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Touch me in the dark,

spread my legs apart,

brown thighs draped

in crimson sheets,

an opening as deep

as the parted red sea.

Texture my skin with

your lips, haunt my

flesh closely with your

deep warm breaths,

trace comforting

whispers against

my fears, tell me

that you like the

way I taste, tell me

that you like to feel

my tiny plump breasts

against your chest,

tell me, tell me, tell me,

just tell me that you love me,

give me a reason to

really feel you inside me.

Everyone & Everything


Aboard the hustler’s train,
my gaze drifts to a reflection ahead
where a group of girls collect themselves in a corner and laugh that secret laugh.

One stands out.
This is important.
Her almond chestnut hair catches a light as the train curves through the tunnel.
The grey and black of her hand knitted sweater are fit to the most precarious desires.
Her smile stretches across this continent and the one below.
She is a ringleader. A centerfold. A dream, fire-cast into what passes for the real these days.

But still, she isn’t an original species.

I’ve seen this girl before.

She’s the girl who works at the cafe who purposefully mispronounces my name on my Chai in order to break the ice.

She’s the girl at the bookstore with the fringed tips dunked in Tequila Sunrises chatting with a coworker about Kafka.

She’s the girl at Peets who even at the torrid beginning moments of the work day, shares an irrevocably genuine smile for every customer, no matter how toxic they may be.

She’s the flannel clad Texas lass who towers over me as we discuss the prominence of the Austin film scene.

She’s the nebbish curator who suggests we meet sometime to talk about alternative art spaces.

She’s the business-casual gal riding the cluttered N train home, trying to keep the empathy alight in her eyes as she turns the day off.

She’s every set of unfamiliar locked eyes passing on the street.

She’s every quick glance averted to the ground that carries the burden of “what if?”

She’s everyone except You.

At the end of the West Egg

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An impossible haze collects along the Highway.
My Rocinante for the evening comes to a halt
at the sight of the watchtower

An appletini ember circles around the wheat fields.
I recall Gatsby’s outstretched hands for seasons that had swept past him.
His American Ascent into the insider hallways where great men are supposed to linger with cigars and whiskey.

And how all the flashing lights, the stacked tables of champagne, the dwellers and denizens who wore masks beneath those provided for them at masquerades, were all part of the long game.

To call back to Her. To stretch his arm a hint further.

And as the ember skirts past me, abandoning me momentarily in the darkness I know so well, a realization sinks its nails into my arm: I can perform no such feats for you.

I can’t bring you lakes and mountains
Only the thrill of thundering nights with Rocinante and the promise of a harrowing word that our worlds fear more than meeting its end at the bottom of a swimming pool.

But that isn’t enough.

And then I recall Neruda’s usage of this same ember but for a different end.
To cast the vibration necessary for something more radical than love.

Its course finally catches me and my steed, caressing me, intimidating me and crawling into bed with the darkness asking politely for it to share some headroom on the pillow.

Darkness obliges.



When I was twelve,
I wrote a haiku
about flowers.
It was smothered
in delicious,
perfumed imagery,
and a publishing company
sipped it and spit it
like an aged wine,
into an anthology
for young writers.

When I was thirteen,
I wrote a haiku
about owls or something.
It was smothered
in shit and rusty nails,
and that publishing company
swallowed it up
and pissed it out
in a gutter
where it belonged
miles and miles away
from their newest anthology.

When I was fourteen,
I didn’t bother writing anything.

The Pains of Pride’s Ambition

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There is much glory to be had
when thrashing through the cover
of puffy clouds while wearing a cape,
etched with colors resembling patriotic appreciation.
But there is also the chance
to become a slave
to egotistical negativity,
which is seldom spoken of,
however, nothing shall come to fruition
after my agenda has touched,
what was once, preconceived destiny.
Having kidnapped this garment,
and hoisting it upon my mantel
for all to admire, much like a golden trophy,
I steal the success from beneath the nose
of its intended owner,
thus becoming, the one who holds all hope.
Perhaps this action renders me
a wielder of inappropriate ambition,
and leads me to being labelled
the disturber of once peaceful prospects.
You see, we are all victims
to villainy, allowing serpents
to take possession every now and again,
regardless of the intentions
that fuel these great endeavors,
and until the admittance of this fact,
I may forever remain an ignorant interloper,
forged by lustful circumstance,
but chained, by bitter antagonism.

Derek Childs, 10/28/14

The Girl Next (mental) War


Shut the fuck up,
brewing plan

you know this action
a ransom higher than your “educated mind”
sans soul-fire
can muster.

It’s just a clusterfuck of neurological
synapses engaged in filibuster,

and though the faith
of a mustard seed
might move a mountain

there’s no religious fountain
could baptize you fast enough
to mount this moment
and watch it bounce into some kind of holy atonement.

Some art
can only be viewed from a distance. 

Willie Watt


A Good Fuck

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Smoke exhaling from your nose
You flick your cigarette ashes down on the old concrete
Unaware of the people, the cars, the clouds, the loud orbit surrounding you
Your golden watch jingles as you plant the cigarette
Between your bruised cherry lips

All I do is stop and stare
These brown pupils expand in awe with everlasting need
Wanting to divulge under you, inside of you
In these lousy twenty years, I realized that the best paradise
Is the body, the breath, the scent of a stranger

Nothing matters
I long for nothing else
But for you to look up at me

I study your tan arms, look between the hairs on your skin
To find bulging veins and black ink
Your torso rising proudly at the sky

I want it all
For you to expose yourself to me
Hands to hold my hips
Your cigarette to reach my lips
You to entomb yourself into me
Our mortal bodies interlocking into one
You to destroy me in every beautiful way

And you do it,
You look up; honey-brown eyes engage
Some days, a good fuck is all you need.

- SuedeExpression

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