beautiful homunculus

love ripped through your brightened veins
you wondered how much you could possibly take
the blood (a choir) roaring inside you
rushing to shape a song inside you

naught can be done to hasten the healing
but you have to know they’re only scars
and i love you, my homunculus
hurt and all

your voice was sandpaper’s rasp
no one understood, who among them could
blood in a cage, no doors inside you
no release for the song inside you

naught can be done to hasten the healing
but you have to know they’re only scars
and i love you, my homunculus
hurt and all

you’re loved, deplumed, so no more pretense
no longer can you be about mere survival
blooded for life, a kindling inside you
the filaments of song deep inside you

by TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2018

Oops!… We Did It Again (acetic simper)

Erm… hullo there. (This is rather awkward…)

Dear Reader, the stuff that was originally posted here has been removed.

We have done this because said stuff has since been included in one of our published books. We hope you’ll believe us when we say we’re not trying to be stingy. No, this has been done to honour the people who have already spent their hard-earned money on our eBook creations.*

If, however, for some reason you’re unable to buy one of our books, and feel you’ll die without seeing this piece of writing, then please contact us via admin@unbolt.me. We won’t allow our Dear Readers to fade away in the dark. We’ll send you the piece in question, and it will be absolutely free. All you need do is ask.

* Of course, we would be like two happy puppies if you too decided to buy one of our books.

by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2017-2018

Six Word Stories #25

Her silhouette makes a cello envious.

by TETIANA ALEKSINA
© All rights reserved 2017

Six Word Stories #19

The pinnacle of evolution? Her rosebuds.

by TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2017

GUEST POST // when I’m seventy by listentothebabe

how many tattoos
before I’ve said all
I need to say about me?
etched into my skin
definitions I don’t want
to forget.
when I’m seventy I won’t regret
having been inked,
even if wrinkled and faded,
they’re lost in the folds.
I’ll pull my skin tight
and there
I am.
I won’t ever be lost to myself.

by LISTENTOTHEBABE
© All rights reserved 2015