100 WORD SKITTLE // An Egg State of Mind

Look at him! Chillax Diddy, the gangsta rap penguin, is having a most copacetic time with his entourage of loyal hoes. Lucky dawg!

Hey, bro, you want to impress the hoes too? Put on a tuxedo! Of course, penguins are pretty lucky in this regard. Their skin suit’s their evening wear, and it never shrinks in water.

As for lyrics, just ‘Baby, I’ll sit on eggs for you!’ will get the hoes wet. You might think that sounds disgusting, but not to them. They love a bad boy who’ll also be their big daddy diddy at home. Stone cold diggity!

 

by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2019

Open-Source Poetry Four #2

All Hallows’ Eve has come and gone for another year, leaving behind it a trail of pumpkin seeds and M&Ms. Dear Reader, did you wear a costume this year? We did! Tati was a tentacled Cthulhu kitty, and Tony preferred to… well, cosplay as a plate of pumpkin mash. As usual.

But, alas, good things never last. All the skeletons have been shoved back into their closets, and all the ghosts have been brought to bay with proton energy streams. Now it’s time to work! That’s right, we’re serving up another slice of communal poetry for you to chew over and add lines to. Are you up to the challenge? If your answer is a demonic, guttural yes, then read on:

1) You see that bit of poetry down there? That’s what we’d like your help with. All you need do is submit your own line for our consideration.
2) If we like your line the best, we’ll add it to the poem, then we’ll publish said poem in a follow-up post.
3) What happens then? Well, you get angry if you’re among the unfortunate many whose line wasn’t chosen, and you vow to submit another one that will most certainly blow us away with its awesome astoundingness!
4) And so the whole process of submission and rejection is repeated until we finally have a horrifying new masterpiece!

So, yeah, that’s it! Now it’s your turn to sweat over that next perfect line. Meanwhile, Tati, Tony and Tomas Mankus will chill out with a well earned bag of trick-or-treating sweets… oh, and a cup of tea. Mmm… sacrilegious!

Вензель

hm, what should I draw?
maybe a hairy monster with a furry claw
or a demon crow that sticks in the craw
or a huge bloodstained saw

Вензель_нижний

 

by TETIANA ALEKSINA, TONY SINGLE & TOMAS MANKUS
© All rights reserved 2019

ABSURDIS EXTREME // Case Study #3 [6/11/1978] by B.A. Loney

This is the story of three syllogisms: the valid one, the reasonable one and the one with a correct conclusion.

The one with a correct conclusion kept said conclusion to itself because it wasn’t friends with the other syllogisms. In fact, they were mortal enemies. So, you see, it would mutter the correct conclusion under its breath, over and over. “Some yellow pencils are green.” But not loud enough for anybody to hear—especially not its hopelessly wooden-headed rivals.

The valid syllogism didn’t mutter to itself, or to anyone else. No, it roamed the streets instead, yelling like a crazed vagrant. “All good debaters have a sharp point, dagnabbit!” It scared away passersby with its spittle and shambolic gesticulations, and trod on stray cats’ tails to boot. “Listen to me, you fools! Some green pencils are blunt!” Then it stopped, raised its hands to the heavens, and declared solemnly: “Therefore, some green pencils suck at debating. Don’t mess with them green pencils, I tells ya!” Its beard flapped in the wind like a long grey scarf, and its eyes were deep and empty as it nodded sagely to itself.

The reasonable syllogism closed its second storey window. It needed to complete another letter to the editor of its favourite local gossip rag, but some idiotic shouting from the street was hindering its creative flow. It shook its head as if to clear it, then kept writing. “So, for the reasons outlined above, it’s evident that some pencils turn bright red when sharpened.” Laying down its ballpoint pen, the reasonable syllogism nodded to itself with a smug air of superiority. Who could fail to see this logic? Only one without eyes. It was all there on the page in immutable black and white. The other two syllogisms would shrivel up and blow away in the wind like so much piffling detritus as soon as they read this!

Meanwhile, on the other side of the city, a John Doe who’d hidden his colour blindness in order to gain employment at a pencil factory was preparing for his first day of work. He couldn’t know that in eight short hours a green pencil would become rather agitated and, shall we say ‘pointed’, about a particular point it was going to make. It would insist on not being put in the same box as some idiotic yellow pencils. “I am a noble green! Not plebeian yellow!” And it would aggressively jab John in the chest in order to make its point, right until the point at which he bled out and died. Poor John Doe! How tragic that his life would end with him toppling onto a conveyor belt, spilling his fresh blood over freshly sharpened pencils.

So, what’s the moral of this story? We don’t need one—only naked facts. This is scientific research, baby, not a fucking fable.

 

by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2019

GUEST POST // Viaticum 3 – Wooden hands by Chris Nelson

Knotted fingers work their skill
Sculpting nature’s giants,
As passion flows through hands
Designed to make things new.
Hematic flow from skin to grain
Rekindles life anew,
This touch like cryptesthesia
Animation from the dead.
And now you try to steal this love
To touch another’s flesh,
To breathe life within a kiss
And raise an amaranthine army.
These hands show dried and lifeless
Now splintered from mis-use,
Cut from weeping saplings
And drowned in blood of men.

 

by CHRIS NELSON
© All rights reserved 2000-2019

Dada (Fragment #018)

I marched towards the library and collided with Patrick near the main entrance. I remembered this boor. He was an assistant at my entrance examination. I decided not to waste time greeting him and just passed on by.

The 20th century German literature section wasn’t a very popular place. Well, good riddance! It was much better to work without the silly background chirrup of girls writing endless nonsense about heroic troubadours and sighing over modern guys who’d forgotten the art of courtship.

Anyway, I figured I should get to work, so I thumbed along the high stacks looking for the letter ‘T’. Gotcha! Tristan Tzara, ‘Seven Dada Manifestos and Lampisteries’.

“Take a newspaper.
Take some scissors.
Choose from this paper an article of the length you want to make your poem.
Cut out the article.
Next carefully cut out each of the words that makes up this article and put them all in a bag.
Shake gently.
Next take out each cutting one after the other.
Copy conscientiously in the order in which they left the bag.
The poem will resemble you.
And there you are – an infinitely original author of charming sensibility, even though unappreciated by the vulgar herd.”

So, professor, you didn’t like my poem? I giggled at the thought. I’ll learn how to break something that was already broken. Let’s dada, baby! And suddenly, my attention was drawn to some other voices. They sounded pretty tense. I cocked my ear.

“I need this book!”

“The rules are the same for everyone. You can only read it in the reference room. This book mustn’t leave the library.”

“But…”

“No.”

I peeped out of the stack and looked over to the counter. A disappointed Patrick was talking with the library custodian, a large leather bound book clutched to his chest. Serves you right! I thought with gloating delight.

I’d always considered the ‘Codex Seraphinianus’ to be a bit of a joke. I didn’t think anyone of stable mind could ever truly take it seriously. My eyes flicked across Patrick’s sad features again. What a putty head!

Anyway, I needed to care more about completing the task at hand.

 

by TETIANA ALEKSINA
© All rights reserved 2017