Poem: Eau de toilette

the lush lip of

a dewy petal, suede and pale,

bruises are a hazard that blares

sharply in diffuse fragrance,

crushed veins, a slowly drooping head …

shamelessly to be discarded by the eye.

the flower has more in common

with the grave beneath it

than with the feet that trod above.

one keeps running from a given,

the other knows:

there’s nowhere else to go.

Copyright © 2019 Devina Singh
Header by Lisa Fotois
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Fried rice and jailbreak

When you were a toddler, little more than a babe, you and your younger sister played in the playpen in the kitchen/office downstairs. It was only the two of you then, the other three would come later, ushered in with the twenty-first century.

Your mother was frustrated half the time, still, a bit overwhelmed having married your father two years before, then you and your sister came almost one after the other. Adjusting to another household, a new set of parents, and helping out in the fast food place they ran, a pace and life so much different to the one she’s always known. You wouldn’t know this, not for years and years to come will you join the dots and realize her quiet bravery.

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Tits

Ahem. The Blue Tit or Cyanistes caeruleus – sporting vibrant colours of blue, yellow, white and green – are commonly found in Western Asia and all over the UK, exceptions being some Scottish islands. They’re fond of woodlands, hedgerows, parks, and gardens. They love to munch on insects, seeds, and nuts while they Netflix and chill.

Really, though. What did you think this post was about? Hmm?

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RDP Prompt: Bravery tea

Ol’ Massy has quite the collection of kettles, cups, and mugs.

Olly: Could ya pour me a cuppa, mum?

Ol’ Massy, the tea marm: Sure thing.

Olly: Sorry, mum, not from that mug though it’s a pretty piece.

Massy: What are you on about, boy?

Olly: Sorry, mum. I like that mettle ‘un.

Ol’ Massy: Whyever? It’s all dinged up.

Olly: Aye, mum. That last time Darcy got me a cuppa from that there pot. I felt like I could fight a hoard of Romans.

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Cloud Journal #1

22nd December 2018

I ended my day with the sunrise.

I can hear the rubber slippers slapping from the veranda, sharp plastic metronome keeping time with the dawn. It was Mr. Menace ambling in his habitual slouch on the sidewalk, right through the smoke that blew from the garbage heap not twenty feet from the wharf.

5:55 AM on a Sunday in December. Kids are out on their bikes chattering as they swoop in and out while traffic steadily builds to a trickle, at six or seven it’ll be a stream. But for now, birdcall still dominates sharp and ferocious.

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