Rescue Robot Named Tina – A Bad Penny Review

The diagnosis arrived: Dear Sir/Ma’am, your son/daughter is not a legal dwarf. Please pay full amount.

Source: Rescue Robot Named Tina – A Bad Penny Review


A laconic flash fic with the slighest smudge of humour, which I came across while surfing the net. Enjoy!

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Resentment

Heart,

I implore you
right now
to keep the peace.

Stop rocking
precariously perched boats,

or breathing down
wraith necks.

Watch the fish
leap their graceful arcs
over the tumultuous waters

and keep all fingers
safely anchored
on the barriers

if you may,

but do not yield
even that once
to the invisible hand.

© Zelda Reville


Better to hold it all in, then be savaged by rampaging tigers.

Purple (Daily Word Prompt – Purple)

Purple:

the conniving actor
behind fresh bruises
inflicted by everyday
jealousies and egoisms,

the haughty girl
who performs as
the Sugar Plum Fairy to applause
but returns nightly to a wintry home,

the voluptuousness
in wild cherries
that ripen with
the sun’s persistence,

the “eat me”
message unfurled
with a bottle of
Dior’s Poison perfume,

the substance of ecstacy
and unnamed sympathizers
of hardships and
splintered romances,

the ornate gilding
and unnecessary
adornment in
one too many sentences,

the innocence
that springs forth
from the morning glory,
like a gay trumpeter
blaring its morning call…

© Zelda Reville

A Wide Field of Contestation

Of course – as usual, Singaporean authorities had to remove the whole damn thing. Paint void decks? I think we (and our artists) deserve more than that, although that’s a nice gesture of recognition from the government. Even if it might have taken a prestigious, farty design award to open their eyes towards the viability of art in Singapore…still, it’s a good start.

SINGAPORE POETRY

A Wide Field of Contestation
by Y.S. Pek

 

1 by TSE Hao Guang (1)

Tucked away on the twentieth floor, just in view from the lift landing, a staircase glistened. For seven days.

Two weeks ago, I came upon two Straits Times press photographs of Priyageetha Dia’s “golden staircase.” One taken at its foot, the other from head down. The pictures were made after it had turned dark outside. It looked like a crime scene, whose culprit, caught red-handed, was the image’s dully gleaming subject. In the overexposed whiteness of a third photograph, made and shared by a dedicated blogger, the staircase was, conversely, almost too ethereal, evenly washed out by a postproduction filter.

It must’ve been a thing of beauty, nonetheless. In between harsh camera flash and artificial dematerialization, there would have been something gorgeous about the thing itself, in all its visual excess. Having only seen online images of the work, I cannot…

View original post 1,001 more words

The Eagle

The eagle soars,

the gleam of green
that informs
of his departure

and the wings
slowly
spread apart,

its body
expanding
to accommodate
both black and white.

I am reminded
of the structure
of ovoid trapdoors

that hold their
empty, stubborn gaze

in the eyes of
a 4-year old girl

who now
stares at me,
from beyond
a drifting cloud.

Her muslin dress
crinkles under
her feet
and dazzles my eyes –

that slow, sentient shift
observed
in angelic light
split by prisms

and birthday parties past 30
sliding too easily
into depression.

What lies beyond
these troubadours
so whisper-soft;

yet stunningly voluble,

in that
lingering graze
of the fingertips
I sorely wished

belonged to mine?

© Zelda Reville


I like talking to unearthly muses who dance beyond my reach.

On Adonis

Punched with
one butterfly kiss
on the left,

the crack
resounds
in the air,

a split appearing
on the translucent ice…

Tiny pebbles
that roll off the track
and make a lovely home
on the crescent:

turquoise beads
strung, then
strewn
majestically
all over
winter’s wasteland.

Oi, you –

Tell me.
Did she
do this out of
sheer spite?

Raven strands,
some salient touch
of charitable Zeus

could hold
this entire land
with the embers
contained within –

Would they
singe my fingers,

or tickle my nose
if I held them
gently like this?

The cruel ridge
that sways towards
the direction
of the lonely,
departed boat
for the Thames,

casting me aside,

merely a wanderer
to the precipice –

Ah! My poor knees!

You have
no concern
for the state
of my limbs!

Oh…you
silly, silly boy.

I would have
gladly given you
the sky,

if you had simply asked –

Why resort
to devastating
Aphrodite’s altar
then,

with these
putrid roses
clutched in
your trembling hands?

© Zelda Reville


Backstory: I was incredibly excited about the news of Brett Anderson’ memoir being actualized into a tangible object, until I found out that a part of it was going to be about Justine Frischmann, his ex-flame. Fine. I understand that she’s been a big part of his life pre-Suede, but it’s honestly disappointing since his lyrical writing is amazing and it seems  like a waste to use this opportunity to talk about a girl.  Justine, for her merits, has her own talents too (one of the few females in the male-dominated Britpop scene, fantastic debut album) but the Britpop music era was more *shudder* than oomph with all those silly squabbles stemming back to Justine and Oasis somehow lumbering their way to the top. Nobody needs to dredge that past up. It would have been even better to hear him talk about his bohemian childhood influences name-dropped in interviews over the years.