Always More, By John D Robinson

Horror Sleaze Trash proudly presents the poems of John D Robinson.

“These are survivor poems, battle scarred verse that hits the soul and assaults the frontal lobe. Here is a poet who has lived several lives and emerged on the other side intact.”

—Joseph Ridgwell, author of Burrito Deluxe

“This book is not decorative art. This book is not the exercise of the commercial artisan. This book is stripped of 21st century consumer bullshit. This book is a way in to what matters. Get ready. It is going to hurt. And you will love it.”

—Henry Stanton, UnCollected Press

BUY A COPY OR DOWNLOAD HERE

J.J. Campbell

suicide lovers

your lips tasted
like danger
 
like death was
just around the
next corner
 
your tongue 
danced in my 
mouth like i 
was the 
unexpecting
victim
 
it was a cigarette 
on the front porch
 
the sad reminder
that suicide lovers
will never get a
storybook ending
 
so many years ago
 
now we’re flirting
with death while
burning every damn
bridge along the way
 
sometimes sorrow
is all we can get 
by with
 
like any fucking 
fool
 
we’ll turn it into
something that 
someone will 
think of as 
art

Jon Bennett

Towhead 

I wasn’t drunk yet 
and I went between the trees 
where I always go 
to take a piss 
I was looking at nothing 
thinking nothing 
and letting the piss  
take care of itself 
when I heard, “Hey!” 

Beneath the canopy 
of low branches 
was a little boy, maybe 4, 
with a Tonka truck 
loaded with a pinecone 
and I knew  
I was fucked 
because he had piss 
on his towhead 

“Oh shit,” I said 
and I backed out of there 
The dad was behind me 
“Did you see..?” he asked
My hands were in the 
“Who? Me?” configuration 
and I was distraught 

The little boy came out 
of the woods 
and he said, 
“He peed on me.” 

“I didn’t mean to,”
I said, “but I did.” 
and I sat on a stump 
and waited for  
the police to come 
and sort it out 

What should I have done? 
Lied? What should I have said? 
There was nothing I could do 
to make it right 

It’s like so much these days 
the facts speak 
for themselves 
but they don’t always
tell the whole story.

Mendes Biondo

Outlaw Wanderer’s Last Words

After a long ride
While the snow is falling
And your hands are hurting
Broken feet and legs
You tired and godless

After all the icy rivers
The bears in the middle of the wood 
Screams of Indians claiming their lands
Rattlesnakes and wolves
You scared and alone

After all the people you lost
False friends made in saloons
Moans of women who won’t remember your name
Gamblers and brothers
You betrayed and lonely

After all this great mess
The clouds will dance away from the moon

Bright stars to follow for the promised land
Gold and water
You blessed and holy

The moment when the tear falls
Life and its deep meaning
Before your very eyes

Suddenly, the truth

Robert Beveridge

How To Write Poetry

Crucified, Jesus
spoke the world’s
most poetic line:
“τετέλεσται”.

Heleva, the second:
“There is no poetry in that.”

Nail yourself 
to a cross built
from other dead girlfriends
and their suicide boyfriends
(preferably in mahogany)
glued together with blood
taken from the heart
with a 14-gauge needle.
Whisper the first thing
that comes to mind,
Aramaic optional.

Wash your hands in urine,
dry them on the stuffed
carcass of an armadillo.
Pink fairy is preferable
but giant will do in a pinch.

Touch someone beautiful,
fall in love, commit
suicide, repeat the cycle
as often as possible.
Don’t forget the urine.

Trim your adverbs.
Trim your gerunds.
And don’t be cynical,
whatever else you do.

Michael D. Amitin

free ballad

shooting up raggedy winds
blood crimson frost
faraway nights,
Montreal, she’s there
tender eyed

walking lightstreaks ahead of me
I stumble shiny stockyards into 
morning future fogs
yesteryear tattoos fading on thin dreamrail hearts 

she never liked to walk as a kid
ice creams summers along the Seine

she loves me,
gotta fly

wwoz on, funky as ever
in the midnite boil

a lot of me in her
torn tender grasses, blue moon trances

as lampposts gleam broad street
endless roads await her hot tire rampage tracks

purr, run the engine
it’s all yours baby

Donna Dallas

White Collar Gods

When you said ride or die 
I didn’t realize you would
expose every pore
every crack
bore your wisdom
into my very core
these kids today–
what do they know
about hovels 
walking to and from the bus
in the rain
snow a foot deep
panting steam as we walked uphill

I learned how to chew
my food slow
while we rode fast
without seatbelts
through Milano
Venice
Turin
into Paris
across to Bordeaux

I longed for this life
but the price was
every last drop
siphoned

You called my name
it echoed into the empty
hull of my body
sometimes it feels good just to pee
when 4 hours sleep is all I get
or the calls
at 2am from India, China, Tokyo, Russia

The endless flights
home is in my head
a hearth with a warm fire in my chest
strong loving arms
I know nothing about
because I raced through the years
with a laptop
cell
extended resume

I missed the turn
for lovers and babies
this womb has dried
to a crackled
dusty
pit

My bank account
is my daily orgasm
after 8pm you can find me
slugging a flawless martini
that’s taken years of perfecting
with Dolin Vermouth

I cradle the bottle

John D Robinson

The Ass of God

Patricia stabbed Ronnie
3 times in the stomach
but he survived and
they got divorced

Texas was a one eyed manager
of the ‘Dripping Spring’ and
after 3 years he hit the road
with 18 months of takings

Ruby was held hostage for 48 hours
and forced by a fuck-freak into
sex acts her modeling career
had never anticipated

Julian was a junkie and bisexual
and a talented artist who
committed suicide by heroin
after his partner had died of AIDS

Monkey Dave, the hash dealer,
died of a broken heart after
learning his beautiful wife
was being fucked senseless
by his friends and customers

Linda, also a pot dealer,
was sexy and wore short skirts
and tight white panties
and low cut blouses and
died of cancer aged 45

Niko was a junkie
and we all assumed
that he’d die of O/D but
cancer beat his ass aged 44

Ricky was a sweet kid
but a methamphetamine
induced heart attack
took him aged 29

Sailor Al was stabbed
to death in a hovel,
Gordon froze to death
on the streets, and
Mick the Karate survived
4 gunshot wounds and
even lived to take
his revenge

Tony, the street drinker,
told me he was going to
shove this life up
the ass of God

Swan Dive, By David Boski

These poems by David Boski hit hard and punch you in the face like the narrator in the opening poem ‘Thanks for Asking’. Confronting the demons found in sickness, death, relationships and simply walking his dog, Boski is unafraid to spit out the truth. Although some poems have been written in the times of Covid-19, Boski reminds us that there has always been suffering, isolation and fear. Difficult things to deal with, and Boski asks on more than one occasion “What’s the point?” I would say it’s that we need to endure and face the demons and Boski’s words show us we are not alone in doing so.

Adrian Manning, Poet and Publisher: Concrete Meat Press

For copies, please contact:
boski.david.boski@gmail.com or johndrobinson@yahoo.co.uk

Dustin King

Lies

This poem is about the prowess of our sexual organs.
We know just how to slap them together.
It’s a gorgeous rhythmic sound.
Our orgasms are regular and simultaneous.
We are never ambivalent,
least of all our loins.
They’re furnaces down there.
I could get it up right now!
Sure, I don’t mind a condom but
I was tested last week.
I’d love to hear your confession
but i must confess something first—
someone is calling on the other line.
Also, I am out of town.