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

the oblivion amnesty

as the eviscerated fish fries in its milt
so too i self-immolate in feculent guilt
my thoughts are sharper than a castrating knife
looking to cradle song to pity my lawless life

hush, little baby, don’t say a word
you’ll die soon enough, and shame ungird
just look at yourself one last time
as you flop and gasp before your last crime

as the desiccated slug becomes shriveled and pruned
so too i rub salt into this black pudding wound
my memories are more bitter than jesuit’s bark
looking to burial song to absolve myself in the dark

cry, little baby, let everyone hear
you’ll rot soon enough, in soil and fear
just look at yourself one last time
as you drop and rasp after your last crime

 

by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2020

the search for meaning meating

and so it was, the black sheep of the breed
who hated sunday brunches in the garden
would take to hiding beneath the old sofa

the young man-eater could not find serenity
so he sat and played with his kewpie dolls
he dressed them in lacy pantaloons
and fed them to brimming with liver smoothies
but it seems they were protein intolerant
they emptied themselves over momma’s rug

and so he’d switched paradigms, from meat to veg
he’d tried hard to forget his rabid hunger
looking in to find a peace within the zen

the young man-eater could not find serenity
so he joined a chinese calligraphy course
but the paper and ink were a reminder
of the tattooed flesh he’d not had for supper
all flustered, he confused two similar glyphs
and got kicked out for insulting chairman mao

and so he realised the power of his words
he well knew what it was he would have to do
he would help himself by preaching to others

the young man-eater could not find serenity
so he formed the gloomiest black metal band
and he called it ‘benighted rutabaga’
it became widely known in narrow circles
for none ever bothered to attend their gigs
still, they protected the rights of vegies all

and so he sang and roared his frustrations out
the voice of one crying in the wilderness
then went and rejoined sunday family brunch

 

by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2020