Your End, Anyways

Welcome my friend

Welcome to the end

Well your end, anyways

It's been quite a journey, has it not?

A chase, a thrill

Such sublime efforts of will

Moral gymnastics and intrigue

To reach this final sprint

A veritable treasure trove

Of love and loss, glory and guilt

So much blood and treasure

Gained and lost along the way

Now here and alone

Your finery and vestments stripped

Your allies and brave hope

A trail of corpses in your wake

While you never looked back

Oh, maybe once looked back

So much betrayal too

For beauty and love

Lust and greed

To fulfill those yawning needs

Too bad there's no time to dwell

On those questionable ends

Did they justify the means?

Welcome friend

Your end, anyways

Been long over due

Turn now and embrace it

Or fight

By Daniel Smallegange, all rights reserved.

Those Pesky Things

Walking away from the things

Those things those pesky things

That helped and hindered and passed the time

That we thought could never be left behind

Those things that seemed to make up

A part of our self

Our ecosystem

Those damned things

That fought the sadness and pain

Numbed it all away but also

Inevitably as the night progressed

Encouraged them to live and breathe

That left worse tastes in the mouth

Then all the stale cigarrettes and booze

Walking away from those things

Once thought unimaginable

Things we held so tight

Pesky pesky things

Ugly things

Walking away

Each step becoming easier

Each day our bearing less stooped

Now walking

With a smile we are

Freer

By: Daniel Smallegange

Picture is of me in NYC a few years back.

Billy the Boy Helping me Write

 

This guy is a tough critic. Billy the Boy sits with me while I work on my scifi comedy detective #novel 24thCenturyDick . I love this cat, Have a great day all! #writingcommunity #CatsOfTwitter #tuesday #tuesdayvibe #TuesdayFeelings #tuesdaymotivations #writerscommunity #writerslife #poetrycommunity

Lick Your Wounds

Lick your wounds and then

Bathe in some salutary praise as you've

Made it back with wounds to lick

And do not now lie down

Haphazard on the ground

Along the soaked wet red field of battle

Like so many others

That did not return

So lick your wounds and grin and raise a glass to say

You made it back alive

More so than

The less lucky or agile ones

Fallen fellows now lost

Raise a glass for them and drink it all down every drop

As such succour is precious and

To pour some out is such a waste

For ghosts can taste it not

And their bodies are not here to bury anyways

Let alone present to pour salutary booze

Upon the earth of which they prop

They have been left where they fell

On the field of battle

While you sit and drink and

Lick your wounds

By: Daniel Smallegange.

Back Cover of my Book: The City: Tales From the Post-Post Apocalypse by Daniel Smallegange

Published by The Three Sisters, Ebook now available everywhere, along with paperback.
 

Cleo the Cat Immortalized. Photo by Dan Smallegange

 

Cleo the cat immortalized. They poured new cement for the sidewalk in front of my house the other day, and naughty Cleo left her mark. I find it quite adorable and fitting as it is right at my entrance steps and I rather like cats. Photo by Dan Smallegange.

The Terror Syndrome Known as Love. Comedy by Dan Smallegange

 The Society for Evil, Debauchery and Kitten Appreciation Presents:

The Terror Syndrome Known as Love.

Yes, True Love. It can be a real thorn in the side of any evil corporation, dark empire or cuddly revolutionary group trying to take over the planet. Especially if this terrible, maddening disease gets at those people at the top. Suddenly generals known for cruelty and a mentality hard as nails are wanting to buy everyone an aperitif and trade sappy anecdotes. Suddenly absolute rulers fists are not at all iron-like, but as malleable as a small duck who's been plied with several rounds of tequila. They get all mooshey and cow eyed and grin inanely when they should be minging mercilessly. Yes indeedy, Love is a bane, true danger, and cause for worry in any 'Number 2' worth his or her salt and pepper.

Yes, when thus afflicted the newly smitten seem to want to forgive everyone and inflict on them uncomfortable hugs and icky warm embraces. They'll decide not to drop captured agents in that vat of acid or giant fishbowl de-la-piranha, but rather bore then to death by telling them all about the handsome man or gorgeous gal they're into. It is a serious problem this thing called LOVE and when they at the top become afflicted only trouble may result. Averting catastrophe in the early stages can be your only hope. Besides happy people freakking suck. Let's repeat that:

HAPPY PEOPLE FREAKING SUCK.

Always smiling inanely and floating about the room and bringing the normal miserable rest of us down.

So, here below are some helpful hints and pointers on how to determine if yes, the evil overlord is in love, the head of the assassin's guild is in love, or even the head waiter is indeed afflicted with that dreaded virus: love. (No one likes a blissful head waiter grinning like an ass who can't concentrate on what the h'ordeuvres are.)

Your Overlord is in Love if:

1) He starts wearing snappy fashionable clothing in vivid pastels instead of the requisite black and brooding. Also, you can see his teeth way more often in what may be described as some kind of inverted grimace previously foreign to him.

2) The boss's evil cat is decidedly scratchy to the staff and in a foul, jealous mood, having had to share the bed in the evil lair of late with the new love interest, or worse, been confined to the couch!

3) The execution squad has so much time off they've begun to learn pinochle and to finally get right all the moves to 'Achey Breaky Heart'.

4) The evil general's assignments move from devastating and ruthless attacks against dreaded mortal enemies The Society for Good, Chastity and Dog Appreciation to trips to the chocolate shops and redecorating books crop up on the evil coffee tables.

5) And lastly, there is a final dread symptom that marks the death knell of any evil society, this being the initiation of bad poetry. Poetry is tried out on the under staff to 'see what you think and if she'll like it'. Poems recited nervously on the love interest's joyously large buttocks and streamingly luxurious armpit hair are to be especially feared.

Dealing with Evil Goons in Love.

Just shoot them.

Goons can be replaced. Or grow more in the ol' cloning pond down by the way. No one likes a goon chattering on and on about how he's met his absolute soul mate anyways, when he should be pounding his sledge-like fists into an opponent's sternum. With goonery silence is always the golden rule.

On Dealing with Your Evil Overlord After He's Been Dumped.

Well, sometimes bosses kill their Number 2s through 20s when pissed off/heartbroken/impotent/et cetera, so you are may be dead already. If you somehow survived a purge (Stalin was famous for his purges after one of his many blind dates had gone awry or even slightly awkward) then you may want to focus this new rage into a small war or well, anywhere but directed at you. OR you can get him some ice cream. Everyone loves ice cream when they're down, even evil geniuses. And perhaps lace it with barbiturates.

Love a kitten and kill a martini today.

EVIL SOCIETY MGMT xo

By: Daniel Smallegange, CC all rights reserved.

All reactions:

2Katarina Kaplarski Vukovic and 1 other

2

Like

Comment

Share

You Can Now Order My book The City: Tales From the Post-Post Apocalypse From Your Local Bookstore!

I am really happy to report that now you can order my book, "The City: Tales From the Post-Post Apocalypse" from any of your local bookstores and they can bring the paperback into their store for you to pick up, so you don't pay shipping and you support your local store. Win Win. Just give them the ISBN number: 195935034X, which is all they need. Other info just in case: Author: Daniel Smallegange.  And It is listed as: "The City" on the Ingram system. It This is better than ordering on Amazon as it might be an older version on there, which has some typos as their system is glitchy, but you can get the new ebook on there though now. Also soon the ebook will be available at libraries  around the world through the Libby system, which is awesome. Hardcover to be available soon too. Yay.

Fishies. Comic by Dan Smallegange

 

Comic by Dan Smallegange, copyright2018, all rights reserved.

Cat Marxism. Comic by Dan Smallegange

 Comic by Dan Smallegange copyright 2017.

Pound That Drum

 Pound that drum boy

And be sure the world reckons and

Draw out some attention too

With all the motion and commotion beats

That friend and enemy alike

Can hear those lashing hits

Pound that drum boy

That one and all can know and see

Be witness with ears and eyes

That you are here to fight and not hide

This time this

Occassion

Rectification of past errs

Pound that drum boy and

Will them to come

Friend and foe alike

To come and meet us

On the field and in the streets

That they will hear the drum echo

Reverberate

And a reckoning will occur

And our foot falls too they hear

And we shall greet them

As brothers or as enemies embrace

No running away this time

Pound your drum and

Bray to fight

By: Daniel Smallegange

The Path to Perdition, Hitchhiked (Fiction by Daniel Smallegange)

 Hitchhiking our way down the well worn path to perdition. The antagonisms and the lack of a strong drink. Our conscience swarming and disturbing, like flies, like thick viscous smoke. Sordid and well stocked with smiles and fears, walking backwards, thumbs out. Grinning and bucketfuls of vice for companionship, we slither and hop, down and out along the rock strewn pathway to our own and specially anticipated hell.

Fellow travelers roaring past, dodging cans and bottles, wrath and mirth, we light a fire to one another’s heavy breathing and toke it up, hold it in and get the elate. Dancing and supplicating gods and demons both, if there is even a difference. Supplied with pantings and screamings and moans, groans, lust and death, supplied with anger and laughter we stop and rest at a nearby fetid place and revel in the pods of muck filled with all that’s sweet and all that’s black (these the toads sell, along side the swamp) filled with all that’s sweet and all that’s black, excepting also what’s light be also included for the price of one dream and a portion of our last crust of bread. And enter now the salving dreams which come thick and coiled as any pythonic embrace. Our arms also, clinging tight. This and the warmth of fire.

Stars so many jewels in the blackest night, perfect and cold and desolate and so very far. We scoff and sputter well into this night. The violence of truth. The intangibility of happiness and the shocking and terrible ability of our digressions/transgressions. They cling to one, stubborn, like a fine mist or disease incurable. They isolate, decorate, marks of torture or badges of honour all. The violence of truth clashing on our shields of mirth and irony. Dance my love, dance, long into the gentle night.

Laughter in the dark and a stranger's knife in broad daylight, cold against our throat, waking us. Robbed of our last scrapings of sustenance and a few coppers we are free. Our steps so much lighter as we move once more, free and well pleased and placed. Hitchhiking our way down the well worn path to perdition. Skipping and pausing and lapping it up. Grinning like wolves. This case, as in most, the journey so much better than the destination…

By: Daniel Smallegange

Bring Out Yer Dead (short fiction by Daniel Smallegange)

 And so, ‘bring out your dead’ they cried, and came seeking and came finding those dead and those alive also, despite the seemingly specific nature of the advertising. Flushing the streets and those places of rest, salvation and ill-repute of those they deemed enemies of the entity, defilers and defiers of the grace of God, or just plain ruffian scum. Cries of ‘bring out your dead’ and the heavy tread of government issued boots caused howls of fear making friends with protest to ripple and sweep through the boroughs and dens of inequity. This followed also by a general crawling and a running and slithering away as the fearful and/or guilty sought solution and refuge, the sweet embrace of secure walls and locked doors. This while the likes of I, proud card carrying member of Ruffian Scum local 898, lay stone drunk in a pool of self manufactured spittle and brine, clinging to a whiskey tree and ashtray as one would two lovers of extreme and equal talent. Out of mind and blind with sleep, lost to the cries of ‘bring out your dead’ until the hard tread of government issued boots made introduction uncomfortably to my very personal ribs and spleen.

And so they caught me, bound me, raged me, dragged me. I, Union Goon Second Class and humble narrator! What ignominy, ruin, disgrace. Dragged free and away from the asylum of my whiskey tree. My cries of ‘I ent dead’ largely ignored, the source of mirth and much pleasure. Yes, caught, dragged, found and bound like a hare soon for the pot. And I said through lips daubed rouge: ‘But sirs and enemies, I en't dead so much as I know.’ They laughed and spit: ‘Soon to be corrected.’

Desolately drawn, kicked, prodded shoved through the streets, trailing an assortment of fluids, clear or red or green/yellow, thick, thin or viscous. Other’s poor fortune turns to my luck as captors trot off, in pursuit of others, lessen in number. Through the streets roped up like a like a sacrificial dishonoured lover, like a broken bird of prey, like fear and like sin caught in the open day light. ‘Bring out your dead’ more cries of, and the wagon piled three deep with corpses and dust in my eyes making tears of mud and choke. Just hoping to survive the day and welcome the embrace of night. And then we are fewer even and falling behind, isolated and struggle and ropes made looser and reaching and a razor from my boot finds my hand and I am on him, I bite him, I bite him hard, in the knee and in the groin bringing him down and upon the other, said razor between teeth now kissing his neck slowly all the way across and more rouge flowing. ‘Bring out your dead’ he shall cry no more.

Now further freed and it tastes like copper. The velocity of escape. Soon to rest and sleep in the warmth of mud... But first to seek the source of a new and uncompromised whiskey tree.

By: Daniel Smallegange

Best of: Advice from Daniel Carcrash Smallegange (Humour)

 (In no particular order)

No 7: When tap-dancing in a minefield it is prescient not to wear your best trousers.

No 47: If you keep telling your plants they are fat they will develop eating disorders.

No 223: More irony in your diet will both help prevent leg cramps and keep people from the far right confused and at a safe distance.

No 12: It is not ideal to wear sandals when peeing while standing up.

No 86: Never trust anyone supremely gorgeous stopping you on the street. You’re neither attractive nor interesting enough to warrant this.

No 554: The secret to getting fat is drinking all the bacon grease.

No 332 Best Ever Cold-flu Cure: Drink a lot of tequila and fuck a hot stranger. Why it's the best ever cold-flu cure is that even if it doesn't work, you get to drink tequila and fuck a hot stranger.

No 365: A fruit fly in your glass of red wine adds flavour, especially if it is still alive.

No 427: It is not wise to pull a fire alarm when seeking privacy in the public washroom of a large office building as A: you can get really hard to remove ink on your genitalia, and B: sometimes the sprinklers come on during your own private evacuation.

This brought to you by: ‘Pints of Live Fighting Bees’. Shake ‘Em Up and Drink ‘Em Down! See how many pints you can drink before you dial 9-1-1.

By: Daniel Smallegange

My Novel, The City: Tales From the Post-Post Apocalypse is published by Three Little Sisters Publishing.

So my #novel, a collection of post #apocalyptic #scifi short stories 'The City: Tales from the Post-Post Apocalypse' is finally available in new edition. Published by Three Little Sisters Publishing. You can buy the paperback on their website store:

https://the3littlesisters.com/catalog_explorer/the-city/
Or on your local Amazon (For some reason the Cdn $ conversion is really high on here fyi.), Walmart.com, Barns & Noble and many more. Thanks for your support. #postapocalyptic #sciencefiction #dansmallegange #writer #writing

The Cause of the Casualty

The cause of the casualty

Is not and was never

Under dispute

All factors and or witnesses recognize the party

Of whom guilt is most likely

To be awarded

And that party it would seem

Beyond a reasonable thought

Would be you

Or so it seems

This being early in this tale of forlorn melodrama

This is the direction those fingers point

At any rate

Some fingers wagging also, in chastisement

While the casualty or victim

Almost forgotten

And the mob so baying for blood

Only has the word of one

Telling them which way to point

The pitchforks

Namely I

Your once closest friend

Now enemy

Said casualty is boxed up and ready to roll

On its final journey

Too bad it can't speak

And the majority fingers of those moral majorities

Do seem directed at your sagging frame

The probability of all your problems

Flowering into further growths

Seems assured

A jury of your peers assembled on the streets

Baying for blood

While the true cause of said casualty

Smiles

Such a tight formal smile

And watches on delighted

Namely I

By: Daniel Smallegange

Chipping Away

 Chipping away at the

Walls surrounding

Leaning over and above

Cavern like and dripping

These walls

One might be able to

Unstoop soon

One thinks

One reckons

And so we continue to

Chip away

Our mindset optimistic

Not thinking however

That each chip we strike

May bring

The whole construction

Falling down to

Crush us

By: Daniel Smallegange

Soft and Cuddly, comic by Dan Smallegange

 

Home Sweet Home. Comic by Dan Smallegange

 

My Mantle above my Fireplace. Toronto, Jan 2023

I love this plant, and fossils, which are real. The skull, which I also love, is not, but a movie prop I had aged for a show I worked on.