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Silent words unwrap
The mind and pour her secrets
Out into the air

Below Zero 

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Expressions scattered

That mid life latter

Making it impossible

To be somewhat audible

Dreams shatter to myth

Blurring the process with a fifth

Can’t stand the cold

Complaining like we’re old

These drones recruit us

Until our art turns to dust

Be we can never stop the fight

A black sheep will never turn white

Symbiosis (your reflective, beautiful, misery)

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The darkening sky stretches its omnipresent embrace 
across the cityscape.
The sad trees cry bittersweet
virgin leaves
on urban symbiosis.
They lament the lovely, portentous wind,
sweeping cigarette butts and human sin across gravel desires
and crayon-stained misery; wind heralding the lie of springtime on its wings,
where every bloom is an affront to winter’s gloom, laying bear the earthy truth-hewn
composition of our inner souls.
And the smiling green eyes of the streetlight
glimmer sad, and lovely, and bright
in the gray;
And we wondered, as a single hive mind, whether intrepid decay
was our greatest accomplishment together,
or the first wasted prayer of a first rainy springtime day.

Willie Watt

Sea Salt Caramel Ice Cream


the Golden State.
Swarm of tourists
eating ice cream,
speaking in
rapid-fire blanks
about their
next stop,
next meal,
next plan,
next whatever.

They spare only the
slightest of whispers
for the man balancing
on the edge
of the bay
the dirty brown vest,
the distressed jeans,
the disheveled hair
scary, and

turns his head,
tells anyone who comes
close enough,

“Go away.”

When they
frown and
look around
for some kind of
he says,

“Go away—I’ll jump.”

think the next phrase
won’t be a phrase,
but an action, maybe
so they
keep walking—
and don’t look back.

I want to
call his bluff.
I want to
stand next to him.
I want to
tell him it gets easier,
tell him to imagine his family’s faces,
tell him he’ll be missed,
tell him the sunrise is worth the
time spent
panning for aluminum cans
to fill his dirty old van.

I want to
tell him all that.

But I don’t.

I know
he won’t
believe any of it,

I see the
holes in his sneakers,
the dirt on his shirt,
the manic look in his eye,
and I
don’t believe it, either.

Not really.

I try to
guess the words
his ears
hunger for,

but can’t.

I keep eating my
sea salt caramel ice cream,
keep staring at the
water below him,
staring at the
stains on his vest
staring at the
rest of the

eating their
Napa Valley Gourmet Burgers.

The clerk
at the jewelry store,
she says he’s
there all the time.
Says he
talks the talk,
but that’s all it is.


Twenty minutes later,
we’re driving
toward the
Golden Gate Bridge.
We hear a siren
behind us
getting louder
as we watch
the waves
out past

the edge

of the bay.


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Red marks on my back
A foreign mouth’s fresh imprints
Unworthy visit

- SuedeExpression

Writer of the Week #6


WHERE DID MONDAY GO?! Oops. Sorry, guys. Writer of the Week #6 (I think) is Brian Andrade! Give it up for Brian Andrade! Be sure to visit his personal site as well for all of the latest.


Brian Andrade Baker is a writer, photographer, and a happy introvert. He is a native to Los Angeles, California and believes that the city has impacted his creative pursuits as well as his personal character. There’s nothing like an array of tall grey buildings stacked like dominoes and a loud boulevard of street walkers and winos to make Brian feel more at home. He is currently a university student who also writes for the school newspaper. In between the acts of everyday living, he listens to bands with shitty names. (Starfucker, Ghostland Observatory)

Brian also hates long walks on the beach, bendy-straws, and furniture stores.

fuck the title, I’m winging this shit.


the words are supposed to hit, to hit, to hit
like a goddamn fucking ton of bricks to your

but cheap tricks like repetition and expletives 
don’t bury the blade in the gray matter of your skull,

they don’t inject lethal poison to the wasted spaceship
of your skull,

they don’t burn away the outer core, shrivel the inner doors, and spew all-consuming acid
on the pores in every orifice of your skull,

your skull, your skull is still intact
your skull is still strange and there
your skull exists today the same way it did yesterday,

my artillery is fired in vain, in vain
in fucking goddamn vain,

why are the fucking veins of your
skull and brain still intact?

why is the musket fire devoid of impact?
why does every ounce of conjured anger and emotion
fail to fatally redact the back of your neck and burst through the front of
that giggly throat of yours?

why is there no fatal blast, goddammit?
why is that fucking skull of yours still intact?

i’m smearing this page with the wild
abandon of reckless syntax
but it sizzles and fades

why doesn’t it stay? why doesn’t it stay? why doesn’t the anger and desperation and pain pour over you like rain?
like apocalypse?
like noah’s flood?

i’ll deprive the world of timber
to stop your ark from sailing,

and maybe that does make me a psychopath
maybe that does make me insane,

but jesus christ,
why? why? why? why?
why is your skull still intact?

i’ll break every bone in my back,
lose every cell in my brain
trying to argue with this brick wall
and drop it dead
with imperfect, useless, worthless, dogshit, horseshit, 

Willie Watt

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