You are currently viewing Window to Hell by Atticus Davis/Savage Ckhild

Window to Hell by Atticus Davis/Savage Ckhild

Two cougars: one from Brazil, one from Honduras. Extensive plastic surgery. Palm trees. I am faced with my fetish for the basic and I can’t fight it.

Eyes I caught hanging each other on tangling legs or stretching out, taking selfies, a gutter lined with “Mercedes,” “Lexus,” “Infiniti.” It was too much for this cub to walk away without asking blushingly where they’re and now I have to own up to my timidity crashing and burning.

To compensate I can see you at this table of a boutique pizzeria your elite whore buying a large artichoke chicken pizza for $20 “Because,” I think, “if she has an internet presence, she must have hands.” “Because,” I think “This is the shit I think about, knowing you’re a coast away.”


To remember something fondly you have to remember it. I have the memory of a fly. I want to remember my relationships to ex-girlfriends so I can write about them properly but I mostly only remember the parts I am responsible for.

Did something happen to me in New York? After working too many graveyard shifts? Am I cracked now?

I visited a fortune teller in Brooklyn. She told me: This card means you let experience flow through you. Okay. You need to slow down and give them meaning. There’s a woman in your life and you feel she follows you and that you follow her. Me: “No. No, not really.” Later I would realize it’s all true. I don’t take the time to live as presently as it takes to remember.

She was drinking something and I opened my mouth and she shattered the glass on the pavement, then, crossing the street, screamed at the top of her lungs, all the way to her apartment. 

It’s easy to be me. I wear men’s clothing. I please with urns. Elsewhere I please with ones. Vexxed out. You’re a God, quivering porn star, shy in his mirror. Fear is evil to a doormat. Cities are burning down with desire.