Defecation of a Nation

A checkered darkness
like a vacancy sign
flickering its last breath
of neon on half a mind
as the noose tightens.
Nazi cockroaches given
the run of the house,
quenching their thirst
with the blood of the kids.
Swarming over the dead
skin of those who dare
dream and feasting till
their gorged bodies fuck
in a ring of shit in a no holds
barred orgy for the ages.
Porn and power in wrestle-
mania a million and one,
fertilizing eggs bred
to propagate and prosper
in a nuclear genocide.

 

Memories of a New Jersey Project

New Jersey is a convenience store
I hunted for an ATM on an October night.
I had avowed to never use heroin again but now
I was half-drunk or half-sober

The bartender immediately made me for what I was
miserable and unconvinced that anyone had an answer
or anything to offer
to supplement the human condition
there were bottles of liquor in the back
a dining room off to the right
down a rickety hallway

I told him I was broke
when I didn’t leave him much of a tip
on a sixty dollar tab
I have to imagine
I wasn’t the first
nor the last
to lie in a barroom
under dim light
in the fall of a New Jersey night

Then my house guest and I
left to go cop
in the projects of Trenton
I made him drive
I was too drunk
we showed up
& parked in a fenced in lot
“don’t talk to nobody”
advised
the man on the phone who I never met.
in New Jersey
there’s always a voice on the end of the line
that never matches
the person who strolls up to
the Korean made car window
after making me wait

A woman showed up
I had seen her before
she was tall and thin
long expensive hair
& a leather jacket

somewhere between
rusted chain link
and towering brick apartment
buildings
there were shots fired
just before
her hand met mine
“Oh shit”
she turned and walked off
my salvation
walked off with her
my inert wad of 20s
wrapped tight in my drunken fingers

my friend
his first full night here in Jersey
turned on the car
and
over the din
of city cop SUV sirens
I said,
“No
let’s stay”

Auditioning for Silent Films

The flies are dancing around
our regurgitated meals;
their bodies drawing the story of
the Three Headed Tyrant
but nothing’s original any more
(that damn sentiment least of all)
and they’re all buzzing
while burning;
desperately calling
their wives at home
insisting we don’t need to talk
every day
but you’ve got to audition
every week for some
role utterly beneath you;
and maybe I’d recognize you more
if it weren’t for this call
for an encore
ringing in my ears
– I’m no better than you though,
in fact,
I cut myself to keep myself
in touch with the fans,
otherwise my ego
will swell my head
to God-like proportions
and God doesn’t make guest appearances
not even for the final act
and yeah they say
there are no small roles
only small actors
but what a fucking insult
to that dude who played
everyone’s favourite droid

She Bleeds For Brooklyn

She lives with low rent day dreams
on no name backstreets.
Dirty sidewalks made from quicksand concrete,
There’s no yellow brick road.
In this city like desert without an oasis.
Hope a disease that breeds in places,
Where God wouldn’t go.
In the air there’s a stench the smell of desperation.
And lives are stamped with a date of expiration.
The Devil’s grip on their souls.
Night crashes down with the sound of a train wreck.
She’s on the prowl for love and everyone’s suspect,
But they just leave her cold.
She cries with a sound that no one hears.
Her eyes lost their voice
Now she can’t speak with tears
She wonders about life on the other side of the mirror.
Kneels down for one more unanswered prayer.
But there’s no one listening out there!
And she bleeds, she bleeds for Brooklyn
She’s hemorrhaging lies and alibis.
She bleeds, she bleeds for Brooklyn.
Break free Persephone
Brooklyn left the front porch light on.

Smiling and Unzipping

‘What are you doing down there?’
she asked sounding a little
irritated:
‘You know what I’m doing’ I
replied feeling awkward and
embarrassed:
‘Let me show you’ she said
and she began to masturbate,
my face just inches away,
I looked on and watched
the gentle movement of her
fingers, stroking and probing,
the closing of her eyes
and the moist sounds and
the deepening of her
breathing and the
shuddering of her body
and the frail cry she let go;
after a few moments
she said softly, grinning,
‘There we are’
‘Could you do it again?’
I asked,
smiling and unzipping.

Michelangelo: Painter and Poet

Michelangelo
with steel balls
and a wire brush
wishing he was
wearing motorcycle leathers,
going wild and crazy,
stares cross-eyed at the
Sistine Chapel ceiling-
nose touching moist paint,
body stretch out on a plank,
bones held by ropes from falling-
delirious, painting that face of Jesus
and the Prophets
with a camel hair brush;
in such a position, transition
a genie emerges as a poet-
words not paint
start writing his sonnets,
a second career is born-
nails and thorns
digging at his words,
flashing red paint:
it’s finished.

Presenting Horror Sleaze Trash: Poems,
featuring the poets and poetry of Horror Sleaze Trash.

Includes work by HST stalwarts Ben John Smith, Ryan Quinn Flanagan, Casey Renee Kiser, Johnny Scarlotti, Karina Bush, J.J. Campbell, and many more!

Download for free or BUY A COPY HERE

Docket Sheets

sometimes when the curtains
still shield my eyes from the sun
and the things living here
aren’t stirring
I pull open
my laptop
to look up the docket sheets
of the people
(I guess) I once knew

see if Twan
got off
or caught a murder charge
for that dead kid from Warren,
the one
whose parents
surrendered his cell phone
and the DEA
did what they could
with us,
a bunch of strung out junkies
killing time
in Andy’s mom’s attic

see if Tony
stayed out of trouble
since his first DUI
or if
his temper got away from him
like it had before

see if my exes
committed crimes
no matter how minor
no matter how expungable
so I could
feel vindicated
for the pain I put them through
and then
later in the day
–maybe about lunchtime
maybe before–
feel guilty
for that ill will,
for thinking about
some shit
I can’t change

see if
there are any new charges
under my own name
if the old fever dream
of my addiction
is ever made manifest
in black and white,
in bench warrants,
in dollars and cents
owed

I’ll look up a few more
–guys from rehab
people from high school
names I fail to remembers–
and shut the lid

I’ll let my family
wake up
and never mention
how I spent the
early
hours
while I write a poem
to describe a feeling
that
evades
words

 

 

Valentine

My friend Shane picked me up
and drove to the flower shop
near Wickie’s Pub
on Burton Avenue.
He picked out the flowers and the wrapping,
then it came:
you’re good with words,
can you write something
that will get me laid
tonight?
Then I wrote something
and the saleslady
melted.
We picked up his girl from work
and she saw the flowers
and read the card
as I sat in the backseat
waiting.
She couldn’t keep her hands
off him
the whole way home.
After they dropped me
back at my place on Jane Street
they drove off
to have some wild unprotected gorilla
Valentine’s Day
sex
as I made my packet
of chicken-flavoured Mr. Noodles
for dinner
and was in bed
by 7.