We need another sex word story.
by TETIANA ALEKSINA
© All rights reserved 2018
Tag Archives: Writings
100 WORD SKITTLE // Leave Well Alone
Every day is perfect if we leave it alone and don’t try to do something with it. Once we try to make improvements here and there, everything goes down the drain. The whirlpool of truth favours no one.
I believe it’s the same with people. Look at that overweight guy who walks up the street day after day, chowing down on a hamburger. Perfect! Don’t ever try and tell him he needs to start dieting or to fasten a shoelace. He might trip and end up rolling into a storm water drain or something. What a disaster that would be!
by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2019
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BUT IS IT POETRY? // lethal bloom
a lunger on a hospital sheet
embraces the last spring
bursts into blossom with scarlet poppies
with every coughing fit
TONY: Hm. I wonder…
TATI: Good luck with such a tedious task. I’m going to the sex shop before it closes. Do you need anything?
TONY: Yes, I do. While you’re there, would you purchase me an answer that will scrub away the question mark that lingers above your poem ‘lethal bloom’?
TATI: I appreciate your sense of humour, Tony. Will you die from curiosity during the next hour?
TONY: I’m not a cat, so… no.
TATI: Then I’ll be back soon. You’ll have a chance to prepare some genuinely interesting questions. Not like the last time.
TONY: How long must a poem be to be considered a legitimate poem?
TATI: You men are too preoccupied with sizes. How long must a penis be to be considered a legitimate penis?
TONY: Says the woman who’s going to a sex shop.
TATI: According to the Guinness Book of Records, the world’s shortest poem is one letter long. It’s by Aram Saroyan, and comprises a four-legged version of the letter ‘m’.
TONY: Damn. They’ll accept anything these days, won’t they?
TATI: Yes. You’re unbelievably quick-witted today. What happened?
TONY: What can I say? I’ve had my cornflakes. Anyway, back to your poem…
TATI: Back to my poem.
TONY: Yes. Were you worried that it might be considered a little on the short side?
TATI: No!
TONY: Okay then. I must say I do admire how you’ve managed to pack so much meaning into so few lines of poetry. That takes real skill.
TATI: Thank you. Again, do you need anything from the sex shop? There’s a big clearance sale on. Buy two, get one free. You can have the free one.
TONY: As long as it’s not a dildo then I don’t mind. You know, we haven’t even discussed the poem’s themes yet. I’m beginning to get the feeling you don’t want to talk about it.
TATI: What? You said you’re not a cat, and I can’t wait forever! And by the way, I will choose whatever I want for you, so beggars can’t be choosers!
TONY: This won’t take too long. I promise. All I want to know is what your poem’s about.
TATI: Life. Death. Spring.
TONY: Wow. You really unveiled the mystery there.
TATI: Tony, I’m late. I need to buy stockings and an eye patch!
TONY: I can’t imagine you in stockings. But you with an eye patch… now that would be way cool!
TATI: So, I may go after all?
TONY: Sigh. Fine. Go. Far be it from me to delay you on your all important quest!
Tati rushes out the door, slamming it behind her. She rushes back in mere moments later.
TONY: Did you forget something?
TATI: Yes, you idiot! I forgot to check my watch! The sex shop is closed already, so there is no point me going now!
TONY: Hey, that only happened because you wasted time not answering a simple question!
TATI: Sigh. Ask your questions. Anyway, there’s no fun at a hospital without stockings and an eye patch.
TONY: At a hosp—OH! I get it! You wanna indulge in a little Tarantino cosplay, yes?
TATI: No cosplays, silly Tony! Just some volunteering in the tuberculosis department.
TONY: Erm. Okay. It’s probably best if you don’t tell me about your perverted extracurricular activities.
TATI: Germane to the matter, I believe you had dozens of questions about my poem.
TONY: Oh, no no no! I’m done with that. I have no more questions. Besides, I’m tired. I think I’ll just rest here for a bit.
Tati finally seems to be lost for words. Tony plonks himself down on the sofa, his arms folded behind his head. Tati shrugs to herself, lights a cigarette, and plonks herself beside him.
TONY: Those will kill you, you know.
TATI: I know.
by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2018
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GUEST POST // An Invite by KT
I am single
I have a female roommate
she’s 20, almost 21
yup, half my age
oh my!
but, it’s not like that
she’s an amazing Hispanic woman
a great human
and sometimes I give her a kiss on the cheek
cause she’s cool
and, sometimes, I forget to eat
because I’m a little passionate
and she’s an amazing chef
and I am grateful for that
because I suck at it
I am retired from dating and sex
(although, I have references that will tell you I am very good at it)
but, love is bigger than you and your partner and family and tribe
and, it’s even bigger than your sex drive
wait… what?
it’s true
so, no, I won’t date you
because sex is an expectation that impedes love
(I know, right? I mean, when has sex caused a fight?
never, right?)
life is very light when sex isn’t your drive
so, if I flirt with you
or, write a poem about you
(because I derive inspiration from humans, imagine that?)
it is to put a smile on your face
I know, no expectations…
holy fuck! that’s not real…
it’s misleading
well, go tell your mother and father and your god
that I made you smile
(what an ass I am, I know)
and when you’re done
tell them I said hi because I don’t mind
making them smile too
I make a better friend than a boyfriend
(and that’s just me being real honest with me)
but, do come over
I’ll make you pancakes with peanut butter
and maple syrup on top
and we can talk
I don’t give a fuck about your past
your religion
your sexual orientation
your binary finary winary things
your skin color
I don’t care if you’re fat or maimed
I don’t care about your honey boo boo nada nada
I can deal with anything
except a lie
that I despise
and that will get you
no pancakes!
(scary, huh? these threats I make…)
come
on over
let’s chat
have a pancake and smile
I’ll even sing to you because
I’m crazy like that
I can’t do it all
I’ve left a map
and it’s free
when’s the last time your preacher offered that?
no collection plate
just you and your heartbeat
and I’ll still write
because I’m compelled to
but, you have some reading to do
(imagine that, me ask you to learn?)
start at the beginning
finding your heartbeat takes a little time
it took me over a year
but, it’s amazing once you find it
it’s worth the investment (in you, no less)
I promise
and you can pray all the same
just spend some time
feeling your heartbeat as well
and,
if you wish to question my philosophy
well, please do
I’m not sacred
are you?
and if I’m wrong
I’ll admit it because
I’m not committed to being right, like you
I’m committed to learning
in order
to better the human race
pancakes, anyone?
by KT
© All rights reserved 2019
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THE ABCs OF A PECULIAR LIFE // Iambus & Idiocy (Recital in I flat minor)
The Mosquito had been writing poems for as long as it could remember. Yes, that’s right, a very long time. Literally aeons. Three whole days in fact!
Of course, the Mosquito would accept only heroic verse. To wit, iambic pentameter. Trochee? Anapaest? These were for brain dead losers. Only real men wrote in iambic. Shakespeare, for example. Pushkin too. And now the Mosquito.
He was also a Debonaire-Vervain. The Debonaire-Vervains were titans of the corporate world. Blue bloods. Old stock. The family line went back generations. Weeks and weeks at least. Investment portfolios. Start-ups. Feelers in every pie. The Mosquito had studied at the finest schools and universities. He even lived on a posh arm all his own. Nothing but prime real estate all the way!
Anyway, the following is a poem that the Mosquito wrote for his ravishing wife on the eve of their ruby wedding anniversary. It had been two long, glorious days since their meeting! Where had the time gone? Of course, he was not yet master of his craft, and his style had yet to mature. But none could deny that he was full of ardour and passion, and it showed in his words.
Buzz me not to the buzzing of buzzed minds
Admit imbuzziments. Buzzing is not abuzz.
Which alters when it buzzeration finds,
Or bends with the buzzer to rebuzz.
O no! It is an ever-fixed buzz
That looks on buzzpests and is never buzzen;
It is the star to every wand’ring buzz,
Whose worth’s unbuzzed, although his buzz be taken.
Buzz’s not Time’s fool, though buzzy lips and cheeks
Within his bending buzzle’s compass buzz;
Buzz alters not with his brief hours and buzzes,
But bears it out even to the buzz of doom.
If this be error and upon me prov’d,
I never buzzed, nor no mosquito ever lov’d. *
Naturally, Madam Mosquito was impressed, and instantly gave birth to another fifty bloodsuckers. Oh, these modern women! They don’t waste time, do they? Of course, they’ll say they want a man who’s arty and edgy. But what they really crave is a domesticated homebody who embodies the traditional family values.
But the Mosquito was an ambitious sort. Yes, he’d won the heart of Madame Mosquito and gained her feeler in holy matrimony, but it wasn’t enough. He also wanted everyone on earth to hear his poems. That’s why, after being informed of a top secret mission (Code Name: Star-spangled Mooning) from a fly on the wall in the Soviet Government, he put on his best suit and tie, grabbed his latest manuscript, and caught a taxi to Baikonur. He’d decided that a rocket antenna would be the best stage from which to orate his flowery writings.
Fortunately for him, he was not at all late. The Soviet vessel was still being readied for its maiden moon shot. The Mosquito landed right on the front glass, got himself cosy, then quenched his thirst with a droplet of cherry rum. After this he pulled out his manuscript, thinking for a moment about which poem he’d be proudest to grace the airwaves with first…
And now for the main event! The final countdown!
Ten… nine… five… two… one…
FIRE!
Nine kilometres per second and history was about to be ma—
Because I could not buzz for Death
It kindly buzzed for me
The vessel held but just
Ourselves —And Immortality.*
*Thanks to Shakespeare and Dickinson for the buzzspiration.
by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2017
