This book smells so redolent,
though the pages feel decayed.
It’s cover seems insolent,
frayed bromide paper displayed.
All, what I craved, lies inside
like a spurned lover in print
who was inked and crucified
by glossing over missed hints.
My trembling fingers caress
the words I cannot escape.
The vowels slowly undress
wound’s consonants, healing, named…
by TETIANA ALEKSINA & RY HAKARI
© All rights reserved 2015
“Angels fly as fools die! Aiiii!” she bellowed as her clothes caught hold
on a stick in the mud, sticking out a hole in the wall, breaking her fall.
“I order you pull me off from fucking hook!” came her command while
face to hat, hanging upside-down by undergarments — “Why petticoat
princess? No, I love your unholy pantalooned look!” the Bastard spoke.
“Mat’ tvoyu za nogu! (Grab your mother at her leg!) V rot tebe parokhod!
(Shove a steamboat into your mouth!)” and the Slavic for “You’re a bald-
coot slimeball!” (Ty pleshivyy urod!) the Black-Crowned Yew-Crane crowed.
Bastion’s confused expression, and crooked hat, however, quickly caused
Petra to lose her shit, and laugh her ass off, before saying, “Baiyan cat,
you can eat Petra” which confused the poor bastard more, so he coughed
awkwardly, thinking she meant her pussy, which oddly enough, she did as
her predicament was briefly forgotten, but still furious, regained her cross
posture, and let fly the beautiful curses, hushing Bastion’s ballsy sarcasm.
by TETIANA ALEKSINA & RY HAKARI
© All rights reserved 2015
Petra inquired “Anyone home?”, and in getting his “All’s well in this well”
in reply, she asked “What you do?”, received a sly “Well, well manager”
and yelled “Well, well, well! How rude! Are you token rodent that purrs?”
“Drop dead, my friend” he mumbled under his breath, and said, “Hell,
I guess, princess. See all the sixpence?” She sputtered, “Demon spell
make you toke too much! How ass hat know Petra Princess? Know her?”
“All princesses are no more than a purse! If you lead a horse to water,
you can’t make ’em drink!” — “You the whore who needs help, infidel!”
“I’m the virgin bastard of Cheshire! I have heard of you! The Empusa
with the flaming ash-blonde locks!” he spoke, and she, flattered, said,
“You have sexy dirty Medusa hair too, so Petra not stone you! Umm…”
and petrified, Bastion heard “Sacred Loti, for the girly boy!” with dread
as she returned tumbling head o’er heels o’er the edge like a lush-klutz
hush-hush lust-drunk — Because fools rush in where angels fear to tread.
by TETIANA ALEKSINA & RY HAKARI
© All rights reserved 2015
I’m lucky. Really, guys, I’m lucky!
Can you boast of two collaborations with Tony Single without a break? I can! Collaborating with Tony is a great joy. An exceptional joy.
Because Tony is exceptional. Artist. Wastrel. A quantum of potential. Aha!
A fucking ideal. I can’t even believe that he’s real! Hey, Tony! Are you real?
Thank you, Tony… and let us go to the next collaboration? Please, please!
Lanterns shine too bright
and water drops too loud.
I’m a lonely knight
standing opposite the crowd.
Lances jut too pointy
at queens too busy quilting.
Quintains feel too jaunty
for serious windmill tilting.
The firmament gets bleak.
Clouds weave the decoy node.
Pinnacled rooks beak
apples on the patchwork road.
Full import and all portent,
or is this mere priestly babble?
Preaching safe from beside the war tent,
in unholy war they dabble.
A phthisical bishop spits blood
into cream roadside manure.
The left quintain falls with a thud
losing its air-headed allure.
The right quintain sprouts lambent wings
and a halo for a hero’s journey.
It can have my heart as I’ve no wish to depart,
to forswear my stratagems twisty turny.
But it’s zugzwang, and I’m too tired to prate.
God save my Queen! I U-turn at one fling,
and make public a smothered selfmate
for my despicable sterile King.
by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2015
Italian-adopted Princess of Florence,
Petra the Opera Prima Donna Slavic,
a feline-fearing alluring Ailurophobic
soon passed Cheshire’s abhorrence,
and with whims of a fetish sixth-sense
for hatted men, wished to fish and fix
the Tomcat from the well, blowing dick
of the puss in boots deep in sixpence.
When she tilted her face down the well at sunrise,
dawn’s disc lit her ash-blonde hair up, like a halo
and the feathered musketeer-hat man, surprised,
felt aggrandized by the Angel, whose cheeks glowed
at the fallen Seraph as well, who though circumcised,
obviously had personal demons he needed to let go.
by TETIANA ALEKSINA & RY HAKARI
© All rights reserved 2015
unbolt me 