All the Asses

On my feed
Tits and ass
Bored and hurting
Scrolling through my phone
On Saturday

Wishing time would slow
Against the coming
Of next week
So I think of tits and asses
And they come
Through my phone
All the tits and ass
Of Instagram

Brown tits, white tits,
Yellow tits, green tits
All the tits and asses
Skinny asses, fat asses
Firm asses, soft asses
Ass that make a man
Be like woah

I remember way back when
Asses weren’t so popular
Now so many women
Show them off for the camera
At home and out in public
Even at the gym
Lifting weights in pursuit
Of better asses

So many asses
With attached smiling faces
This must be what I want
Cos it’s all that’s in my feed
My excitement grows
And grows with each new pic

One ass
Two ass
100 asses
1,000 asses

All the Asses

And all the breasts as well
Big breasts, small breasts
Firm breasts, soft breasts
Heavy breasts on older women
I remember one with breasts
Down to her knees

Two breasts
Four breasts
400 breasts
4,000 breasts

All those goddamn titties
All those pairs of breasts
And that’s on top of
All the asses

Did I forget the legs
So many varied legs
Thin legs, thick legs
Long legs, short legs
Black legs, white legs
All those different legs
Like woah

Death Collective

Line my coffin with
the butter-yellow Austrians
from our beach cottage
bedroom with
that cathedral ceiling we loved
to stare up into
forever
Pull some Venetian prisms
off the hundred year old
chandelier that flickered sun-holes
onto us from the window and make
earrings out of them for me please
You can lay me into a mahogany casket
with my black Chanel
the one we bought
on Place Vendome
in the midst of a rain so heavy
it was God upon us
Slip my Louboutins on feet
hard as stone
bend the toes so my arch is angled to the shape
of that divine heel
don’t put a ton of makeup on me
I don’t want to look garish
at the wake and scare away
the handful of viewers goggling
over my long and broken body
Burn me after
light me up
howl at the fire
I smolder and catapult up the shaft
in a whirlwind of smoke and ash
Finger through the soot
to find a nail
or a piece of a tooth
perhaps a bit of hair
save it
love it
it was me you bastard

 

Originally published in Literary Orphans

Horror Sleaze Trash proudly presents the poems of Peter Magliocco.

BUY A COPY or DOWNLOAD HERE

Tangled

Shapes blended,
bodies wrapped
and tangled like
barbed-wire,
time had
temporarily
stopped in the
sparse cheap
rented room,
the invisible
calendar shredded
and strewn
across the floor
like the
abandoned clothes
of lovers:
evening would
envelope them
and morning
would release
them into a
world unaware
and uncaring
of their fading
silhouettes.

Edit

Since the night we met…

We always fuck till time’s inverted–
That’s just how our Love rolls.
Forget about the old blueprint,
We edit the map with our souls.
No need for clocks anymore.
We know the truth about numbers–
We ride that frequency on our thrones,
crowned The Divine Apocalypse Lovers.

mrs. samilian taught 8th grade math

every time
mrs. samilian
slapped a dusty
chalkboard
w/her pointer stick
i smiled.

no more than 5” tall,
mrs. samilian taught 8th grade math.

some days she wore
leather pants.
some days she slapped
the board w/ her pointer stick
while
wearing leather pants,
and i would smile.

one day
mrs. samilian
called on me to
answer a problem
at the board.

she wore leather pants,
slapped the board.

i could not stand up.
i did not smile.

‘is there a problem,
mr. jack?’
slap
‘you cannot come up
to the board?’
slap slap
‘why can you not
come up to the board,
mr. jack?’
slap slap slap

i stood
slowly.
girls cringed.
boys laughed.
one shouted,
‘jack’s got a boner.’
and i did,
proudly.

mrs. samilian took one look,
smirked.
‘you may go.’

instead of the principal’s office
i went to the boy’s restroom.
slap, slap, slap.

when i explained to the principal,
he let it go. ‘he’s just a boy.’
when i explained to my father,
he let it go, as well.

when i explained to my mother
she grounded me for two weeks
and made me apologize
to mrs. samilian,
who politely declined,

when i tried to bring the subject
at hand
up.

Maybe the Illiterate Demigods

Poets are the most pedestrian people of all:
They can’t pretend to be Rock stars,
Wearing trendy garb & looking hip
Sporting Elton John sunglasses – no,
They are the everyday sorts you see
Looking like hell in supermarkets
Shopping for what might be a last supper.
From lips of bourgeois infidels
Streaming across minds of mad men,
The poets blend in with the crowd
& sing their songs in sotto voce
While mice & men wage war constantly
For the might of the illiterate demigods
Lusting for greater corporate oligarchy
To feed the mass media mendacity.
“But I’m not a poet,” you tell me,
“Just another whore jerking you off.
Don’t cry out at my illiterate hands
Caressing your balls while you pretend
To be jaded, in extremis …”
My words don’t mean shit, I know that:
All the profound rhetoric we flood blogs
& the social media quagmire are negligible, I tell you;
It took you to find me a phony underneath
The spasm-moments of the void
Evacuating the sperm count of humanity
Crying out its language of lusts
In a nanosecond where your clit
Merged with the colossus of time,
Riddling me with your tonguing slit-
Vacuum (where the cum resides
In sweet syllables for the one night stand?).

Give me one more head, Magdalene, then
I might learn the gospels of your lust
Written in the palm
Of your savior’s bleeding hand.

Holy Candle Blues

In the red-sweet sunset
angel brother bends his blown glass ear
over the wall of eternity
listening in on my restless rathouse jam

She entered peeling story-caked walls
riding lightning rod brooms
swept me out to half-dippermoon bridge
we swung downtown where
waltzing heirs warmed six-figure derrieres above smorgasboard fires
I faked all the right questions into hell’s paradise

panting at the emerald city orgasm
waiting beneath her olive skin gypsy thin cocktail feast
ignoring the runaway beast

and someone beamed
they make a great couple
as we dished sweat
to god’s blistering last-chance desperate romance bugle call
my ragged sailor heart pirouetting out the hornpipe door
where muddy cliffs lick their chops and more..

On the way down
the devil in white linen gown served dark red obsession wine
before flaming flambé soft brown coconut limbs stole my grin
a fly doing backflips in the honey pot

The lava-baked sea
million miles away
a moaning rusted ship creaked like a red infection
begging to be freed from the last ripples in that skin game port

You knew all along prophet of the beautiful tracks
that my ramble played in a forest of doom
I surrendered dear Monk in the sad samba night

That wind pushed me mountains away
flushed me out of hiding in the prehistoric pubescent
road-burnt grotto
at the piano bar you played me like a thundering chord
till a midnight candle grabbed the shades
fire roaring down in flames
we crawled like god’s sweet snails to the clear-as-a-bell day

Glaring up through the dark blue smoke
where red sunset angel rained wild, untamed amazing grace ashes
down on desperate love’s last twitch
applauding the singed curtain call
live! live! he cried from his bongo perch on heaven street
hot orange coals fading in the chilled breeze
words we’ll never speak again you and I
unless fate has too much time to deal strange train cards

This harp strung midnight reverie
sad violins hijack innocent dreams
and twist the arm of violet-coated wishes

In my hidden dark room
holy candle blues…
whispers a sea wind blowing

The Torture King

When I was young,
But not that young,
I wanted to run away
With the circus
Of course
But my skill set
Lent itself only
To banging in the pegs

I could have been a geek
I guess
But I’ve never liked
The taste of snakes
And I can only get so drunk
Before I vomit up
The reservations of sobriety

I read a book
About eating glass,
Dreamed of getting on
That ferris wheel truck
I saw from my parents car window
On motorway drives
To safe holiday villages

I lay on spiked beds
For my school friends
But my sinuses
Never accepted masonry nails
And juggling anything other than my balls
Was always going to be perilous
And end in bloody sheets

So I stayed home,
Read long books
About freaks
And carnies
And wrestlers and crime,
Dark shit
Of course

But I always wished
I’d learnt to fall,
Practised up a funny walk,
Picked up tips on
Taking a custard pie to the face
Like the clown
I always longed to be.

certain rushes of blood 

she walked into the room
and immediately reminded
me of stevie nicks

i needed to pause for a second

certain rushes of blood can
bring me to my knees these
days

she had the laugh of the most
beautiful demon i have ever
seen

she saw me and said hello

i raised my glass of scotch
and she said i hear you write
some poems

oh shit, people are finally
talking about the elephant
in the room

she then wanted to know if
i wrote the poem about eating
her panties under a neon moon

i decided to take the bait and
said yes

she said she admires someone
that can use their imagination
in such a vivid way

i would love to replace the
imagined events with experience

she laughed and said buy me
a drink and see if you have the
balls to take the shot