I’m open for business.
Wide open.
A voluntary vessel for male ejaculation.
The last two just left but I’m HUNGRY for another.
Another fierce pounding.
There’s no need to pay. This isn’t prostitution.
This is CHARITY. Please donate your sperm.
Stop staring at the merchandise!
Just show me what you’ve got.
Are you good enough?
Are you beast enough?
Destroy me and fill me up.
Be savage.
Make a mess.
Bruise.
Now unload, withdraw and…
leave.
She was gorgeous in every way.
A beautiful woman no matter your mood
was always a sight to behold.
She paid no attention to anyone in the bar.
There was too much already cast upon her
for her to waste any upon another.
I just kept drinking cause after all
that’s what true drunks do.
But still I viewed the scene
and admired one of the Lord’s best damn creations.
The sharks swarmed and beautiful women
are seldom alone for long.
She had two dudes on either side of her in seconds.
She didn’t pay for shit after that.
You had to admire someone who could walk in a bar
not spend a dime
and catch a buzz.
Something tells me even Brad Pitt himself
would still have to pick up his own tab.
They sat there a while playing the game.
I knew neither would find success.
It went on a while till half the bar was gone.
The two guys tried every line and stupid joke
in the book.
Eventually she stood up
and simply walked out the door.
The two guys looked at one another
ordered yet another round.
One looked at the other, saying,
“Jesus Christ dude, did you fart!”
“Fuck you, it wasn’t me!”
The other one quickly replied.
It was just then it hit the two of them.
No matter how good a person looks,
Everyone’s shit stinks.
I’m excited to announce that I had my first chapbook published by Analog Submission Press! I’ve been writing since I was a little girl and it’s always been a creative outlet that has kept me sane throughout my tumultuous childhood – it has helped me grow through every rough patch life has thrown at me and has been therapy when I had none. Being involved with Horror Sleaze Trash has grown my confidence in my writing immensely and I owe so much to the influence of HST and our Editor-in-Chief, Arthur Graham. Not only has it helped to build my confidence in my writing, but it has encouraged me to be more honest and vulnerable – to worry more about being open about my experience and thoughts, instead of worrying about hurting feelings or being “politically correct”. I also had the opportunity to work with John D. Robinson in putting this little collection together. He helped me make the final selection of poems, format everything, worked with me on a title (which is something I’m so bad at – also, shout out to Angels and Airwaves, which, in the end, inspired the title with their song ‘Anomaly’), put the cover together for me, and got in contact with Marc Bruseke at ASP about publishing my poetry. John is an incredibly talented writer who I have immense respect for and whose work I love very much so to be able to work with him was such an honor for me.
If you’re interested in purchasing a copy of this collection, you can find it here. There is a limited run of 25, so if you miss out, send me a message and maybe I can get you a copy for cheaper or free in exchange for a review!
India LaPlace is a poet from the USA and is co-editor of the sensational Horror Sleaze Trash: This is her debut collection: Hold on tight.
Said John D. Robinson on ‘Sad Discoveries’: “It looks fantastic! The usual great job from Marc. Well done! And I think you should feel proud of this book – the best debut collection I have read in a long time. The poems are what we are made of: flesh, blood, bones, emotions. Raw and honest. These works don’t shy away where many would. I can’t wait to get a copy and thank you for your words. It was a pleasure to play a part. Keep writing and roll a fat one. I’ll raise many a glass tonight for Sad Discoveries!”
i opened the bag
but couldn’t find any produce
baby did you get any carrots
she’s wearing a trench coat
and she ignores my questions
i follow her into the living room
why didn’t you get any celery sticks baby
she stops and turns towards me
what about ass play baby, what
are we supposed to do now
i really wanted you to put
one of those japanese eggplants
in my hiney again
she unbuttons her trench coat
and duct taped to the inside is
bushels and bushels of bananas
a fruit bush for my fruit boy
she says
oh wow baby you’re the best I say
and then she gives me a banana split
The walk to work is often a horrible thing
As it always goes the same way, always to the
Same space but now not for much longer, three
More weeks and I’m gone for good. But
Today was different as I left early to grab a coffee;
A caffeine blast to help me out of my stoned
Stupour and get me through six long hours of
Friday night hell. The weed had me feeling all
Kinds of funny though as I walked out onto
Marine Parade and saw no traffic so took off
To check out the beach side of the street. It
Was then she appeared, off in the near-distance
But enough suggested to make me pick up my
Pace. Ahead my eyes on storks by this point she
Stopped and, clearly forgetting, the shortest of
Short skirts I’d seen in a very long time was all
Between her and a public exhibitionism charge as
She leant down to adjust her trainers and suddenly
There it was, a miracle on Marine Parade, a gorgeous
Pert arse encased in only a golden pair of the
Laciest panties and I suddenly realised that today
May just be a good day indeed.
Of course ten minutes into my shift at work any
Thought of that was dispelled as the first hen party
Laid seige to our wine fridge, clearing shelves of
Prosecco for their final blast of the single free life.
The day I split,
the audience didn’t notice.
I’ve mastered becoming invisible.
I crouched way down
into a cobwebbed corner of my mind.
I pictured her face and
I fucking did it. I split
in two.
We can still picture her face
if we try real hard
but it doesn’t make us sad or anxious anymore.
We just let the laugh track play.
It gets louder. And louder
and she runs faster because she’s not sure
what the fuck’s in
my hand.
“Show me that you can steal my heart”
She told me in a soft delicate voice.
So I did just that.
I cut out it out, grilled it, and I ate it.
Although to be honest the texture was rubbery
And the taste was frankly subpar at best.
Did I really kill her?
Fuck Yes I did!
Am I really guilty though?
Nope!
She really should have been far more clear on her instructions.
Oh well women can’t live with them can’t live without them.
Then again I suppose she didn’t live with me too long.
You’ve been married
For about half a year now
And no closer to happiness
Even the comfort the bottle brings
Is thwarted by the Mormonic dogma
That runs so rampant in your home state
I would have shared your birthday and your bed
Woken you with coffee and little kisses upon the cheek
California was always an option
You always had other options
So now you lay tortured
In your picket-fence purgatory
Sick to the skinny stomach
That will likely soon swell and distend
With the inaugural child
Which will further drain the life
From your chapped teat
And maybe I sit here
With only bitter chords for company
But I have my relative integrity
And you’ll never read this anyway
out toward black oblivion as if it were his wife
and he was seeing her for the last time. And after
her scales sparkled and she drowned, she dissolved
into the water and then evaporated into the clouds.
And then he remembered things in bright bursts like
the black stitches across his face like little railroads
the large box of oranges he threw at the girl running
away, small puddles of ice cream everywhere. And when
the sunlight struck her, burning through her wetness,
she spent days dying on repeat and then coming back to life.
And then he became scared of these memories
and drifted off to sleep. And then when
she came back from her multiple deaths,
she clawed onto a place in a dream with
luscious green everywhere, lovely rivers
running, five-story watermelons to run
in circles around. And in his sleep
he saw many pretty girls and these
many pretty girls danced for him,
like majestic trees swaying but then
all stop to vomit gold and jewels,
everything becomes like a kaleidoscope,
and he dies and goes to Heaven. And then
she got a chainsaw and carved a cave
into the watermelon to climb into and some
of the pink-red innards collapse and she
dies and goes to Heaven. And when in Heaven
he starts to sing like he never knew he could.
He starts to dance like gravity does not exist.
He starts to feel a boundless love for everything
that he has never felt comfortable with before.
And there, in heaven with watermelon juice still
fresh and sticky all over her, she is overwhelmed
and starts to sob. And there in Heaven she gets
sent elsewhere and she realizes that her existence
will consist of falling from the sky, puddling, and
evaporation, forever, doomed to be eternal rain.
And there, in Heaven, he realizes he is not in Heaven at all,
he is at a rave.
