Tag Archives: Writings

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

Come Unto Me (based on a true story)

I feasted my eyes upon the gorgeous frescoes that adorned the ceiling one more time, then turned to the exit. When I reached the wide doorway, I saw that today (to my great surprise) the forecasters had been right. There was a heavy rain.

Of course, I hadn’t taken an umbrella. Who can properly enjoy walking around one of the most splendid European capitals with unnecessary stuff in hand? One hand is for my camera, another hand is for ice-cream cones. A third is not a given.

I turned around with the intention of going back into the church and waiting out the storm. No such luck. A stodgy man in a black robe blocked the passage. In answer to my wordless question he pointed to the notice board. It stated that the canonical hour would be starting soon, so I went out to the big porch in the rain. There was no choice.

The porch was quickly filling up with people. The rear pushed at the front, perplexed as to why they would stand out in the downpour and not enter. Toward them moved ‘exiles’ like me who had been turned out of the building. A sullen acolyte stood at the centre of this live whirlpool like a hard-shelled bouncer at a night club doorway. It looked like no one was fitting the dress code for this private party today.

I lifted my face to the grey sky and inhaled the heavy, wet air. Some huge raindrops fell on my cheek. I smiled and shrugged my shoulders. There’s always choice.

I covered my head with a leaflet detailing the schedule of canonical hours, and ran to a bar opposite the church. Thank god these sanctuaries are always willing to embrace and warm the sick and suffering. Amen.

by TETIANA ALEKSINA
© All rights reserved 2017

THE ABCs OF A PECULIAR LIFE // G is for Giraffe & Geniality

My neighbour is a giraffe. She’s just given birth to two little babies. Well, they’re little as far as she’s concerned, but big as far as the rest of us are concerned. It’s a matter of perspectives, I suppose. And ladders.

Sometimes my neighbour forgets to put on her maternity bra. When she comes over for afternoon tea, she accidentally lactates all over my fresh clean tablecloth. I know she can’t help it, and there is such a thing as postnatal depression, but still…

Look, no one likes to be rained upon—that’s all I’m saying. Now I’ll have to put the Royal Doulton teacups through the industrial grade autoclave. And, well, she’ll be visiting again tomorrow…

I hope she doesn’t cry. The leaking is bad enough, but the emotional fallout? I don’t know what to do with that. How many times can she keep forgetting? How long must I play the hospitable host?

by TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2017

Oops!… We Did It Again (acetic simper)

Erm… hullo there. (This is rather awkward…)

Dear Reader, the stuff that was originally posted here has been removed.

We have done this because said stuff has since been included in one of our published books. We hope you’ll believe us when we say we’re not trying to be stingy. No, this has been done to honour the people who have already spent their hard-earned money on our eBook creations.*

If, however, for some reason you’re unable to buy one of our books, and feel you’ll die without seeing this piece of writing, then please contact us via admin@unbolt.me. We won’t allow our Dear Readers to fade away in the dark. We’ll send you the piece in question, and it will be absolutely free. All you need do is ask.

* Of course, we would be like two happy puppies if you too decided to buy one of our books.

by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2017-2018

TATI’S TRANSLATIONS // Icicles by Sudeep Sen

Cold blast from an electric vent bites my skin — this comfortable discomfort, prickling my pores bathed in an acrid glaze, transforms to frozen gold-salt.

Attaining instant freezing points might be a rare marvel of science; I like this hellishly good blast that shakes all the embedded molecules in my bones —

bones that are parched in heat, turn to skeletal icicles — a beautiful ballerina-geography of stalactites and stalagmites — each needle-end points towards the other

like the two longing fngertips in Michelangelo’s painting at the Sistine Chapel — desiring a touch.

Струя холодного воздуха, выползающая из вентиляционной решетки, жалит мою кожу. Ласковые крошечные клыки вонзаются в мои поры, впрыскивая ядовитое желе, которое моментально превращается в солоноватые золотистые кристаллы.

Крионика – одно из чудес науки; мне нравится этот маленький атомный взрыв, встряхивающий каждую клетку моих костей.

Мой скелет, сожженный радиацией, превращается в минеральную окаменелость. Мои ребра вытягиваются, словно ноги искусной балерины в батмане; мои кости растут навстречу друг другу, как сталактиты и сталагмиты;

как кончики пальцев на фреске Микеланджело в Сикстинской капелле в их отчаянном и неосуществимом желании соприкоснуться.

Poem by SUDEEP SEN
Translation by TETIANA ALEKSINA
© All rights reserved 2017