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A Quarterly Journal
Jeffrey Woodward, Founder & General Editor
Volume 7, Number 4, December 2013


David Terelinck
Sydney, New South Wales, Australia


She had a face that could sell Delft before 5.

But after 8 her thonged hips gyrated in a tiny window-room in Amsterdam’s red light district. Skin the colour of buttermilk. Legs as smooth as a waxed wheel of Edam. Lips brighter than the neon glow above her window. I don’t speak Dutch, but the flutter of false lashes intimated ‘come on, Easter Sunday tomorrow; all will be forgiven.’

All I remember of her neighbour is that her botoxed lips were larger than her other assets.

this constant itch
for fifteen minutes
of pleasure . . .
there are some souvenirs
you can’t show your mother



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