not your bitch

we wandered through peep shows, all with a glass floor
pulled down our skirts for the pervs looking up
we got used to the shame, this tedious chore
like our golden coffers were made to corrupt

we ground their laurel wreaths to brew bitter tea
and claimed the remains to make new storied crowns
we were the stars of their voyeuristic spree
carousing soma of feminal renown

we were prostrate matriarchs with pride intact
and their fire loins only provoked us all
we were by far the best, putting on an act
to tempt them and fool them, to give them blue balls

 

by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2019

THE ABCs OF A PECULIAR LIFE // C is for Casuistry & Criminy

Little Sophia was the perfect little angel.

“Young lady, I thought I told you not to eat after six!”

“But this one’s only my fifth!”

Pensive Parabellum shook his head ruefully. Little Sophia was clearly in the wrong but she also never ceased to delight. Standing there with her hand balled into a tight little fist around the last cookie in the jar, she hadn’t missed a beat in delivering her response.

There was no guilt or remorse in her eyes. No shifty expression. No tell-tale blink. Nothing. She simply wasn’t about to take ownership of her wrong.

“I meant after six o’clock, and you know it, young lady!”

“Yes, Grandad.”

Criminy, she was good!

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A loud, obnoxious pop. Sophia was chewing bubble gum again, and with that same practiced, scornful look. It was a look that announced her world weariness for all the world to see. That less of a shit could be given.

Still, Sophia was Grandad’s perfect little angel. An angel sporting an ugly, beaked skull with black wings between her dainty shoulder blades.

Pensive Parabellum harrumphed. Like any grandparent, he was mortified. This was not behaviour worthy of a well-brought up teenager.

“Dolce, why did you get this stinkaroo on your back?” he asked, indicating her tattoo.

“Because there wasn’t enough space on my chest.” Another obnoxious pop.

Pensive Parabellum didn’t quite know how to respond to that.

Criminy, she was good!

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“Blond? Brunette? Or red?”

Pensive Parabellum looked up from the half-empty mug to fix his buddy with a stony stare. The last pint, apparently, was excess. He hadn’t counted on that.

“W-w-what?”

His buddy guffawed and clapped Pensive Parabellum on the shoulder.

“You’re getting old, soft cock!”

Pensive Parabellum shook his head as if to clear it. Yes, he was definitely seeing double. He shook it some more. This bucks party was well and truly in full swing, and he was barely keeping up.

“So, blond? Brunette? Or red? Don’t keep ’em waiting, mate!”

What was he choosing? Pensive Parabellum wasn’t entirely sure. He waved his hand helplessly. What he meant was ‘leave me alone’ but what he got was his buddy clicking his fingers and calling someone over.

“Hello, boys. Need a little amusement?”

Although the voice was a little rusty, it seemed strangely familiar. Pensive Parabellum turned, coming face-to-face with its owner’s fleshy, one-eyed stare. He looked up. Oh, it was the belly button of a tall, skinny brunette. Not only did she sound familiar, she looked a little familiar too. Or, maybe, it just was the alcohol haze filling his head.

“So, what’ll it be? A strip tease? Twerk? Or are you a lap dance man?”

And, as quick as you please, she turned her back and began making seductive waves with her exquisitely shaped buns. Pensive Parabellum stared dumbly as they swayed ever closer to his lap. Hey, was that dental floss between those two delectable mounds? Oh. No. She was wearing a G-string.

“Hot damn. I need to pee.”

Pensive Parabellum tried to get up. After a couple of aborted attempts and much bottom groping (purely for support purposes, of course!) he finally made it. The room erupted in cheers. This gargantuan effort had not only gotten him to his feet but had also moved his eyeline directly up the brunette’s spine to between her shoulder blades. What he saw there made his blood freeze.

An ugly, beaked skull with black wings.

“My Sophia!” he squeaked. “You would sell your body like a common whore?” He collapsed on the chair.

“Don’t grump, Grampy, I just wanted to buy you a little something for your wedding.” Sophia kissed his brow, adjusted her G-string and added, “Looks like I’m not the only one who got caught with their hand in the cookie jar, hmmm?” She walked off with a coquettish side glance and a playful jiggle of her cheeks.

Criminy, she was good!

 

by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2018

BUT IS IT POETRY? // Sunhibitionism

Midday bends
over a city
thoughtlessly,
sun nipple
slips out of cloudy brassiere
shamelessly. It’s hot.

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TONY: Wow. This poem’s as hot as I feel!

TATI: Really? Kewl…

(Tati sniffles. Her nose is very runny and red.)

TATI: Ahhh… ahhh… AH CHOO!

(Tony wipes himself off.)

TONY: Lovely. All. Over. Me. Thanks for that.

TATI: You’re welcome, Tony.

TONY: Could you maybe sneeze upwind in future? Anyway, let’s discuss this poem of yours. It’s called ‘Sunhibitionism’.

TATI: Yea… AH CHOO!

(Tony wipes himself off again.)

TATI: Sorry. That was upwind this time.

TONY: Good freakin’ god. It’s like sitting next to a sprinkler.

(Tati gives Tony a helmet.)

TATI: Will you ask me after all?

TONY: About the poem?

(He puts the helmet on.)

TONY: If I can just get a word in with all this projectile snot flyin’ about then yes, I will ask after all.

TATI: And…?

TONY: What made you think of equating weather patterns with the imagery of a woman bending over?

TATI: It was a cloud. Its shape reminded me of a bra… ah CHOO!

TONY: Thank the very Christ for this helmet.

(Tony wipes his visor off.)

TONY: So, do clouds often make you think of women’s undergarments, Tati? Are you some kind of pervert?

TATI: What? Of course no! If a cloud looks like a teddy bear, will you accuse me of liking bestiality too?

TONY: Well, I don’t know what kinkiness goes on inside your head.

TATI: Tony, are we discussing the poem here, or are you trying to fish out my hidden desires?

TONY: Oh, so you do it with fish now? What a sicko…

TATI: Are you going to discuss poetry after all, you freaking pervert? What about my use of imagery, metaphor, and meter? AHHH… CHOO!

(Tony wipes his visor off.)

TONY: You’re sneezing on me on purpose now, aren’t you…

(He takes off his shirt and wrings it dry. Tati sniffles.)

TATI: Dear Readers, because Tony is being extremely objectionable today, let me take up the reins.

TONY: Says the woman who sprays everything with mucous.

TATI: It’s a shadorma.

TONY: Is that what they’re calling it these days?

TATI: What’s that?

TONY: Snot. Shadorma. Must I spell this out?

TATI: Oh, hell. No! It’s a poetic form. Not what your sore fantasy suggests. And if you dare to call yourself a poet, you had better learn some theory!

TONY: Theory? Damn. Then I guess I’m no poet after all. I hardly know any theory when it comes to writing my poems.

TATI: AH CHOO! By the way… do you know? Whenever you say something and someone else sneezes at the same time, it means you are telling the truth.

TONY: I guess it’s confirmed then. I’m a hack.

TATI: Oh. Don’t you want to say, “Bless you?”

TONY: You’re like a cat, Tati. You always manage to land on your feet no matter how far you fall. I’m pretty sure you don’t need a blessing!

TATI: Sunhibitionism.

TONY: Are you sneezing again?

TATI: No, it’s a broad hint.

TONY: To talk about the actual poem, yes?

TATI: Hallelui… ah… ah… AH CHOO!

TONY: Good grief. Okay, so if the sun is like a nipple, is that why we’re often dissuaded from looking at it? It’s too rude, so we might go blind if we do?

TATI: Of course. It’s so mushy little boys like you, Bubby Tony, can continue to play with their toy soldiers… and don’t hide another issue of Playboy under your pillows.

TONY: Are you saying I’m too immature to appreciate your poem?

TATI: Yes, I think so. You’re focused on details and don’t see the whole picture. It’s like you giggle at the nakedness of Venus de Milo, or David. Or poke your finger at Madonna Litta. Ahhh… ahhh… AH CHOO!

TONY: So, is this a commentary on society’s collective shame regarding sexuality? Is that what you’re referring to here? And since when did you begin comparing your poems with the works of such masters? Not that I’m saying your poems aren’t worthy of scrutiny…

TATI: Oh my god! Really?! Was I able to drag you back to the main point of our discussion?

TONY: Hey, I’m perfectly capable of have an intelligent conversation y’know!

TATI: Says the man with a helmet on his head, and sprinkled all over with mucous shadorma!

TONY: Excuse me all to hell then! I’m off to have a much needed shower…

 

by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2017