grow a spine

ollie your halo off the ground
‘fore they see it’s slipped from your crown
do it with your winged heels
do it before the night reveals

they consider you a sidekick
you can lose their trust in one click
so stash your tacky aureole
and let them think you’re an asshole

you never wanted to be an angel
but rather a devil lewd and baneful
no one cared what your soul blooms for
‘fore shoving you onto god’s waiting womb floor

by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2021

pariah hymne

here we go again
peering over the edge of time
vultures dancing in the air
above the slain ones in the grime
we’d trodden with the angels
but then they’d gone and left us behind
absconding on hoverboards
no mortal could keep pace with their kind

“don’t trust the bastards!”
so say we all, “beware them all!”
celestial traffic, superlunary scrawl
stay hungry, stay foolish
all barefoot and tall at the mafficking mall
“we’ll jive! we’ll survive!” so say we all!

so, we raise our hands
in the sign of the devil’s antlers
we hope he’ll give us a lift
us ethereal gallivanters
instead, we get struck down
by the balls of his carronade banter
but we’re used to being ditched
crumpled, we embrace a new mantra

“don’t trust the bastards!”
so say we all, “beware them all!”
celestial traffic, superlunary scrawl
stay hungry, stay foolish
all barefoot and tall at the mafficking mall
“we’ll jive! we’ll survive!” so say we all!

here goes time again
peering over the edge of us
worms lancing through the grime
‘neath the spent casings and arquebus
leaving angels and demons behind
we sink bayonets with gravitas
into the ground, say with resolve
“we’ll abide in this temporal annulus”

by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2019

THE ABCs OF A PECULIAR LIFE // B is for Biff & Bugalugs

Tonight should have been a perfect ten, but it wasn’t. It wasn’t even a seven. More like a three or four really. Not even the brunette with the big tits and long neck from the finest escort agency in the land could change that. She could gob him all she liked but it wasn’t going to make a scrap of difference.

How the hell had it come to this? In a fit of anger, Joe Faust slammed his expensive, gold-tipped pen on the table and shoved the escort’s head aside. It was unbelievable that his business, his pet project, should be falling quicker than a row of dominoes in a children’s bouncy fun castle!

He grabbed his cell phone and hit ‘Redial’. The bastard wasn’t picking up or responding to Faust’s many texts pleading for an audience. He should never have made that deal with such a shady character, especially one that he had yet speak with face-to-face. Faust should have known that he’d get screwed over. God damn it!

Suddenly, there was a click. A suave Voice at the other end calmly said, “I’m all ears.”

Faust blinked in surprise. “Where the hell have you been? I’ve been trying to get you for the last three days!” He didn’t bother to hide his annoyance and agitation. The time for subtle hints had passed. Shit was about to get real, and a bit of frank talk was what was needed right now.

He felt something closing around his cock again. Faust looked down. “Who the hell do you think you are?!” he bellowed, half to her and half to the Voice. “Day and night I’ve been calling!” He kicked at the escort until she crawled away on all fours to cower between the display prams.

“Remind me, Bugalugs,” said the Voice. “Who are you?”

“You know exactly who the fuck I am!” exploded Faust. “I’m the guy who’s going to bury you unless things change around here!”

There was a slight pause. “Careful,” came a menacing growl.

Faust softened his tone. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I’m neck deep in shit right now, and I need a bail out.”

“So,” repeated the Voice. “Who are you?”

What? Was he really going to do this now? Was the Voice really going to act dumb and play out this charade? Faust took a deep, shuddering breath, and though he was sitting down he found himself having to lean against the desk for support. He swallowed hard, harnessed his willpower, and said in an almost normal tone, “I’m Joe Faust. I’m the Pram Lord.”

The Voice chuckled. “I’m listening, Bugalugs. What’s your wish this time?” Faust squeezed his eyes shut then blinked them open again. Had the Voice actually chuckled or had it been interference on the line? This call was already doing his head in.

“Do you wish for all women to give birth to only triplets? Do you wish for pregnancy to last a mere two months, thus compelling new mothers to buy new prams before the old ones become vacant?” The Voice went on. “Do you wish to start a fashion for single-use prams?”

Faust kept silent. He was confused. Was it possible? And then the Voice guffawed, causing him to wince. So, it obviously wasn’t interference. He was being made a fool of.

“No, Bugalugs. You can be as materialistic as you wish, but I’m not God. I’m only a modest wish master.”

Faust could feel the rage building.

“A modest little advertising company here or some horrible weather there—this is what lies within my purview.”

That’s it. Faust was going to have to fly off the handle. “I need cash, you bastard, not fucking sleet! Instead of reaming me six ways from Sunday, you could get off your fat otherwordly arse and get me what I actually fucking need, you fucking prick!”

There was a longer pause. Oh, shit. He’d really done it now…

“Do you wish to break the contract?” The Voice was devastatingly polite… and so very cold. “Keep in mind that Mephistopheles Enterprises doesn’t refund prepayments.”

Faust was opening and closing his mouth like a hooked guppy fish. The words wouldn’t come.

“I suppose there is one wish I could make for you… You can consider this a cancellation fee from Mephistopheles Enterprises.” The Voice was downright icy now. “From now until doomsday, you will have only cash in your pockets.”

Something clicked loudly and the line went dead. And then there was another sound. A loud clinking sound. Then another. And another…

Joe Faust woke with a start. A prim and proper lady dressed in black had tossed some coins into an alms box. Was it… Hey! It was in his hand! Did the alms box belong to him? Still reeling in a fog of disbelief, he leaned forward to inspect it. His fingers were gingerly nudging the coins around the edges of the box when he noticed someone else approaching. Who was this now?

Oh my god. It was a brunette with big tits and a long neck. Was she… lactating? There were two ginormous, screaming baby giraffes in the pram she was pushing — a competitor’s brand. Faust tried to recall where he had seen her before, and then she turned for a moment and accidentally biffed him in the ankle with her pram.

Faust grimaced. “Hey! Watch it, sleeper!”

She gave him a sideways glance. “Oh, put a sock in it, Bugalugs. Hire some other prostitute and be rude to her!”

And just as a look of recognition flashed across Joe Faust’s face, she winked and moved on. Stunned, he sat there opening and closing his mouth like a guppy fish, but she had long since vanished over the horizon, never to be seen again.

by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2017

Scatology 101: Lachanophobia’s Disposal Unit (A Study in Brown)

We need to get one thing straight. Thomas Crapper did not invent the toilet.

I shit you not. The toilet was invented by a Doctor Bartholomew Lachanophobia of Barthe. Its original purpose? The dispatchment of unwanted greens at dinner time. (Not the brown stuff.) You see, the good doctor was a learned man, but he was also a devoutly religious man, and he possessed a rather unfortunate and irrational fear of broccoli as a result. He believed it to be the devil’s tree.

Dear reader, I should probably put this into some kind of context for you.

To Lachanophobia, ordinary trees were a symbol of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil from the Book of Genesis. His mother had told him this bedtime story since he was a child. You probably know it yourself. The devil appears as a wibbly wobbly snake in the mystic Garden of Eden. He smooth talks Eve for kicks. It works. She ends up eating the fruit of the forbidden tree.

Now, one could be tempted to write her off as a complete idiot, but think back to the last time you chatted with a snake. What’s that? Never happened? Then I rest my case. How anyone could be expected to react to that kind of bizarro situation is beyond me. Still, there’s an element to all of this that’s cool. Eve may well have been the world’s first Parselmouth!

Anyway, talky devil snake convinces nude chick with no belly button to do a bad thing. She then charms a nude guy with no belly button into doing the same bad thing. Let’s call him Adam. When it looks like Adam’s going to get into trouble with God over doing this bad thing, he tries to pass the buck. “The woman made me do it! She be cray cray!” Eve, realising she’s also going to get into trouble, passes the buck. “The Devil made me do it! He be snay snay!” And when it looks like the snake’s gonna get it in the neck, he passes the buck. “Dude, I’m just a snake. I can’t actually talk.”

So, basically, God gets jack of all this and kicks them out of the garden. And he maintains the rage against mankind and snakes from that point on. Poor God. He’s just a single parent. What else can you do when your children do nothing but disrespect you and your capricious, nonsensical rules? And now, he’s always having to send Father’s Day cards to himself.

Anyway, you can imagine why Lachanophobia would not’ve been overly fond of trees after hearing this crap again and again and again during his formative years. However, breathing oxygen is better than choking on carbon dioxide, so he suffered trees to live in order that he might too. Still, this didn’t change the fact that he simply wouldn’t tolerate broccoli. To him broccolis were blasphemous, miniature bootlegs of the Eden tree. He was convinced that they were the devil’s final ‘bite me’ to God.

Lachanophobia believed that by eating these tiny demon trees he’d get possessed and buy lots of stuff off of the Home Shopping Channel or something evil like that. Television didn’t exist yet but Lachanophobia was such a visionary that he could tell crazy stuff like that was going to happen long before it actually did. And anyway, this story has no logic. So, whatevs.

Over his lifetime, Lachanophobia devised many different yet highly ineffective methods for getting rid of broccoli. As modern science now well knows—and as Lachanophobia couldn’t have hoped to have known back then—broccoli is indestructible. You can chuck it in the bin, give it to the family dog, stomp on it, run a tank over it, even nuke the bastard, but all to no avail. The very fires of Mordor will not cause it to so much as blanch. Broccoli represents evolution at its trolling best.

Now, knowing that his only hope was to get all broccolis as far away from his tremulous person as possible, this was the point at which Lachanophobia finally invented the toilet. And then he invented experimental flying monkeys. He couldn’t touch the broccolis himself. No freaking way. That’s what the monkeys were for. So, following the evening’s repast, he’d have his experimental flying monkeys remove the demon trees so that they could be flushed to lands beyond the world’s rim via this device. Logical, yes? Well. Logical until you bring experimental flying monkeys into the equation.

Unfortunately, what experimental flying monkeys see, experimental flying monkeys do, and upon observing their master laying ‘chocolate logs’ (or ‘offloading cargo’ if you want to be less crass about it) after one fateful dinner, they decided to do the same, but in the toilet instead of Lachanophobia’s customary wicker basket. When the Doctor saw that the broccolis had not been disposed of, and that the toilet and its immediate surrounds were awash with experimental flying monkey doodah, he flew into a rage. He slipped on said monkey doodah and flew out the window, plummeting to his untimely and inconvenient death. Upon seeing this, the experimental flying monkeys did likewise (even though they could fly), and were soon joined with their master in said death because… well, why the hell not? (I’m just making this shit up anyway.)

It was left to the butler then, a young Thomas Crapper (whose very existence had inexplicably been overlooked until now) to clean up the mess. As compensation to himself for having to deal with this supremely unseemly (and wildly unlikely) scenario of ick, he took out a patent for Lachanophobia’s toilet in 1852 and thusly reaped the financial rewards for the remainder of his life. And why not? Hell, I would’ve done the same.

So there you have it. That’s the real story. Not in the least bit apocryphal. Or should I say ‘asspocryphal’? Ha ha ha! Yeah. Anyway. Crapper stole Lachanophobia’s invention. That’s my point. Oh, and broccoli lives on. Godammit. Sigh. It does leave me considering one sad truth in all of this. It’s always the monkeys that suffer.

by TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2016

My cheerful face seems very bleak ~ The one very bright collaboration

Well… According to Wiio’s laws every next word in this headnote increases the risk of misinterpretation of what I tried to say. Let me be terse. Let me present my new collaboration and my new fantastic partner.

Will Tigs, thank you! You gave me some really important lessons…
(Oh…. And now I will stop blabbing! Wiio’s laws are upon us!)

_____________________________

yellow-face-female-face-1921

Yellow face (Female face), 1921. Kuzma Petrov-Vodkin

My cheerful face seems very bleak
and the hopes I have are hollow.
My mouth is dry and unable to speak.
I live my life in sorrow.

My instincts seem so synchronized,
yet my genitals are sterile.
My eyes are weak and hypnotized,
I spend my days in peril.

My death is near. I have gangrene.
Pray for me, you happy fools!
On you alone I vent my spleen,
Don’t play with edged tools.

My memoirs I now will edit
to spread my story far and wide.
To devil I give all the credit.
He is my savior and my guide.

Though I live my life in sorrow
and my days are spent in peril,
I still wish to see tomorrow
and to do more good than ill.

by TETIANA ALEKSINA & WILL TIGS
© All rights reserved 2015