Strip tree bark to breath the rot
reading accumulated fear brew
filter coffee tasting sweeter lot
above tongue that tear through
nail deep on horizon brown red
claw clinging onto narrow faith
i hope my nose sticks out mud
while buried in a shallow grave.
by PAKARCHA VYADHI
© All rights reserved 2025
ice cube, shop tin roof
mourning’s inevitable
with dawn’s bastard sun
by TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2025
that one with the punched lungs
has taught me to breathe freely
to expand in every moment
my view beyond the horizon
has taught me to get drunk on air
raise a toast to the blissful life
uncork & exhale my dreams
& inhale all possibilities
that one with the punched lungs
has taught me not to hie away
from each rum quaff of oxygen
each gulp, each gasp, could be the last
has taught me to square my shoulders
wear my sailor’s crown on high
walk the plank with a shambler’s jaunt
use my voice with ne’er a grumble
that one with the punched lungs
has taught me to sing shanties
to marinate beneath the stars
away from landlocked bores
has taught me to stand before storms
to know my place within them all
when even acid rain stings my lungs
when even the mast punches my lungs
by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2024
in the grand scheme of things
his tears meant nothing at all
that’s why he piled them up
& cast silver bullets
well, they weren’t really silver
but he at least could pretend
he just needed a pistol
so he lined up his crutches
(which weren’t really a firearm
at least he could pretend)
but then came the police
more trigger happy than he
in the grand scheme of things
his death meant nothing at all
by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2024
all the skeleta dansing
dansing in their skin shells again
in a world burning to the ground
stubbing their durry minds in
that ash bowl of hell they once called eden
would that you’d been a part of this
or would you have, given such souls
them resolute that turned their backs
on curiosity & knowing
three cheers to the danse
the pleasing aroma of reason charring
to the snuff of nothing above the clouds
all the skeleta dansing
a descent into backwards heights
the danse of flurried minds tonight
we’ll exist should they allow it
but don’t hold your breath
their masks full with empty fool heads
all hail the bliss of dullening
to themselves be the glory
to mine own the lost othered story
three cheers to the danse
the macabre aroma of reason charring
good that you’d not been part of this
in a garden of dimming lights & lost delights
how do they not concede the signs
all pointing away from their vaunted heaven
now, one more time
by TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2025
unbolt me 