BUT IS IT POETRY? // lethal bloom

a lunger on a hospital sheet
embraces the last spring
bursts into blossom with scarlet poppies
with every coughing fit

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TONY: Hm. I wonder…

TATI: Good luck with such a tedious task. I’m going to the sex shop before it closes. Do you need anything?

TONY: Yes, I do. While you’re there, would you purchase me an answer that will scrub away the question mark that lingers above your poem ‘lethal bloom’?

TATI: I appreciate your sense of humour, Tony. Will you die from curiosity during the next hour?

TONY: I’m not a cat, so… no.

TATI: Then I’ll be back soon. You’ll have a chance to prepare some genuinely interesting questions. Not like the last time.

TONY: How long must a poem be to be considered a legitimate poem?

TATI: You men are too preoccupied with sizes. How long must a penis be to be considered a legitimate penis?

TONY: Says the woman who’s going to a sex shop.

TATI: According to the Guinness Book of Records, the world’s shortest poem is one letter long. It’s by Aram Saroyan, and comprises a four-legged version of the letter ‘m’.

TONY: Damn. They’ll accept anything these days, won’t they?

TATI: Yes. You’re unbelievably quick-witted today. What happened?

TONY: What can I say? I’ve had my cornflakes. Anyway, back to your poem…

TATI: Back to my poem.

TONY: Yes. Were you worried that it might be considered a little on the short side?

TATI: No!

TONY: Okay then. I must say I do admire how you’ve managed to pack so much meaning into so few lines of poetry. That takes real skill.

TATI: Thank you. Again, do you need anything from the sex shop? There’s a big clearance sale on. Buy two, get one free. You can have the free one.

TONY: As long as it’s not a dildo then I don’t mind. You know, we haven’t even discussed the poem’s themes yet. I’m beginning to get the feeling you don’t want to talk about it.

TATI: What? You said you’re not a cat, and I can’t wait forever! And by the way, I will choose whatever I want for you, so beggars can’t be choosers!

TONY: This won’t take too long. I promise. All I want to know is what your poem’s about.

TATI: Life. Death. Spring.

TONY: Wow. You really unveiled the mystery there.

TATI: Tony, I’m late. I need to buy stockings and an eye patch!

TONY: I can’t imagine you in stockings. But you with an eye patch… now that would be way cool!

TATI: So, I may go after all?

TONY: Sigh. Fine. Go. Far be it from me to delay you on your all important quest!

Tati rushes out the door, slamming it behind her. She rushes back in mere moments later.

TONY: Did you forget something?

TATI: Yes, you idiot! I forgot to check my watch! The sex shop is closed already, so there is no point me going now!

TONY: Hey, that only happened because you wasted time not answering a simple question!

TATI: Sigh. Ask your questions. Anyway, there’s no fun at a hospital without stockings and an eye patch.

TONY: At a hosp—OH! I get it! You wanna indulge in a little Tarantino cosplay, yes?

TATI: No cosplays, silly Tony! Just some volunteering in the tuberculosis department.

TONY: Erm. Okay. It’s probably best if you don’t tell me about your perverted extracurricular activities.

TATI: Germane to the matter, I believe you had dozens of questions about my poem.

TONY: Oh, no no no! I’m done with that. I have no more questions. Besides, I’m tired. I think I’ll just rest here for a bit.

Tati finally seems to be lost for words. Tony plonks himself down on the sofa, his arms folded behind his head. Tati shrugs to herself, lights a cigarette, and plonks herself beside him.

TONY: Those will kill you, you know.

TATI: I know.

 

by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2018

Teti-à-Tête (With Tony) #14

crumble-cult-210

Tati as TATI

crumble-cult-106

Tony as TONY

 

ACT 103 SCENE 54
A SPOONFUL OF SARCASM & WOE

 

Two weeks ago…

Tony’s kneeling near the living room wall in sackcloth and ashes, wailing his sad little heart out. He’s smacking his brow against the wallpaper very hard.

TONY: No sleep, no rest for my tormented soul!

Tati walks in, licking a spoon smeared with cherry jam. She wonders what the hell Tony’s wailing and smacking about. She can see that the wallpaper’s taking quite a beating. She mutters under her breath.

TATI: And no money for new wallpaper.

TONY: Oh, I weep!

Tati sighs with great resignation. She senses a tedious conversation ahead. Time to make it interesting.

TATI: The only logical explanation for this is you’re rehearsing ‘Prince Igor’.

Tony stops smacking and wailing, and turns to face her.

TONY: Huh?

TATI: If so, I suggest you perform the ‘Polovtsian Dances’ in the second act. It’s my favorite part. I bet you have the voice of an angel.

Tony’s heart warms with gratitude.

TONY: Aw, what a lovely thing to say!

TATI: A castrated angel.

He looks at her like he’s been slapped with an electric eel.

TONY: Well, I never…

Tati gives her spoon another lick. It’s clean now, and she seems to be quite pleased with herself.

TATI: Never say never. Anyway, what’s gotten your panties in a bunch this time?

TONY: It’s our Patreon. Ah, me! Ah, woe!

TATI: Did you forget the password again?

TONY: No. I have it tattooed on my inner thigh.

Tati makes a mental note to change the password as soon as possible.

TONY: We’ve lost a patron. And now we’ve gone down a whole dollar! We’re going to starve! We’re going to die!

Tati looks at her spoon. That’s food for thought.

TATI: And you suppose your wailing will attract a new patron? I think not! More likely you’ll chase the remaining ones away. You could do something more useful than ruining our flat in an orgy of grief you know.

Tony puts on a petulant face.

TONY: Oh, and seducing new patrons with your saucy condiment licking skills is more useful?

Tati gives her spoon a musing lick.

TATI: There’s nothing saucy about jam.

Tony is quite exasperated now.

TONY: I don’t give a damn about your jam, Tati! We need more bloody money!

TATI: And you need to chill out. There’s always a solution to these things.

TONY: Then tell me what it is!

Tati looks at her spoon again. Unlike Tony, she seems calm and collected, almost contemplative even.

TONY: You and that fucking spoon…

Tati ignores him.

TATI: I’ll tell you what we can do to give our Patreon a new lick of life. We can make our own comic.

Tony’s voice takes on a sarcastic tone.

TONY: Comic? What an unexpected solution! Isn’t this something we do already? Oh, and by the way, the expression is ‘lease of life‘.

TATI: Yes, comic. But a better one. A super-puper wonder comic. One that’s exclusive to our Patreon. And maybe our Ko-fi too.

TONY: I don’t drink coffee!

TATI: Who cares? I do.

Tony rolls his eyes.

TONY: So, Super-Puper Wonder Woman, what is this comic going to be about?

TATI: Do you remember those two creatures you callously killed off in your ‘Crumble Cult’ webcomic?

TONY: Killed off? No. I’m afraid I’d remember something like that.

TATI: Think. They were tiny… and completely, utterly helpless.

TONY: This isn’t making me look very good…

Tati points her spoon at Tony in an accusing manner.

TATI: They even had names! How could you?!

TONY: What the hell?! No, I don’t remember this at all!

TATI: Exactly what a killer would say! Mork? Brandy Snap? Do these names ring a bell?

TONY: OH! Marth and Bramwell!

TATI: Yes, exactly what I said. Anyway, we can resurrect them. We can kill them on!

TONY: That makes no sense…

Tati ignores him.

TATI: They can be the main characters of the new comic we’ll write and draw. And I have an idea about the first strip…

Tati gives her spoon another lick before remembering that there’s not one dollop or iota of jam left on it.

TATI: Let’s discuss this over biscuits and jam.

Tony slowly gets to his feet, spreading ash everywhere.

TONY: I’ll go to the kitchen then.

TATI: No, you’ll go to the store. There’s no jam left in the house.

A sarcastic tone creeps into Tony’s voice.

TONY: Fine. What flavour does her royal highness want?

TATI: Hm. Peach. I’m feeling very peachy today.

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Present day…

TONY: Well, what shall we write for our introduction? We’ve got to let people know about our new comic strip.

TATI: Let’s discuss this over biscuits and jam.

TONY: I’ll go to the kitchen then.

TATI: No, you’ll go to the store. There’s no jam left in the house.

TONY: I’m feeling a sense of déjà vu. Let me guess… peach?
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Dear Readers,

While Tony tries to navigate his way through the supermarket revolving door, and Tati plays a hyperviolent video game where she kills waves and waves of mutant jam roly-polies, you have time to hop over to their Patreon page to read the first instalment of their new bilingual comic strip, ‘Marth & Bramwell’. And you can also read it on their Ko-fi page if you prefer.

This strip will be a free, ongoing feature that you’ll be able to read at any time. It will be updated monthly with a fresh episode. You can even bookmark their Patreon or Ko-fi page so that you won’t miss a single one. They have plenty of adventures in store, so stick around and please enjoy!

 

by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2019

SPAM® Sushi #9

I am regular visitor, how are you everybody? This paragraph posted at this web page is actually pleasant.
— free hot live video chat

We feel quite honoured that an employee of the porno industry would choose to spend their hard earned lunch breaks with us! Having rumpy pumpy with complete strangers must surely be sweaty and tiring work, so we’re glad our poetry can be a soothing balm for all those throbby raw bits of yours that are screaming for rest.
Here, have yourself a nice cup of tea too!
Oh, by the way… There is kinda one tiny weeny thing we’d like to ask. (We hope it won’t offend.) Next time you visit, may we ask you to please put some clothes on? Or, failing that, turn your cam off?
— Tati & Tony (Two Shy Poetic Exhibitionists)

 

by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2019

THE ABCs OF A PECULIAR LIFE // Iambus & Idiocy (Recital in I flat minor)

The Mosquito had been writing poems for as long as it could remember. Yes, that’s right, a very long time. Literally aeons. Three whole days in fact!

Of course, the Mosquito would accept only heroic verse. To wit, iambic pentameter. Trochee? Anapaest? These were for brain dead losers. Only real men wrote in iambic. Shakespeare, for example. Pushkin too. And now the Mosquito.

He was also a Debonaire-Vervain. The Debonaire-Vervains were titans of the corporate world. Blue bloods. Old stock. The family line went back generations. Weeks and weeks at least. Investment portfolios. Start-ups. Feelers in every pie. The Mosquito had studied at the finest schools and universities. He even lived on a posh arm all his own. Nothing but prime real estate all the way!

Anyway, the following is a poem that the Mosquito wrote for his ravishing wife on the eve of their ruby wedding anniversary. It had been two long, glorious days since their meeting! Where had the time gone? Of course, he was not yet master of his craft, and his style had yet to mature. But none could deny that he was full of ardour and passion, and it showed in his words.

Buzz me not to the buzzing of buzzed minds
Admit imbuzziments. Buzzing is not abuzz.
Which alters when it buzzeration finds,
Or bends with the buzzer to rebuzz.
O no! It is an ever-fixed buzz
That looks on buzzpests and is never buzzen;
It is the star to every wand’ring buzz,
Whose worth’s unbuzzed, although his buzz be taken.
Buzz’s not Time’s fool, though buzzy lips and cheeks
Within his bending buzzle’s compass buzz;
Buzz alters not with his brief hours and buzzes,
But bears it out even to the buzz of doom.
If this be error and upon me prov’d,
I never buzzed, nor no mosquito ever lov’d. *

Naturally, Madam Mosquito was impressed, and instantly gave birth to another fifty bloodsuckers. Oh, these modern women! They don’t waste time, do they? Of course, they’ll say they want a man who’s arty and edgy. But what they really crave is a domesticated homebody who embodies the traditional family values.

But the Mosquito was an ambitious sort. Yes, he’d won the heart of Madame Mosquito and gained her feeler in holy matrimony, but it wasn’t enough. He also wanted everyone on earth to hear his poems. That’s why, after being informed of a top secret mission (Code Name: Star-spangled Mooning) from a fly on the wall in the Soviet Government, he put on his best suit and tie, grabbed his latest manuscript, and caught a taxi to Baikonur. He’d decided that a rocket antenna would be the best stage from which to orate his flowery writings.

Fortunately for him, he was not at all late. The Soviet vessel was still being readied for its maiden moon shot. The Mosquito landed right on the front glass, got himself cosy, then quenched his thirst with a droplet of cherry rum. After this he pulled out his manuscript, thinking for a moment about which poem he’d be proudest to grace the airwaves with first…

And now for the main event! The final countdown!

Ten… nine… five… two… one…

FIRE!

Nine kilometres per second and history was about to be ma—

Because I could not buzz for Death
It kindly buzzed for me
The vessel held but just
Ourselves —And Immortality.*

*Thanks to Shakespeare and Dickinson for the buzzspiration.

 

by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2017