The beach has been closed again.
Dildo-infested waters according to the sign.
An uncanny likeness bobbing just above the waterline.
Boaters warned to kill their engines before the thrusting wake.
Giant seafaring phalluses that could split you right in two.
A panicked message from the tourism board:
Don’t go in the water! No lifeguard on duty!
No one has creamed themselves yet,
but it is only a matter a time.
I was sitting in Lulu’s bedroom, drinking a hot cup of coffee.
My hands were shaking, and she was nowhere to be found.
Lulu told me that she was going out to buy food for her pet cat.
But it had been an hour since I last heard from her or saw her.
I slowly walked into the closet.
It was a huge closet filled with colorful clothes.
She had all these black vampire dresses.
And she kept cups of red blood next to her shoes.
She drank blood to help her go to sleep.
Her brother, Augustus, told me she bought blood off the internet
from a woman living in a chicken coop.
The bathroom door of Lulu’s house was locked.
Her dad was in the shower humming a tune.
His voice sounded like a bird flying through an alleyway.
I knocked on the door and he sang even louder.
I had to take a shit, my stomach growled and growled.
Lulu’s white cat crawled through the bathroom door.
I placed my cup of hot coffee on the ground and scratched my legs.
“Come here.” I said to the white cat.
“Fuck you.” The cat said to me.
The teeth of this cat were black and dirty.
Smelling like an old mans ears.
I pushed my red lips out and the cat aggressively scratched my cheek.
There was thick blood dripping down my face.
And Lulu was still nowhere to be found.
I sat in front of the bathroom door with a bloody face.
And watched the cat twirl around
Struthonian, from the Latin
struthio (ostrich), to bury one’s head in the ground
or in our case that Valencian girl’s pussy;
Jim the Painter was there, and the girls we called the Old Roses
The Poet, The Banker, the girl from Liège
obsessed with the architecture in Rohmer films,
Sebastian and Violet, that girl who looked
like Eva Green, the Lorca scholar whose father
owned a vineyard in Portugal, that guy who looked like Eva Green,
the guy we nicknamed Gregor —after Samsa
social climbing like a surrealist, leg over leg over limb
over labia, Paul with the continental philosophy degree
parading unabated and half-shirted
reading Tennessee Williams’ “Sweet Bird of Youth,”
The German, The Confectioner, Gretchen
who peeled off her bikini on playa de Las Arenas
and said, “How do you know when cantaloupes are ripe?”
Lupé and the hash dealer, the Wild One who made tiger nut
drinks at the cafe in Alboraya —Elaina, Jen, Erin, Joel, Lisa
Kristin opening like an 18th century floral journal,
the red-haired girl we called the fainting countess,
that guy with the cock as big as the Ritz, peacocks, doves
swans, skylarks, all of us burying in the fullness of delight—
youth, now, a simple foreignness
like a pay phone or cigarette machine
selling oranges.
She would like to believe in alchemy
In progress from putrefaction
The city is a composite of wounds, she thinks
Scar-tissue the chrysalis of rebirth
Accounting for the misery she sees
Extracting hope from hopelessness
She sees a man praying in McDonald’s
Lips forming silent incantations
For a meal of ersatz offerings
In the queue
Faces like stagnant clay
Pinned beneath the strip lighting
From this Non-place of super-modernity
The obscure mysteries of shadow, dispelled utter
In their place, a moribund permanence
The anomie of abandon
She flees
Tries to leave behind the sublunary
In search of the promise of decay
Beautiful, natural decay
The withering adoration of time
Instead
She finds only the detritus of the never-ending now
Out beyond the centre and the suburbs
Derelict buildings, faded, retaining
An anonymous integrity
Underpasses, office blocks, factories and bridges
Met with rust-dementia
Dissembling the disassembling
Yet
People still live here
Those we’d prefer to believe
Dissembled themselves
Masking their failures as sickness
In their dementia-rusted faces
Living beyond purpose
She sees only truth
The dead-end destiny of us all
In extracting the hope from hopelessness
There remains only the dissembled lessness
of a disassembled world
tomorrow the newspaper
will report
what the rest of tonight will entail
for the guy on the barstool
beside me.
after plowing through some
mangroves on A1A,
he will blow into the sears
parking lot
with a flat tire.
another driver will then
yank him out of his car
and pin him down on the pavement
till the police arrive.
when they ask for his license,
he will struggle to stand
and offer his credit card instead.
he will then fail all
roadside sobriety tests
and refuse the breathalyzer.
and when they ask if he understands
his miranda rights
he will tell the officers
his only health problem is bunions
on his feet.
but for now, he is gulping
carbombs
at the tiki bar and playing the role
of the key west folk hero,
his fat fist wagging,
his sunburnt face a roasted ham hock
in the sun.
he turns to me. ‘last time
I was at this bar I got a blowjob
in the lady’s crapper. I’m tellin
you, I didn’t even know
the girl. she just pulled me right in.
but it was good.
real
good.”
Around and around we go
and where the sex sinks
stinking nobody
knows
Light strikes the eyes and the body dies
condemned by the unmerciful
the lies and liars
hard pimps with desolate hands
horrorcore fiends wither the
flowers of (dark) romance
twisted, vicious, proud of their
brutality
They make a mockery of their
crude pretensions, grasping infamy
like a snake of rotting garbage.
Who watches the watchmen
asked Juvenal
Who cares to observe
the sizzling nerves of the
System of shocks and terror
(the banality of evil)
by which a small and errant community merits
Awards
Stoking their fires with the poker of disdain
caught in thorned brambles like Dracula
Who persecute their brothers and
sisters in arms, casting blame in the name of
Clout
Who rout the disabled, unable to refrain
from the bloody harmonic sustain of
hypocritical attacks
deranged and psychotic
without knowledge of truth
conspiring behind the backs of
the
innocent
to ruin them
In a parallel dimension the
saber toothed tiger, also known as Smilodon,
Still rules as apex predator
with its undead yawn
On another timeline the unread signs of decay
adjust in split second increments
expanding viral filaments at the scale of deep time
A sublime irony spreads in the chill mind like a widening blood stain
Like a Cheshire cat smile
flash frozen on the vile
chipped away faces of the traitors
In Dante they are encased in the
Ninth circle jerk of Hell
With Lucifer who
gnaws with the delicacy of a
gore-mand upon their
Skulls
Oh dear they can’t get up
whatever’s to be done
for the deleted
for the culled
But so much for preamble…punk rock, let’s go, ramble onwards down the path of the main theme, the dark meat of our
Conversation
the
fate of that prehistoric elite, a tiger
Not Blake’s
(spelled differently)
That squats in the tar
like a spider
This one, its jaws distended like
the puffed body of a
Corpse which
lies
in a body farm for forensic scholars to
discover
Is a lot like yours, or any other
Mortal
The saber tooth
tiger
Was
remained
was
blamed for
many a cruel
death by
subordinate
animals whose final
Breath it caught
Their struggle was for nought
as they disappeared beneath the
Surface of the hot and fart bubbling
knot of
The eaters of the eaten
arrested at the savage state of
Kittenhood
Observers of La Brea, tourists from all over
come to watch the
Stilling of the clock hands
the shroud of time falling on the
Remains of the
mighty foe of
all on whom the
sun shines:
Death the all-destroyer
With its jaws still firmly ensconced
in a final risible frenzy
in the flesh of their victims, now scraped free of
their preserved skeletons
by history
The Smilodon
sank just as far is
Just as far gone
as
They.
Can moral lessons be
extracted from this
Bone rich matrix?
Have we learned a
God damn
Thing from the Salem
witch trials?
Apparently not
we continue to have shot
our final wad
Imperious perpetration of foul
deeds in the name of
a loving
God
Meanwhile, Blake’s tyger runs like a bloodstream through
our dark dreams
And forever screams of the
decadent and depraved
will fold like drapery
piled before the throne
Of Judgement Day.
She told me about her friend
who lied about his age (thirty-eight).
But the age misgiving wasn’t her hangup,
it was the fact that he couldn’t kiss.
She tried three times wondering,
“What was he doing all his life?”
She told me this over a cup of coffee
And I listened intently.
I asked if he’s just shy, she shot that down:
“I stated earlier, he showed me everything,”
as she gave two thumbs up and a wink.
I replied, “But was his conversation any good?”
She shot that down as well: “I didn’t
keep him around for the conversation.”
I mentioned my friend from Missouri,
who also told me she was thirty-eight.
Plus, she didn’t tell me about the kids
and husband till many months later.
I laughed about it even mentioning how
I think she is my long-lost twin sister.
We even bought the same t-shirts.
Also, she’s tall and crazy.
We spent several more minutes
chatting about our travels, family, and
spouses as she announces:
“I’ve been faithful.”
She goes on to state how men
can’t be faithful. I countered.
But she smirked and looked away.
We sat for a few minutes silent while
she waited for me to flinch, keeping her
eyes above the brim fixated on my thoughts.
Our coffees ran low matching the exchange.
It was time to meander back.
I went inside to drop off the dishes.
She stepped across the street to take pics.
I watched the wind gliding over her entirety,
as her hair tussled behind and danced with
the looseness of her coat.
The light shaded, highlighted, traced the folds
of her clothes and intent expression.
Her skin was quiet, but glowing gamma rays.
I wanted to tell her that the pics she sent me
didn’t remotely do her justice, and I wanted to see
How I rated compared to her three times
‘You’re Out’ dumped (not thirty-eight) boyfriend.
Maybe I’ll walk over and place a hand
on her waist, or is it both hands – or should I
place one hand on her shoulder? Or better yet,
I’ll just ask if it’s ok. I heard that works.
She noticed me watching, and signals me
to cross.
It’s go-time.
I stepped over the separating double yellow bands
onto the sidewalk where she held ground.
She asked what’s the name of this street.
I replied, “It might be the 38th parallel.”
I looked at her and smiled. Before I could
Ask, launch forth, or lean in she reminded me:
“Hey don’t forget to take some pictures.
That was what you told her you were doing today.
Here’s one.”
She pointed to the sign.
Under, Stop, someone wrote:
Collaborate and Listen.
a glitter bomb
to lighten the
mood
a tub filled with
blood, alcohol
and stained
panties
must be a tuesday
night in the sticks
all the poets
drinking the cheap
grocery store booze
and one sophisticated
motherfucker in the
corner with a bottle
of scotch
they like to place
bets on horse races
and japanese baseball
games
someone lets a fart go
and clears the room
whispers abound on
how he will need to
change quickly
in more ways than one
As my court-mandated therapist, Dr. Calkins rattles on, I imagine her in a schoolgirl outfit tied facedown.
The words she directs at me waft past my ears into a sea of blankness. Soon, all I can hear is the sound of a paddle hitting her bare buttocks so hard that it makes visible ripples like little tidal waves in the surrounding skin.
“Herman, are you listening?”
“Yeah,” I reply flatly.
I restrain myself. This whore doesn’t realize she’s speaking to a high-quality man. I call her that to myself because there is no husband to be found in the myriad of family photos decorating her paltry office. Only she, two children, and a labradoodle. All I can think is that she’s like that dog, only without a firm hand on her leash.
In her forties now, she hit the wall more than a decade ago. Her illegitimate children are the repellent toppings on this sad crone, slut pie. If she were honest, there would be seven cats, empty wine bottles, and a substantially proportioned dildo in the frame.
For me, all this bullshit started six months ago when my ex-girlfriend, Bonnie, brought me up on bogus charges.
What you have to understand is, that my dad owns a car dealership. Not some dirt lot on an alternate highway. It’s fucking huge. He’s rich, and by proxy, so am I. Everyone at NC State knows this. Mostly because I tell them. Before freshman year, they bought me a house directly across the street from campus. Don’t get jealous. It’s a cramped, four-bedroom hovel. Worse yet, they only pay for maid service once a week.
My folks live one town over in Cary. I don’t think they wanted me at home anymore. Either way, why would I want to crawl behind the peasants every morning in my BMW M8? I already have too many points on my license from having to weave through their economy cars and minivans. Regardless of my proximity, I haven’t registered for a morning class since sophomore year. Unfortunately, that’s slowed me down. I’m a third-year senior.
Bonnie pursued me because she knew my parents were affluent. She’s eighteen, which places her halfway through her prime reproductive years. I’d prefer fresher eggs, but the judge said he couldn’t help me next time. I’m still not supposed to be more than fifteen hundred feet from a middle school. Even at this older age, she’s still impressionable enough to be molded into a submissive wife.
I spent a small fortune on fancy dinners, jewelry, and flowers. I even endured musical theater. That kind of money and effort buys access. At first, I was a gentleman about it. But, if you get in the way of what belongs to me, I will take it. Now here I am in trouble for using my property, her body.
I’ve become a social pariah since Bonnie and her parents began misusing the court to impugn my character. Some call me an incel. I’m starting to like the label. I consider it a synonym for alpha male.
In the fallout, even some of my tight bros have bailed. All their absence has done is expose thems as the beta-cuck pussies they always were. Good riddance.
In private I’ve turned to the internet for my needs, specifically a pair of camgirls. Miss Scarlett is a six-foot-tall, muscular redhead. Her co-star, Midge, is a slight, four-foot-ten Brunette. She’s the submissive, and Scarlett the dom.
It infuriates me that I love it, so I make sure to remind them what sluts they are. My hummungous tips keep me from banishment. But, I can tell by the looks on their faces the insults hurt. Good.
Sadly, I can’t say those kinds of things in Dr. Calkins’s office. Can I?
I bite my lip.
Don’t do it, I think to myself.
Then it comes out anyway.
“What, you couldn’t even keep the marriage together for the dog?” I say to my therapist after thirty minutes of silence on my behalf.
“Excuse me?” Dr. Calkins says, shocked at my audacity.
“I don’t know what you mean,” I reply.
“Your insinuation about my marriage.”
“I’m sorry, your monthly must have drawn too much blood from your brain. I don’t recall.”
“My montly?”
“I didn’t say that. Do you feel okay?”
“You’re dismissed, Herman. I’ll be speaking to the judge on Monday morning.”
“So will my father, over a golf game on Sunday afternoon. What’s your handicap?”
“I don’t play—”
“Discussions at the country club mean more than your silly phone calls. I don’t know why. It must be all the sunshine.”
She stares dumbfounded as I walk out the door.
The judge unilaterally ignores Dr. Calkin’s complaints.
I wore her down to tears multiple times over the next few months.
Our last session was directly before Thanksgiving. Her sobs were tragically delicious. I wanted to grab her face with both hands and lick the tears from her red cheeks.
No longer on probation, I can take on other pursuits. The following week, one presents itself.
Miss Scarlett and Midge announce their annual Christmas pickle. Each year, they pick a random city in the United States. An assistant hides a plastic pickle ornament at a well-known landmark. Afterward, the girls drop hints about its location. This year, serendipitously, they’ve chosen Raleigh. Over the years the prizes have mostly consisted of sex toys, typically fuckable silicon replicas of their pussies. But this year, it’s a threesome live on camera Christmas morning. No holds barred; raw dog.
The chat room went wild upon the announcement, with members typing that they were booking flights and hotel rooms on the spot.
The clue is, You spin me right round, right round, in a historic park.
Knowing the city, it didn’t take much time to break. I visited Pullen Park in the early hours of the morning and quickly found the coveted ornament under the antique carousel. On it was a handwritten email address.
A few quick messages between myself and their assistant verify that I am the winner. Arrangements are made. I’m set to go live with them in three weeks.
The meet-up location is a split-level ranch house in North Raleigh.
They greet me at the door wearing robes. They’re gorgeous and smell wonderful. I hate them for it.
I’m led down to the basement. It’s not their regular studio. There’s soundproof foam lining the walls and ceiling. It makes sense. The neighbor kids shouldn’t have to hear the shrieking orgasms I’m going to give them while opening their Christmas presents. I’m not a monster, after all.
After shutting and locking the door behind them, both drop their robes, revealing matching white lingerie.
Hurriedly, I strip naked.
“The little captain is ready, I see,” Miss Scarlett says, observing my glorious erection.
“If you are,” I reply, trying to keep it cool.
“First, we want to spank you a little. Not hard, just for show. The audience will love it.
“It’s not my thing, but why the fuck not,” I say.
They strap me facedown to a giant wooden cross resting at a forty-five-degree angle on a custom rack.
Secured, Miss Scarlett retrieves a large VHS camera mounted on a tripod.
“Why the antique?” I say jokingly.
“VHS doesn’t have metadata, which means no forensic evidence,” Midge replies.
A television is wheeled out. Midge places a tape into a VCR the size of two cinderblocks. On the screen appears the face of Dr. Calkins.
“Herman, now that I have your attention, allow me to tell you about my husband. While I was pregnant with my youngest, he was diagnosed with neuroblastoma. He survived long enough to hold his infant daughter once. The day after her birth, he became too weak to leave bed. A week later, the love of my life was gone.”
“I don’t keep pictures of him in my office because seeing them rips my heart out. On the upside, his massive life insurance policy made financing this special film possible. Herman, women are exhausted with men like yourself. There are far too many, and too few reckonings. But, on rare occasions, they come. Today is yours.”
The TV goes to static. Midge pulls the tape out and then places a large neodymium magnet on top of it, permanently erasing the tape’s contents.
“Did you actually think you solved the riddle?” Midge says in her high-pitched voice, which turns into a cackle. No. The chat room you were in was made for your eyes only. The other participants were chatbots I programmed. This isn’t a prize. It’s a snuff film, and you’re the star.
I struggle but can’t budge.
Miss Scarlett hooks something to the foot of the cross. Then I hear the whir of an electric hoist as I’m pulled feet-first toward the ceiling. The cross hangs freely, allowing my inverted body to swing back and forth like a metronome.
“Hold the cross still, Midge” I hear Mrs. Scarlett say.
I scream as the blade shallowly pierces the center of my back. Searing pain courses through my body in pulses as the skin is meticulously peeled away.
As I lose consciousness, I hear Midge say, “Be careful, Dr. Calkins wants enough hide to make a purse for her and Bonnie.”
Composer & Lyricist: Camryn Tyler Shaffer
Record Label: Living Sound Delusions Studios
Release Date: Oct. 18, 2024
This is your new Halloween anthem—turn up the volume and get ready for a frightful night! Where will you be when the monsters wake?
Horror Sleaze Trash 