odds & shells

rain waters carry down the street
somebody’s orange flip flops
now, could that hue be less discreet
hell’s bells, no, probably not

maybe somewhere in darkest drains
mutant turtles wait for the drop
flip flops plopping into the mains
nab ’em for keeps, ready or not

sitting ‘tween soaked pizza cartons
two small, obnoxiously bright suns
they would’ve preferred doc martens
but beggars can’t be choosers, hun

later tonight when rain in’s done
all of their non-refundables
out of warranty dibs & dums
will join the flip flop cupboard rubble

by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2025

Tumblevision #45

My webcomic Crumble Cult has been updated and relaunched. I’d love if you read the hell out of it and perhaps even told me what you think. It feels good to have it up and eyes on it again!

by TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2026

GUEST POST // Tairngreacht by Whitecatgrove

The last hum of summer — I hunger
for more, a kinder year when all is not
withered on the vine. The burning boats
are not a kind sun, the wildfires are not
the butterfly migration. The cup
poured out again, by an unjust king
emptied and spent on wasted earth. Red
the riders to the house of red, red
the naked spirit who knocks on the door.
What a time to live — seeing a myth
paid in full, embodied and poured out
in a sea without fish, a summer
without fruit, a land without justice.

by WHITECATGROVE
© All rights reserved 2026

cults & culpability

lo, seeker of transcendence
in a failed, godless universe
lapsarian in the silence
will you yet yield to the blame
outside the tyrant’s garden
of angels clouding like locusts
where an arch snake was man’s spar
their blame impugns to swarm you

but consciousness & conscience
have never been the same thing
so pocket each & every tooth
when they cry “bend” to every “no”
when their fists try to make it so

however pious they may cry
how can you ever render blind
to gaps they love upon your smile
to the contusions on your mind
in light of false providence
outside a garden not your own
how fatherless the universe
how beaten down to the ground

but intention & consequence
are hardly ever the same thing
pocket each & every tooth
when they cry “bend” to every “no”
when their fists try to make it so

in a rudderless universe
outside a garden long disowned
remember those who fought well
against all tyrants & their ilk
honour those maligned as fallen
those fallen long before your time
& those fallen in the here & now
in this lost autumn of your soul

transcendence & obedience
never count as the same thing
so pocket each & every tooth
when they cry “bend” to every “no”
when their fists try to make it so

by TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2025

overcooked

there’s a flame in the heart of mankind
that time & tide long to extinguish
from the first fires of the cavemen
to the rockets of dim oligarchs

the torches along the tower walk
a monk’s passage towards the heavens
from the gloom of the middle ages
to supposedly more enlightened times

if we cannot adapt
then we are cooked
all the tines in our guts
how are we not forked

a torch is lit in olympia
an eternal flame recalls the war
nothing has changed through the course of time
just the way in which we’ve stored the launch codes

an appetite for self-destruction
burns within the desire to live
the heart of al dente common sense
3-star michelin vaut le voyage

if we will not adapt
then we are royally cooked
all of time in the guts
how are we not forked

by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2025