eidolon (she)

paint the room
herr weltschmerz has come to stay
and nothing will ever be quite the same again

tho’ the weather’s properly clement
tho’ he’s never cried the blues before
what left can be properly said
of a man who’d tried to claw back the earth
to kiss his truelove’s final resplendence

the ghost of she keeps count with him
there to haunt his bereavement vain
what can he be but indentured to sorrow
a pain as wide as horizons unstemmed

he sorely regrets he’d ever been human
mouthing silent words oft kept for silent roads
and for fear he’ll decant so many more along the way
stands deathly instead as a stone unleaving
locked inside with his grief… and losing

herr weltschmerz has come to stay
veins shockingly open to the unspooled light of day
paint the room

by TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2020

TATI’s & TONY’s DEAD POET TOUR // The Garden Patch by Paul Cameron Brown

Gourd was taken to task when she understood the limitations the garden patch had placed upon her people.

It was early fall and the dancers of the vegetable kingdom paraded their charms in bright, full regalia. Across the earth in splotches of colour, the tomatoes scented a good fall. So, too, the kingly husks of corn and the melons, spinach and cucumber in turn eyed the approaching season in growing faith. Each had a succulent function and dangled their inviting flesh to the beholder.

But, alas, what did gourd promise? She was deeply conscious of lacking the forward brightness of tomato and pumpkin. She lacked leafy greens so evidently prized and when her fellow vegetables covered the brown soil in preparation for the fine day they would bask across a kitchen table, it was almost too much for the sensitive gourd to stomach. Why even squash, which she felt closest to, had more of a function than she. So versatile did the big neighbour seem in comparison to herself, the ugly dwarf.

She was on the verge of casting herself in despair across the rickety fence or joining the long, black embers of a dead fire young boys had prepared months back. Surely, she was the outcast of the plant world. How grotesque her features were, so hard and unpliable seemed her flesh. Even her skin tones were half-caste. No recipes called for her presence. A mood of growing helplessness seemed to envelop her.

A boy, the earlier fire setter, is describing an odd vegetable, tubular and often misshapen, that was excellent for all sorts of childhood pursuits – making paperweights, building scarecrows and decorating mantles.

“If only people knew,” he bubbles.

“Still more success stories,” the little gourd cries on hearing the child’s comment.

“At least I won’t have to be humbled in her presence,” the gourd thought, her self confidence shattered.

And with that the little gourd approached the Vegetable King and asked to use her remaining wish. For in those days all living things were handed one means for improving themselves.

“I resolve to be a new edible,” she sighed, “something other than a gnomish gourd. Make, O King, a glorious . . . pumpkin.” But the Vegetable King decided not to abandon his earlier invention and so gourds live on. Distant relatives of the bright, new pumpkin, but their inspiration nonetheless.

by PAUL CAMERON BROWN (?-?)
Public Domain Poetry

eggshells & darker nights

a slip of flame wags like a red-tailed fox
o’er candlewick sill in the moonlight box
sets ghost birds aflight in lucent flocks
o’er vespertine forest and druidic rocks

the road yonder runs thither throughout the ages
its footprints tell the story of hatchling sages
from trees bedangled with their birthing cages
open, in spirals, zig-zagging in stages

no questions, no answers, just a mystery play
of knotted roots, weaved wood and branching splay
and the thin, shrill cry of a sleepless jay
from dusk covered verdure and vertebrae

by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2021

SPAM® Sushi #19

Don’t disregard to factor in the costs and benefits to your loved ones close-mouthed friends and classification as amply as deal with associates who are feigned by way of your baleful behaviour.
— SaturasIntagorgo

Dear SaturasIntagorgo,
There are certainly benefits to using our loved ones and close-mouthed friends to cover up our baleful deeds, and we never miss an opportunity. We always wear gloves with their fingerprints on them, and carry samples of their DNA (they’ll think twice about spitting in our faces next time!).
Right now we’re going to sneak into the kitchen and commit another crime of the century—pick the chocolate chips out of all the cookies—and none of the proof we leave behind will point to us. (Of course, we could do this after our loved ones and close-mouthed friends unlock the closet where they’ve detained us because they’ve decided to overlook our baleful behaviour.)
— Tati & Tony (Two Astonished Miscreants Who Cannot Believe That a Close-mouthed Person Can Even Spit)

by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2021

100 WORD SKITTLE // Piss Off (Baptism of Fire)

Snot was streaked down his mouth, chin and collarino like ejaculated soul.

He wiped himself off—his nose too—with a paper towel, then balled it up and threw it into the fireplace. The fire leapt up with a flash of green and devoured the offering. The licking of its lips turned quickly into an ominous smile.

“I saw what you did.”

He cocked an eyebrow at the fire.

“So you’re going to blackmail me, are you? Silly chemical process! You won’t tell anybody.”

He stepped over to the fireplace and lifted up his cassock. Then he unzipped his jeans.

by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2021