the cows are lowing again
cookie dough spilling from each end
their udders remain virginal
by TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2020
Tag Archives: Poem
GUEST POST // if I’m a slut will you still like my art? by Summerhill Lane
if I’m a slut will you still like my art?
Judge me
Judge me
Take a look
And bash me
Kick me
Slap me
Cross the street
Instead of meet me
Need me
Take me
Make full use
Then abuse me
Talk about behind my back
Whisper stories like a hack
It matters not
you have no heart
If I’m a slut will you still like my art?
by SUMMERHILL LANE
© All rights reserved 2020
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TATI’s & TONY’s DEAD POET TOUR // At Sea by Sara Teasdale
In the pull of the wind I stand, lonely,
On the deck of a ship, rising, falling,
Wild night around me, wild water under me,
Whipped by the storm, screaming and calling.
Earth is hostile and the sea hostile,
Why do I look for a place to rest?
I must fight always and die fighting
With fear an unhealing wound in my breast.
by SARA TEASDALE (1884-1933)
Public Domain Poetry
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Open-Source Poetry Five #1
Ho ho ho! Merry Christmas everyone!
Oh… Too soon?
Well, usually we’re two bums looking at the tail lights of Santa’s sleigh while we desperately turn out our pockets to find a pen and a sheet of paper for the letter we forgot to write him.
That’s why this year we have decided to be prepared. Like they say: “If you want to be happy, be so.” (Who actually said this by the way?)
So…
We have been a very good girl and boy during this unfestive pandemic and would subsequently like a nice gift* from you (but not a lump of coal like you gave us last Christmas, please).
Tati & Tony
*(Please make it a tiny, uninhabited island and a rad new PS5!)’
Hmmm… no. This sounds rather egoistical. And we’re pretty sure that you, Dear Reader, have also been a very good girl (or boy) this year and thus deserve a nice gift. Tell you what… how about we write a letter to Santa together? And we promise we’ll send it to the addressee when it’s done!
Oh, and what if we write the letter in the form of a lovely, rousing poem? That ought to soften Santa’s glacial heart, don’t you think? Here, we’ll begin…
Dear Mr Santypoos, how do you do?
Hope you don’t have COVID and the deer are healthy too.
So, if you want Santa to put something especially cool in your stocking this year then it’s easy! Just follow these simple, festive steps:
1) Close your eyes and recall your deepest wish.
2) Open your eyes, read the above lines of our poem in progress then submit one or two more lines of your own (even if you have a list of 1,918,223 items or somesuch try to pack this into only two lines).
3) We pick the lines we like most (especially if you’ve left us some milk and cookies with them) and we write some more lines to follow those.
4) When the letter is done, we seal it, put all your names in the envelope, and send it to Santa with the next express snowy owl.
By the way, as of this posting there are only 82 shopping days left until Christmas, so we need to hurry the eff up! Get crackin’, hoes! Ho ho ho!
by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2020
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saoirse
at the beginning of time there was a girl
in a melamine bowl
she had no family, no friends
and was on the dole
she was sat there in a corn flake swirl
a milky, sugared doll
her belongings were mere odds and ends
oh, what a poor little soul!
her name was saoirse
though people hardly remembered
yearning between dearth and plenty
buried under stone in the garden of rasure
at noonday’s predoom was a woman cold
in a gumball machine
for the merriment of boozers
in a stinky shebeen
she would shiver nude and candy bold
a pert and tart cuisine
a laughing stock even for losers
oh, buy her a tall glass of poteen!
her name was saoirse
though people hardly remembered
yearning between dearth and plenty
buried under stone in the garden of rasure
at the end of all things there was a crone
in a bottle discarded
fighting her battles all over again
in weakness, unguarded
she inhaled a black wind through her bones
and all she’d once regarded
her last sigh was for the land of cockaigne
where life is ample tabled and lardered
her name was saoirse
though people hardly remembered
yearning between dearth and plenty
buried under stone in the garden of rasure
by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2020
unbolt me 