Tag Archives: Existential musing

TATI’s AND TONY’s DEAD POET TOUR // Hateful is the Dark-Blue Sky by Alfred Lord Tennyson

Hateful is the dark-blue sky,
Vaulted o’er the dark-blue sea.
Death is the end of life; ah, why
Should life all labor be?
Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast,
And in a little while our lips are dumb.
Let us alone. What is it that will last?
And things are taken from us, and become
Portions and parcels of the dreadful past.
Let us alone. What pleasure can we have
To war with evil? Is there any peace
In ever climbing up the climbing wave?
All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave
In silence, ripen, fall, and cease:
Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease.

by ALFRED LORD TENNYSON (1809-1892)
Public Domain Poetry

social contract

have you ever felt
that your life is mortgaged
from the very first cry?

they squeeze your persona dry
they gain interest from everything
starting with your imperfect reflection
and its teenaged acne
ending with a type of upholstery
on your second-rate coffin

and nothing really belongs to you
except a nightingale’s song
that reverberates outside your window
every single night

by TETIANA ALEKSINA
© All rights reserved 2024

TROTTERSVILLE #2

  • Schadenfreude
  • Шаденфройде

You can find TROTTERSVILLE #1 here > Ba Dum Tish!

by TONY SINGLE & TETIANA ALEKSINA
© All rights reserved 2024

TATI’s & TONY’s DEAD POET TOUR // Hypocrisy by Samuel Butler

Hypocrisy will serve as well
To propagate a church, as zeal;
As persecution and promotion
Do equally advance devotion:
So round white stones will serve, they say,
As well as eggs to make hens lay.

by SAMUEL BUTLER (1613-1680)
Public Domain Poetry

TATI’s & TONY’s DEAD POET TOUR // A Few Lines On Completing Forty-Seven. by Thomas Hood

When I reflect with serious sense,
While years and years run on,
How soon I may be summoned hence –
There’s cook a-calling John.

Our lives are built so frail and poor,
On sand and not on rocks,
We’re hourly standing at Death’s door –
There’s some one double knocks.

All human days have settled terms,
Our fates we cannot force;
This flesh of mine will feed the worms –
They’re come to lunch of course!

And when my body’s turned to clay,
And dear friends hear my knell,
Oh let them give a sigh and say –
I hear the upstairs bell!

by THOMAS HOOD (1799-1845)
Public Domain Poetry