wronged
a dead baby
floating downriver
eyes unseeing
somewhere
a man strangles
his wife & kids
pass me another
beer, would you?
he died in jail.
they got him
just like they
promised
they would.
his
mom probably has
him sitting on the
tv at home, a
nice frame around
the photo.
i’m sitting by a little
fish pond, watching
the fish vie for
dominance. the
big ones are winning.
reminds me of jail.
i slid a piece
of broken glass
down my arms
slowly, slowly
and the blood
flowed gently
until it formed
a mural on my
arm.
just call me an
artist.
Bukowski was wrong.
these words
don’t
matter.
you pound them out
and send them off
and they’re gone
just like that and
all you’re left
with is a blank
screen staring you
in the face.
Horror Sleaze Trash 