Author: Horror Sleaze Trash

Kristin Garth

Traumatized By Fairytales 

You have no memories of innocence 
just curated evidence of puerile thoughts 
in childish script whispered by the dark prince 
of punishment who visits you when you ought 
to dream of unicorns, chocolate egg creams,
prim fairies like a good girl should — not 
orgiastic in a flaming wood.  Deemed 
by good and evil both a sacrifice.  Taught
to open shamelessly all but the eyes 
and crawl towards the cruelest hands. Accept
their seed and reprimands.  Live traumatized 
by fairytales meant for those they defend
who have not lived the truth of how they end. 

Rob Plath

the final makeover 

one day death 
will give you 
a makeover 
death will 
scalp you 
peel yr face off 
unravel yr shape 
like a mummy 
striptease 
tossing the dumb 
rubber suit 
to panting worms 
leaving you to 
look stunning 
in all 206 bones 
a bright brainless 
skull smiling 
w/ the same sun 
before you were 
born shining 
thru yr ribs

Gordon P. Bois

Shake Hands With Death 

He lives way too close to the funeral home.

He’s so close, that he can practically shake hands with death.

What does this mean for him?  Ease of access for when he finally dies.  It’s like a really disturbing, makeshift convenience store for the terminally ill, the dying and the dead.  All he needs now is a shopping cart for when they wheel his dead ass across the street. 

One would think that the realtor would have said something about this before finalizing the sale, but no.  He figures that the shopping cart should’ve been included, when he bought the house, but it wasn’t.  Anything for a sale, he reckons.  He supposes that it’s too late now.  The cheap bastards! 

“How do I go about getting myself a shopping cart now?  Do I ask the owners of the local grocery stores?  Do I have to buy it outright?  Probably not.  I’ll bet there’s leasing options though.  It’s a sad world we’re living in.  All anyone is concerned about is making the mighty dollar!” 

He swears that they’re all in on it.  “Opportunists, every one of them: the realtors, the grocery store owners, and you guessed it, the funeral directors.  Bunch of scammers is what they are!”

Hyperventilating, he decides to take a seat and catch his breath.  “I better sit this one out and relax.  If I’m not careful, I’m going to give myself a heart attack.  I’m sure they’d just love that.  I can see it now, me, dead as a doornail, minus the shopping cart.  How then, do you figure they’re going get my dead ass over to the funeral home?  Drag me there?” 

“If it was winter, they could slide me across the street in a toboggan.  Wait a minute, I don’t own a toboggan.  I haven’t had one of those contraptions since my childhood.  I suppose I’ll have to go pick one up at the local crappy tire store.  See, what did I tell you.  Another store owner who’s in on the take.  Pathetic!”

“It’s no wonder that the community is always preaching to its townsfolk about shopping local. And do you want to know how everyone hears about this?  Well, I’ll tell you, it’s in the local paper and heard on the local radio station.  That’s two more businesses in on this money-making racket. 

Everyone seems to be in on it.  It’s greed that drives them, every damn one of them.  Shop local, they say.  Not for me.  You can count me out!”

Damon Hubbs

Bottomless Brunch

she pulls on her ugliest tights
the ones with the splatters & drips 
she wears every Sunday for bottomless brunch

& mutters something 
about how I spend all my free time 
writing poetry

I don’t like the way free time & poetry 
sound rolling around together in her mouth 
but it’s Sunday & I don’t want to fight

so I keep at it 
as she waves & heads out for mimosas
or whatever it is they’re drinking these days 

later, after I finish a poem 
& she returns flushed with late morning cocktails
the tights are a little less ugly 

& her ass looks like a million bucks. 
I plunge into the bottomless brunch
like a man who hasn’t eaten in days. 

Joseph Farley

Excelsior

Let us live
This life of knives,
Juggling razor blades
Along with babies.

Smiles of red
And laughter
Like gagging,
We shall prevail
Against nature
And ourselves.

Stack the wood high.
Add books
For the burning.

Let not the troubles
Boil in the sea.

Welcome them
Along with all nightmares.

Tremble gently
At the touch
Of a breeze,

Breaking
All the fingers
On each hand
That would hold you

As you dance
Along the precipice
That separates

Day from night,
Past from future,
And happiness
From all the other
Emotions
That overcrowd
Your mind. 

John D Robinson

Curtains

& then, it hit me, hard: I was
engaged with my wife in a
discussion, a debate about,
curtains,
specifically, the colour of: I
didn’t know what had 
happened to me, I had NEVER
given a thought or a fuck about
curtains,
but here I was, actively 
contributing as though truly
interested in 
curtains,
but I’m not, I still don’t
give a shit about
curtains, 
you’ve got them or you
haven’t and who gives a
fuck about
curtains:
‘I think the Modern Yellow
Sunset is what would look
really good’ she said:
I nodded my head, smiled,
‘Yeah, let’s go for it’ I said,
hoping that would kill the
deal:
I was wrong:
‘Perhaps, the Antique Moon
Yellow, would be better’ she
said:
I nodded my head
and waited.

Damian Rucci

This Illness

I watch the cars 
up and town Broadway 
across from Cag’s bicycles
I wonder how many drive
idle with heavy hearts?

How many drift aimless
home from work with 
grease burned into their arms
with tears scarred into the
corners of their eyes? 

You can scrub the dirt from
your skin but you can’t clean
this illness from your bones.

I am sick and she is sick
and we were born into this sick world.
The medicine men on the corners
hold our dreams and aspirations,

We’ve traded Californian vistas
and white fences for landscapes
of death and urban rot.

Tonight I say I am going to kill myself
I’ve said this every night for months
and with each haunted evening
I tiptoe closer to oblivion
with the faith of a preacher.

Ken Kakareka

About Mid-day

A good café 
is important 
for a writer. 
There aren’t 
many 
good cafés
or writers 
left. 
I have a good café 
that I go to 
downtown. 
It still preserves 
its important features – 
framed photos 
of when it opened, 
sturdy tables 
with chipped edges, 
and unquestionably 
strong coffee. 
There are other 
important features, 
but these are some 
that stimulate me 
now. 
It is Rialto Café 
on Wilshire Ave. 
There is not much 
seating, 
and the windows 
are large enough 
to get lost through. 
It’s important 
to be able 
to get lost 
through the windows 
of a good café. 
The only thing 
that bothers me 
today 
about Rialto 
is that 
the 3 new young kids 
working 
haven’t looked up 
from their phones 
since I started 
this poem. 
And I’m almost 
done. 
The 2 girls 
in the kitchen 
are checking out 
a new dating app 
that they’re giddy 
about. 
And the curly-haired boy 
leaning on the counter 
is watching 
the World Cup. 
I can’t say 
I blame him. 
It would be 
in good taste 
if it was in 
the right setting. 
But not while 
you’re supposed to be 
attentive 
to a sensitive writer 
whose coffee cup 
is empty. 
Maybe they’re just 
entertaining the fact 
that I’m writing. 
But I highly doubt it. 
I want to give 
these younger kids 
the benefit 
of the doubt. 
I remember a time 
when you couldn’t be 
on your phone 
at work. 
How did phones 
wiggle their way 
into everything 
we do? 
My pocket is vibrating; 
it’s my sister 
sending me snaps 
of the kids. 
Time to 
check my phone, 
see what kind of 
shenanigans
my niece and nephew 
are up to
and then get lost 
through the windows. 

Vivian Pollak

Nevermore

“Poe is so overrated” came the muffled response.  

I see. Vain, sophomoric, and one-dimensional till the end, I thought.

And as if he couldn’t help himself, “…and so are the Beatles!”

I flicked my Bic through the aperture in the door.

There he sat with that stupefied gleam of sexual anticipation in his rheumy eyes. What a bonehead. And, what a boner too! Right through his green tights!  A boy scout badge-worthy tent! Maybe I missed one last opportunity?  I’d put a lot to energy into our 17th Century European Historical Bondage costumes.  His oxford-red argyle chapeau with the craft feather was still nestled snugly on his cranium and the cobalt blue felt cape with the gold bells was fluted symmetrically about his torso.  He was handcuffed to the wrought iron turrets. Very secure indeed. My own harlequin costume with the breast holes cut out and my hard nips ready to commence full-throttle fire-drone mode, made me feel silly all of a sudden. 

Howsomever, what luck to have discovered this abandoned broken down cottage with the wine cellar, in the deep bushes of nowhere. An old swingers pad. A friend of a friend of a friend put me wise to the place. Seriously distant degrees of separation. On our way in, I spied two ceramic gnomes in the garden, their faces in freeze-frame fuck-friendly smiles. But upon closer inspection, I swear those little buggers were cheering me on. Poor dears: they appeared to have been nibbled on by desperation rabbits.  

“Now wait here, Fortunato.”  I cracked up at my sense of humor in giving the game away.

“I will be back in a jiffy.  With the belt and the riding crop!” I added.

I checked the lock one final time.  

Ah, Fortunato. 

I have thought deeply about revenge. And Poe. And narcissism. And evil. But I’m alright. I left a copy of Poe’s Complete Tales under the chair. Once he slumps, it will be his final bit of reading material. 

“Hey! Hello! Little Dove? I’m really randy!”  The bells, though muffled, jangled distinctly.

On my way out, I scooped up both weather-worn gnomes and wrapped them snugly in my ruffled codpiece.

“I shall name you Edgar; and you Allen.”

In pace requiescat.

Rob Plath

achilles heel heart 

some say the twenty-four ribs 
protect the heart 
i say the heart is an achilles heel 
always a target 
pierced no matter the armor 
even when opening & closing alone 
in a small room 
i say the twenty-four ribs is a terminal 
where the heart awaits the final blade 
& the rungs of arched bone 
become a fighting cage at last 
for worms to war over red shreds