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CacoSymphony” page! Lit Allsorts’ 2018 edition, CacoSymphony, is available digitally for free at the link on the page. Do read and email your feedback/comments to firstname.lastname@example.org!
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Lit Allsorts’ 2018 edition will be published online next week! There’ll be a new tab on the website, so keep your eyes peeled!
Excerpts from the zine (keeping all titles and authors anonymous for the sake of suspense):
“…the steady rhythm of my fingers on wood reached down to the bottom of my mind. It felt dead and tired, like a motor stuttering with its last traces of fuel.”
“Five years ago on this day, this very hour, the sky had again brimmed and bloated with water, but refused to rain. The air, stale. The details… are as concrete as the jagged edges of cracked pots.”
You haven’t found what you’re looking for, I know. Neither have I. Manufacture a thousand empty clicking cliches to cure this twisted longing. No place like Is where the heart is Sweet home. Call them soul balms, anesthesia, call them idiocy. Hear them clack listlessly in the sodden air, warped beads hanging disjointedly. Cooked dinners, cousins, TV — elusive perpetual motion, the mundane’s whirring, humming, clanking, clattering in hapless tattoos. Home — stretch the syllable over your tongue as your mouth dries. Sucked cavity, yawning ache. For something beyond this drooling suffocation. Tell me, how does one find something that’s not there?
To see all the contributors’ profiles, click on the link below!
more like censors.
Vein-discoloured haphazard thread in and out
of my gums
sewn like a purse, my gum and lip
locking my prodding tongue out
Feels like mosquito-net gauze.
when the bottom half of my face
a crippled grin
straining against the seams
Swollen it’s hard to straighten my face
when tangled with stitches
The right half winks up
the left immobile treacle.
I like wry smiles – pretty attractive. Just not
when it’s because of
Written in July by Fara Ling. A reflection upon the larger meaning of her first oral surgery to justify the pain she experienced once the anesthesia wore off during the first post-op week.
Smudged tents clog streets
tissues wadded in a sink
cars park in pregnant bulges
stale sun rusting as
day hinges to night.
Tudung-covered mak ciks and
pak ciks stack yellow plastic trays
fold pink checquered tablecloths
unpin hand-printed signs
wedge tables into vans
heads bent, hands oily and caked with flour.
Maghrib’s scent weighs heavily in the air
Night stars unobscured percolate
The last lights remain.
So do the beggars sewn down the street
hem cleaving road in two
Posture as crooked as back alleys
like knobbled carved staffs.
Written in July by Fara Ling