I like the chaos of the place
the music is louder than need be
tortured women slurring words
swinging breasts, hip, and ass
under glowing red lights
the place is dark
remarkably clean but filthy too
I find it all right
the women dance
the beer is served
I write the poems.
Shave it,
And crucify it, drive it home, as fast as you can,
Filled up with spunk and rancor,
As his arteries scream for him,
Made of strawberry jelly and sprinkles,
Pour it out, into colourful bowls at the nursery school,
Too many betrayals now, too many nicks in the surface,
Kill everyone you know and barbeque their remains,
Make a bonfire out of your grandmother,
Fillet the postman and sell little slices from an ice cream van,
Split it open, with everything you have got,
Fill it to the brim with hatred,
Tear it open, and see what fits inside,
Discharge a loathsome fire extinguisher into the wombhole of a wombat,
Set fire to your pubic hair, steal anything not nailed down,
Incendiary chemicals and pencil sharpeners, ram it all in,
It is all dead
and worthless,
anyway
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.
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”
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 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.
‘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
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
