i make space for you
& yet you make none for me
an eyeroll, a sigh
silence meant to break the heart
music has gone, now depart
depart, unwanted
before they take the last chair
break your monkey face
by TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2026
Tag Archives: Writings
neigh serenade
oh, how i love her so
she be my brayin’ ho
she got a talent for
oh eee ho eee ho
she ne’er move her ass
lest i shift her mass
she got a penchant for
oh eee ho eee ho
she got them big white teeth
flashin‘ all o’er the heath
she got a passion for
oh eee ho eee ho
by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2025
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TATI’s & TONY’s DEAD POET TOUR // If by H.C. Dodge
If a man could live a thousand years,
When half his life had passed,
He might, by strict economy,
A fortune have amassed.
Then having gained some common-sense,
And knowledge, too, of life,
He could select the woman who
Would make him a true wife.
But as it is, man hasn’t time
To even pay his debts,
And weds to be acquainted with
The woman whom he gets.
by H.C. DODGE (1865-1915)
Public Domain Poetry
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quorum
long have the god botherers strung
like paper dolls around its altar
drawing us into their gravity well
where not one tittle or callous jot
shall suffer a shred of dignity
so mosaic law shall e’er hold sway
then let us choose who we are today
as they freeze themselves to all change
where heavens become another hell
of much vaunted imprecations
& love decaying in final solutions
from the pallid fists of the raptured dead
but unlike they, we can lift our heads
ne’er to be alone in this
let us feel snow on our tongues again
let the contours of sensation stay
for this is how we reclaim the day
afore the erasure of all souls
voiceless remnant, we braved the coals
where weight to the dreams once had
died in those embers to be born again
we were failed by shared geometry
but here is where we hearken shall stand
as tho’ we were always more than this
with all we shall ne’er learn to kiss
with all we shall ne’er learn to say
with all we shall ne’er learn to be
we still must remain somehow free
rooted in trust ’til the end of things
to find a more empathetic way
& the contours of sensation say
today is the day, for we be hungry
are we not allowed our dignity
for to brush away all tyranny
for to learn what it means for all to be
for to sup life now when tomorrow we’re gone
by TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2026
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WORDS LIVE ON // Veronika Kozhushko
Down through the ages, Russia has tried to kill the Ukrainian identity. They have done everything to present Ukraine as the rural outskirts of the ‘great, educated and advanced’ Russian empire. But the ones who proclaimed themselves enlighteners were merely butchers, murderers. They did everything they could to erase Ukrainian culture, traditions, and even the Ukrainian language itself.
And they are still doing this, even now, literally. During the last eleven years of war, Russia has killed hundreds of people of literature. Writers, poets, translators, editors, publishers and librarians. Ukrainian men and women. As you read these words, others are left to disappear in an unread draft forever.
There is a project called ‘Nedopysani‘ (‘Unfinished‘ in English). It’s a memorial site for people of literature who will never be able to put that final dot in their notebook, who will never be able to take into their hands their first published book. And so, this is our hard and painful mission. This is what we must do for them. It is inevitable.
Today, we present the next instalment of our translation series, ‘Words Live On’. We have done our best, and we hope that it will speak to our Dear Readers in a way that cold, clinical war statistics cannot. Nika was a bright talent, as her poetry and illustrations attest, and we hope you will honour her memory with us. She was only eighteen, and taken from the world far too soon.
Glory to Ukraine! To our heroes — glory!
The angriest poems that come out are about God.
There it smells of disappointment, frankincense and grief.
The Almighty is mentioned only in the context of absence.
Atheism wakens only in zealous Catholics.
Take up the cross with maimed paws.
Drop a line when you get to Hell.
And while you’re crossing out the signs,
You’re developing haemophilia.
God applies to wounds only empty Bible pages.
Найзліші вірші виходять про Бога.
Там пахне зневірою, ладаном і журбою.
Всевишній згадується лише в контексті відсутності.
Атеїзм прокидається лише в вірних католиків.
Бери хрест до знівечених лап.
Пиши, як ти потрапиш в ад.
І, допоки викреслюєш знаки,
У тебе розвивається гемофілія.
Бог докладає до ран лише порожні сторінки Біблії.
Original poem by VERONIKA KOZHUSHKO
Translation by TETIANA ALEKSINA
© All rights reserved 2024
unbolt me 