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Tuesday, November 23, 2010

Edition 1.5

Just one story today. More pieces next week.

by deL

I was hunched over, leaning in closer to the screen. I was searching his face for the name of a woman, but now I’m sitting back. I’m drained and overwhelmed. It’s almost as if he was created as some sort of superhuman, a rogue genetics experiment helmed by some sort of underground society, the Illuminati, or the Masons; People who know exactly what we’re turned on by and how to get us to buy it. 

I think of myself as sort of a savvy kind of guy. I understand the manipulation that I’m subjected to every day. I submit to it with a grin. A knowing sort of smile. I see you caressing my ego, stroking my dick, making me want you without my consent.  Like we’re all in on this huge heist of the mind, the appropriating and merchandising of our culture and emotion. I get it; we’re all trying to make a buck. 

With him, I can’t even pretend I’m hip to their plan.  I am, but I’m totally not; the second he starts to play that beat up Stratocaster, I’m completely enthralled. I don’t know where I am but on his hands on the fretboard, on his lips over those words.  I’m part of the target audience (MALES: 19-35, FEMALES: ALL AGES). I didn’t even mean to be here, watching (I was looking for videos of cats climbing on top of dogs), but now, I can’t stop. 

I’m leaning into the desk again; I’m eight inches away, breathing a little heavy. My ass hurts from this stupid computer chair I found on the street leading up to my house. My back hasn’t been straightened out for hours. Its 4:53 a.m. and my ears are contorted in a painful, painful way by these earphones I stole from work.

I can see his emotion, when he’s playing, even before, as he smiles out to the crowd. He knows the stranded feelings he’s going to summon back with his voice even before he begins. 

And yet, it’s so convincing. I’m taken in completely. He’s stuck on this stage, trying to vomit out so much feeling and love, he’s choking back the flow with his words, you can see it in his face. He just closes his eyes, and I know he’s felt the pain that I have. 

He’s just convinced me in that first verse that if we were to get together and drink a couple beers, just to talk, that he would become my best friend, one I respected. I would know that when he gave me advice he would mean it. He’s intelligent; he knows what’s going on in there. He can see what I can’t feel out loud in front of the girl I love. He knows what’s going on in the hearts of men in the 21st century—a cold, emotionless, digital age. He cares about grooming and taste, good sense and aesthetics. I might even try to kiss him, after I’ve told him about all the girls I’ve never had the courage or good sense to try to love. 

He would know what I mean.  


deL is a self-made man, working from San Francisco (Full Disclosure: on this website). His influences include the artist Robert Brady, and art-deco from Washington D.C.

Monday, November 8, 2010

We are now accepting photo and art submissions!

Dear Folks,

We are now accepting photography and art submissions for eventual editions of From West Egg.

If you would like to submit, please do so at: westegg.publishing@gmail.com

Please keep in mind the limitations of the computer screen medium. 

Thank you from West Egg.

Monday, November 1, 2010

Edition One.

1. Trouble in Eden
Jerry Wells

God wants you to know that he left
a crate of peaches on the front stoop.

He would tell you himself but you're
away and he doesn't like to leave

messages. He said you haven't spoken
to him much lately. Maybe peaches

are the real route to a woman's heart;
He would know, He always does.

It's not like you to forsake
Him like that. I know

you have your reasons,
you always do.

Your sheets fell off the line
the other day. I put them back for you,

I hope you noticed. They smelled like you.
That scent hasn't seen

my side of the Garden
since you left. I hope you

write back, either to me or God.
He worries, you know.

Jerry is a Junior at Randolph College majoring in English. He is also a member of the cross country team.

2. Daddy Issues
Maggy Roza

My dad packed his bags in late October and slammed
the door as he left. We watched him climb
into the passenger seat of Coach Mulligan’s white Suburban

through a crack in the blinds, and all Mom would say

as she stared at our lunchboxes
was that he was going to Chicago.

The first time a boy hit me,
I thought I was dreaming. People just don’t do that anymore,
I thought,

but he slapped me with the back of his hand
and his football ring sliced my cheek.

I watched the goldfish on my therapist’s desk drift in sickly circles.
She said that men would always be a challenge for me. She said

I’d have a hard time trusting them,

because my dad had never been a good dad, and it
was natural to choose men like my father.

Now it’s all I think about. I watch a girl in the mirror
at a party, rubbing up on a jock, and all I see are
daddy issues wrapped in a mini skirt.

Maggy is a poet from Sacramento, California. She has four siblings, idolizes Jack Kerouac, and despises Southern hospitality. She plans one day to write a punk rock opera.

3. juicies

begging me to
bite in
and eagerly
rip and tear
no care
only the need to
into me
its ripened gift
and its grateful sweet sigh…

to reach
its tiny pit
in fleshy folds
and try
with curious tongue
to tempt the bit—
but yearning
to be exposed
to finally meet
its devourer—
and yield…

cherry, cherry
toy and play
swirl and twirl
on sassy stem.
rouge red
stain on them—
the lips
that dare to take…

ebm700 is a woman of a certain age, musician, bodyworker. She enjoys her view of the river and the world, from her tiny turret in the city.