A Still of me from a Short Film, The Officer

Photo: by Blake Morrow, a still from a short film, The Officer, I co-wrote and starred in. Directed by Jonathan Stanton.
 

Down by the Shed (Where all the Demons Head)

 I want to

Greet you and meet you

Sweep you away

Take you down to the shed

Down to the old shed

Where all the demons head

Where they dance and plead victim

Where they drink and seek wisdom

And none know what's in store

Chastisement parked abandoned

Outside the door

Come here sweet mystery

And climb into my head

Let me take your arm

Down to that old shed

Where the merry are led

Where the demons head

To drink away their pain

And seldom do abstain

Down back near the old creek

Where it's dark and warm

Where all are safe from harm

I need to see you

By bonfire light

Sweep you away into the night

Take you down

Down to the old shed

Where all the demons head

And no one speaks of the dead

But of life, and where Bacchus rules

The dance is free of Christian loathing

Dancers soon bereft of clothing

Sweating and gyrating to the horns of Pan

Baby I need to

See you and press against you

Take you down the secret ways

Down to the shed

Where all the demons head

Libations for the duration

Leave your troubles at the door

Pound some drinks and hit the floor

Back down to the shed

Where the guilty have all fled

And innocence is all but dead

By Daniel Smallegange, copyright 2015, all rights reserved.

Cat, drawn by Daniel Smallegange, copyright 2010, all rights reserved.

Comments Requested of a Positive Nature from Human Beings and or any Literate Cats/Dogs/Hamsters or Aliens from Outer Space Plus Ebook release coming...

There's been a dramatic increase in traffic coming to my site these last few weeks. I am hoping that it's not all AI bots trying to steal my work? If you are human and enjoying my writings and/or dorky comics (or an alien from outer space, or literate cat or dog or hamster) I would love a comment below. Thanks so much in advance,

Daniel Smallegange.

PS: If you're an alien from outer space or literate animal of any kind just pretend you are human.

PSS: Also I am working this week on releasing my collection of short stories The City: Tales From the Post-Post Apocalypse as an Ebook and will be making it free as often as possible on Amazon.

Snail Comic, drawn and written by Daniel Smallegange

 copyright daniel smallegange 2012, all rights reserved.

My Epic Comedy Sci-fi Detective novel 24th Century Dick, free as ebook today (friday) and Saturday. Check it out.

 Like the title says. Free on all Amazon sites, ebook version. Paperback avail too. Read and be merry, if this pleases you.

Amazon.com: 24th Century Dick eBook : Smallegange, Daniel: Kindle Store

Flirting Lizards, Comic Drawn and Written by Dan Smallegange

 Drawn and Written By Daniel Smallegange, copyright 2025, all rights reserved.

Our Man Jack, by Daniel Smallegange (Poetic Fiction from my book The City: Tales of the Post-Post Apocalypse)

Spoken of with facetious proclivities is our man Jack. They’ve said he’s descended from lords and Czars or empirical mathematics.

“I am not all about the violence sordid, but the artistic destruction need be recorded.” 

So said our man Jack.

Our man Jack sat and brooded, as we danced and cavorted. What he wanted: change for the train, fare from the city. What he got: us speaking to him with facetious proclivity.

“Beware of atheists!” someone shouted. “And men driving large trucks.”

He sat and stared, our man Jack, as we linguistically danced, made poor attempts at romance, sat as if in a trance, but his smile grew and lingers, to this day it does malinger. But I do digress, we were such a mess, all full of festive glee, slight and amusing hypocrisy, for our man Jack, who’d been so hard done by, oh so hard done by. Listen man or woman, listen to the cry, the cries of all those been done hard by. They gnash their teeth in the streets of Kensington as all the whores go by, proffering their wares as we and Jack do sit by and by, laugh and stare at whores proffering their wares. And those gnashing pull out empty pockets and pull out their hair. We watch the whores and we do compare, some among us haggling for an honest fare.

We order a pitcher of sleep. We’ve all been running and have sunk too deep, are in too deep with bookies, mobs, those who keep the keys, to our residences, our hearts, and dreams so far so we are not allowed even to sleep.

Our man Jack, he sits now, now leans back, smiles that smile and whiles it all away. His brain is lost away and at play behind the curtains of his drooping eyes, which are lovely but for that stye in the eye of our hurricane of pleasant loud and laughing hearts, underpinning the sigh in the tremendous eye of our despair we hide so well unlike our man Jack who is now becoming involved in a well manifested attack. Oh Jack we love you when you bend your tender heart to well meaning and irrefutable attack. He is our man Jack and when it strikes him he bends all will and logic to his hand so that none may stand and makes his magnificent attack against us, all our fake bravery, false modesty and joking camaraderie. We lap it up and know the truth, we are the uncouth and we love it, we so love it.

But our man Jack he does relax when we grow him a whiskey tree. With one sip his solemnity does slip we do see and he just sits as out on the street one of our number does meet a sister of mercy ~ wearing fishnets. Violence and a slap in the face as the band does take its place.

“There are islands out there where humanity does fare, better than this city, it is so shitty sometimes here,” pipes in Ryana, chief bassist, his voice fair and clear for all and one to hear, which we do, but pretend not to.

“He got his hand caught in a rope, no rope-a-dope, but switch turn an’ vicious.”

“Blade in the back, shiv turn counter attack.”

Watch our man Jack, as he sips from his whiskey tree happy as a flag at half mast at some ceremony. And there I sat, enveloped in black, as the merry conversation overtook me, overwrought me, bent and shook me. Pretty parties sallied by, past me and our man Jack smiling against the grain, who somehow gives me strength, stops up the pain, and don’t wanna cry no more. No, don’t wanna cry no more. Ambulance wagon arrives for the one who was shived in the thigh. Not his back after all, still can hear his muted sob-cry. All the ruffians scatter as if it at all matters, an’ even our man Jack, he’s disappeared. ‘Tis then I get the fear. Eyes agog. See what’s next through a film of fog. Outside are the non-entities. Inside where all is silence. I am a malcontent, do feel maleficent.

Our man Jack shouting from the throng: “Cybele was there. She’s at the bar talking communist. She said to say you are the grist and chaff she sometimes gets caught in her teeth!”

That is when all mayhem broke loose. Blind-sided punch in the face to some hero’s disgrace. Once again, all mayhem broke loose. Our man Jack riding some hero on the back and smashing his pint on his skull. The whore that my friend had decided to order, shrieking such blasphemies, defending her order, scratching some punter a different face. Our man Jack he started to dance as bottles and knives are thrown and the first exhibition of the new show violence did make with its vehement kiss. Jack in such bliss, inflicting non-partisan violence with the flick of the wrist.

Away and escape my way of attack and of Jack the last I did see, waving his arms and eyes full of glee, diving head first and into the spree. His smile dear friends will never go away.

Our man Jack, spoken of with facetious proclivities. His smile grew and lingers, to this day it does malinger…

By Daniel Smallegange, copyright 2006, all rights reserved.

Picture of the author, circa 2006ish?