Tag Archives: Choices

event horizon

misanthrope’s been afraid all along
even tho’ he’s been feigning strong
has it not all been said before
look, a tower; look, a flower
something about the balance of power

no one listens that needs to repent
& no one’s yelling that needs to dissent
we’re all cooked as the world flames on
& now he’s wondering who left the gas on

he sees there’s no sea change coming
while others pledge to hate & kill
& just one more messianic stare
ought be enough to tip him off the edge
of a sanity pilling with unicorns

he suspects our god is flawless evil
that mercy’s become the devil’s trade
how long ’til the sun peeks over the yardarm
’til mankind swaps out the blood for gin

has this ship of fools sailed merry away
away off the edge of yesterday
where messiah’s blood was not asked for
nor its spiteful resurrection
misanthrope has his life by the noose

between an ocean & fire
here at the point of no return
look, a tower crushes the flower
sanity’s pilling with unicorns

by TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2025

TATI’s & TONY’s DEAD POET TOUR // Ode To Man. by Thomas Frederick Young

A man is not what oft he seems,
On this terrestrial sphere,
No pow’r to wield, no honor’d place,
Oft curb his spirit here.

He knows not what within him lies,
Until his pow’rs be tried,
And when for them some use is found,
They spring from where they hide,

To startle and to puzzle him,
Who never knew their force,
Because his unfreed spirit kept
A low and shackl’d course.

Dishearten’d and despairing, he
Had often sigh’d alone,
Not thinking that in other ways
His spirit might have grown.

Not thinking that another course,
Which needed pluck and vim,
Might raise his drowning spirit high,
And teach it how to swim;

To battle with the rolling tide,
That hurries onward men,
And raise his head above the waves,
That come and go again.

by THOMAS FREDERICK YOUNG (1892-1940)
Public Domain Poetry

TATI’s & TONY’s DEAD POET TOUR // A World Worth Living In by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

One who claims that he knows about it
Tells me the earth is a vale of sin;
But I and the bees, and the birds we doubt it,
And think it a world worth living in.

Whatever you want, if you wish for it long,
With constant yearning and ceaseless desire,
If your wish soars upward on wings so strong
That they never grow languid, never tire,
Why, over the storm cloud and out of the dark
It will come flying some day to you,
As the dove with the olive branch flew to the ark,
And the wish you’ve been dreaming,
it will come true.

by ELLA WHEELER WILCOX (1855–1919)
Public Domain Poetry

lungpipe shanty

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

déjà vudu

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