“I love you so much,” he said
“you are my rock”
as she thought:
you are my rock too
the rock tied to my feet
pulling me
down
to the bottom of life’s ocean
taking in water
with every p a s s i n g day
immersed in disappointment
asphyxiated with regret
the realization of wasted years
caused rivulets of despair
and hopelessness
down both
cheeks
as he thought:
she really does love me
This is the sunny side of the ghetto;
filled with freaks, musicians with busted guitars,
singers who’ve lost their voices,
dancers with no feet
and the general wandering souls
who’ve completely lost
their fucking minds.
We’re the lost; the bottom of every heap,
the forgotten, the ostracized and the lost.
We’re being pushed out of the world
with bulldozers and flamethrowers;
every time an artist looks up from their canvas
they realize they can’t afford that canvas.
Their systems are solid; the war machines
are shaking the ground, and the only fight
we make is the metal meeting the meat,
carnage through the streets,
children with guns confused
about Santa Claus
and the fucking
Easter Bunny.
i was never cut out
for the corporate life
i own one tie
mostly used for funerals
i no longer bother
to attend
nothing against those
who feel more comfortable
in a cubicle
but i’d rather be on a porch
with a glass of something
strong
allowing my imagination
to fill some pages
taking a moment to
breathe in some silence
and whatever passes
as fresh air
letting the hours
fade away without
ever punching
a clock
‘The bone structure of your nose
is completely abnormal, have you
experienced a facial injury?’ the
ENT doctor asked:
‘As a young man I was involved
in countless physical altercations
with guys who seemed to hate
my nose, they’d punch it, kick it,
pulled and twisted it, spat at it
and shouted abuse at it, they
hated my nose’ I replied;
‘I see’ she said concealing a
grin:
‘I don’t get involved in those
scenes nowadays’ I said
reassuringly:
‘That’s good’ she said
unimpressed
‘Chances are you’ve treated
some of my opponents’ I
said smiling: she didn’t
respond as she tapped on a
keyboard:
‘Goodbye Mr Robinson, the results
will be sent to you’ she said without
looking away from the screen.
you ever just sit or lay
on your bed and stare at
the ceiling and wonder
if you’ve ever eaten meat from an animal
that was the offspring of another animal
you’ve eaten?
I’ve once read an article about the
food industry’s secret glue
that can paste together the meat
belonging from many animals and
makes it look like it’s from a single one
thus you could eat beef thinking
that it’s from a cow
when in fact it’s from nine different cows
of nine different ages and breeds
a friend of mine declared herself vegan
after she sliced a steak and found
gray slimy puss oozing from it.
The blade struck a cyst
“I’m a vegan forever from now on!”
she screamed
And I said, “I’m a writer.”
“What?” she said. “What’s that have
to do with what I said?”
“I’m a writer,” I repeated. “Meaning I have to
compare everything to writing. Your discovery
of the cyst inside the steak is akin to reading
a really nice book only to reach the most
disturbing scene you’ve stumbled upon in a long
while and be taken by surprise and change your
opinion about the whole book.
There are some books like that. Doesn’t mean
they all are though.
And unlike a meat eater, I like to believe
a writer can tell the difference between a book
written by a single person and a collaborative
project.”
“Boy, you’re scaring me.”
“Can I have that steak?” I said.
“Wah? You… don’t mean to eat it, do you?”
“Nah, my cousin has a dog who surely
won’t mind the cyst.”
she gave me the steak
and she didn’t ask (I only wanted her to),
but the writer
equivalent of this situation would be
to recognize when a story fails
real bad and instead of stubbornly striving
to submit to agents
you just give it away for free,
publish online,
maybe even under a pseudonym
Anyway
the dog loved that steak.
the lifted death-head grinned
stiffened whiteness
and passed into smoke
the empty act was now dispersed,
come out andlet go of.
probably something
someone once did
by someoneit used to be.
no reason to be
standing there
without even
a resemblance
to human woe,
though possibly
still imposed upon
by a limit
on infinity
in a room to my left two old queens fuck with rabid intensity,
fearless in their volume, unrepentant to the thinness of walls –
i had watched them enter their room as i stood in the doorway of my own,
smoking one last cigarette before my fade –
“there’s always room for one more,” the short one said to me –
i smile and nod and look at the ass of the pretty one –
a pseudo cowboy and a punch-drunk blonde whisk past,
enter a room to my immediate right, bound for calf roping replays
and bucking bronco indiscretions –
caught in the middle of homosexual histrionics and a heterosexual rodeo,
back on the road, halfway to Phoenix, in a land where things rarely
change and lightning rarely strikes twice –
when i found myself
legs in the air
in thigh highs
ten inches of rubber
protruding from my ass
a stinging load
between my eyes
i said to myself
“i should make a change”
and upon further deliberation
i couldn’t be more certain,
i’d like to try
the ankle socks
next time.
forever afraid
of the dark
they’re always
waiting for
these certain poets
to snap
a nightlight
on for them
& the nightlight poets
do just that
appeasing them
w/ their
feeble little glow
& they all applaud
the tiny lights
& smile
falsely unafraid
yes, that’s the state
of it all now
none of them
ever thinking
to braille
the goddamn
darkness
no, not even
fucking once
She kept repeating:
“cum baby cum! cum baby cum!”
in a song like rhythm.
The problem was I couldn’t cum,
but I kept trying, there with an Asian
hooker in my bathroom and her repeating:
“cum baby cum!”
n her high-pitched accent.
We were in the bathroom cause I let my friend
use the bedroom when the first hooker arrived;
banking on the fact that he’d be done by the time
mine got there, and that the next one would be more
attractive than the first.
Our other two friends stayed in the living room,
drinking and watching
TV. Eventually the hooker,
now on her knees, looked up at me and said:
“no cum?” and I looked down, shook my head,
and said: “no cum.”
She got dressed and I went out into the living
room, seeing my friends, including the one who
had the first hooker. I asked how it was and he
said it was terrible: he couldn’t cum. I said neither
could I, and then another friend asked if he could
borrow some cash, said he wanted to give it a go.
We advised against it. All signs were pointing to us
being way too drunk to fuck Asian hookers at 4AM
in the morning; but he didn’t listen, and he didn’t
cum either.
Horror Sleaze Trash 