhaling the fragrance of flowers
that lie dormant beneath.

Pristine is the breath I now bequeath,
on scattered words that boast no antecedents,
on caverns engraved in every creed,
on ancient stone embracing another millennium,
on stagnant pleas,
on tarrying peace.

August 15, 2026

editors note: Even pristine can be mean. – mh clay

Luggage by Guest Poet Peter J. Dellolio
Luggage
but the foot
nice waxy
ideas towards
good lumber inside
cursed museum dainty
anyway
a gorgeous feeling
sometimes
mementos quite
solvent
mixed into
morbidity.

August 14, 2026

editors note: All the past we cache and carry. (Congrats to Peter on his new poetry collection, Catch of the Day. Get it here.) – mh clay

At least by Richard LeDue

the dead don’t listen
to Brahms at 12 PM while drunk
three months after promising
to never drink again
because they can hear god
cough as he reads the Sunday paper
or the way the devil lies,
even to himself,
about doing better.

August 13, 2026

editors note: Sometimes the lie is sweet; especially while listening to Brahms. – mh clay

Broken Streetlights by Guest Poet Ahmad Al-khatat

Do you know
what I admire lately?
It’s going to the pub
and sitting on my own,
like honey dripping from
her invisible wound
beside me,
with a cigarette
and a bottle of vodka,
thinking about death
under the broken
streetlights.
It’s all we need
to walk drunkenly
through the cemetery…

August 12, 2026

editors note: It’s a drunken stumble; start to finish. We’ll take all the light we can find. – mh clay

Rose Quartz by Isaiah Vianese

The city spills its flowers.
On a walk in the park,
KG asks, “How’s your heart?”
She’s had boy troubles too.
I tell her I feel good.
The rose quartz on my wrist
glows in sunshine.
My chest feels open.

When we were lovers,
you changed boundaries recklessly,
like the dictator of any cruel country.
Now, I know you’re trapped there,
and it was never my place to stay.
You’ll be free, or you won’t,
but someday
it’ll feel good to forgive you.

KG and I stroll round the reservoir—
this endless circle of beauty.
It revives itself each year.
She says, “Stand in front of that tree.
It’s really pretty.”
Later, a guy who likes me
asks if I want to get a drink soon.
Prosperity is on its way. I’m ready.

August 11, 2026

editors note: Stoned on love, care, and peace. – mh clay

Bump by Guest Poet Jane-Rebecca Cannarella

Chemical: a creation of small seas
banded by the paper towel tissue
of raised skin; organs suspended
in their goo, like planets.

I bribe desire with treats,
like how I con my cats
into trusting me,
which is almost like love,
if love is the same as spoiled
leftovers farming hair
in the back of my fridge.

Holding out a hand
with the bribe to a skeptical
somebody, let them sniff
the offering…

How about we slam the lever
down on the slot machine,
rattle the carnival music into
upsetting our structures, skin
raised, cheeks blushed.

Accept the payout
from splayed fingers.
… we can warm-
rub the fur on our
exposed arms for comfort

after the certain cooling.

editors note: Slam that lever (it’s now or never). – mh clay

His wandering eyes by Hem Raj Bastola

Exhumed past,
Stealing insight!
Confused like the clouds.
Presence of the mind,
That was forgotten.
Chimneys of smoke
Labyrinthine swirl.

As he was passing by:
Brainstorming remote!
A thunder to harness,
Prospect of whose words?
Sartorial stitching
Secret oracle guide:
Lightening of a thought!

To outshine
Whose, imagination!
An aesthetic appetite
Echoing the words.
As he went on crooning
Waiting to envision:
His wandering eyes
In silence.

August 9, 2026

editors note: The eyes have it! – mh clay

••• Short Stories •••

Step right up & get your read on! In the center ring is “The Show Must Go On“ by Contributing Writer & Poet Bruce Mundhenke!

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

Come one, come all! Sit close, sit far, but you’re still in the circus. Enjoy the show.

Here’s how this sideshow story starts:

“Star of the Show” by Tyler Malone

About 40 years ago, the circus came to town. The Great American Circus. Tiny Tim was traveling with the circus. He sang and played the ukulele. His rendition of “Tiptoe Through The Tulips” made him famous and very well known in the ‘60s. During those days, he appeared on television. He was married to his wife, Miss Vickie, on the Johnny Carson show

The Great American Circus was going to set up their Big Top on the fairground, right outside of town. At that time, I was laid off at the mill where I worked. My unemployment benefits had run out. I hopped in my old Ford and swung by my parents house to pick up my younger brother Brian. He was 20, unemployed. He reluctantly tagged along.

When we got to the fairgrounds, the roustabouts, along with quite a few guys like me and my brother, sat on top of the bleachers inside the big top. The top was already up. There was a tough looking older guy who greeted us briefly, took note of the time, then sent us off to a group of men standing off to the side. This older gentleman was barking orders to various people at times. He seemed to have the role of a labor foreman. The roustabouts were calling him Pappy…

Get the rest of this read fest here!

•••

“The Metis Syndrome“ a modern take on AI-nspired creativity comes to us from by Contributing Writer Sunil Sharma!

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

Where is your head at?

Hey Siri, share a bit of Sunil’s story:

“Among Us” by Tyler Malone

YA, a young author, was fascinated as a software developer talked about Metis, a system that thinks, reasons and writes, as a pro.

Beats humans in communication, creative, critical and commercial.

“It does reports, notes, analyses, and crunches data. Every allotted task. Writes fiction and poetry!” Exclaimed the bearded expert rapturously, adjusting bifocals over the aquiline nose.

Metis can write anything.

Huge relief for the intellectually-challenged. Guys who cannot move beyond the first para.

Magic!…

MAgIc? You be the judge… go to MAdSwIrl.com And 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…

Summin’ It Up,

Johnny O
Chief Editor

MH Clay
Poetry Editor

Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor

Madelyn Olson
Visual Editor