Robert Vogt

by Horror Sleaze Trash on October 16, 2017

Robert Vogt used to work in a maintenance department at a prestigious art university in the western part of the U.S. He thought he hated that job. Now he is an English teacher in Taiwan. He hates teaching English so much that he isn’t allowed to have sharp objects in his apartment (let the reader understand). He publishes almost exclusively at steemit where he sometimes earns a meager pittance for his work.



Somewhere Over Hunan or Guangdong, P.R.C.


“AH…! AH…! AH…! AH…! AHHHH…! AHHHH…! AHHHH…!” I had been screaming. “AH…! AH…! AH! AH…! AHHHH…! AHHHH…! AHHHH…! AHHHH…! AHHHH…! AHHHH…!” I don’t know how long that went on seemed interminable. Could have been fifteen minutes or ten hours, clueless on that.

I had woken up with a severe rice liquor related headache/hangover for the tenth day in a row and that along with all of the other frustrations put me into a bad state. Those frustrations included—but were not limited to—instances of locals calling me a pig, locals calling me a foreign dog, locals calling me a foreign devil, students calling me an American pig.

For fuck’s sake then a construction worker from a building site next to the foreign teachers’ dorm at my university where I live on the first floor stuck his hand blindly through my window between the iron security bars past curtains and started clutching haphazardly around the top of my desk. If only I, at that moment, had my meat-cleaver nearby, there would be a Chinese construction worker out there in the burgh I’ve been dwelling in walking around with a stub for a right hand.

They had called the authorities.

First the cops came. The screaming didn’t stop so then a few orderlies dressed in what once were white hospital aprons showed up. The aprons’ whiteness had given way to dinginess, somewhat tan in color. It was as if the orderlies had been rolling around in the dust regularly after their shift ended but when the aprons were given their monthly washing the dust left an immersive stain.

The foreign teacher finally lost it, he went off his rocker.

The white suits sedated me a little, but after they left I got up and took a handful of Zopiclone. Not for self destruction but in an effort at subduing the throbbing in my skull.


I just woke up, I’m on a plane. Remember nothing about boarding it. Getting concerned looks from stewardesses. And a senior flight attendant is now poking his head into coach staring sternly at me.



Elliot Ian Ross

by Horror Sleaze Trash on October 14, 2017

*Hallelujah Chorus plays* Elliot Ian Ross was born to a rockstar and a stripper in Omaha, Nebraska, so naturally his forté is trash. He still lives in Omaha, Nebraska, and moonlights as a stripping rockstar. He writes the Schlock & Gore column at and interviews DIY champions of horror and the like under the moniker of “Rat”.
YOu are thE dog in this poem and you sAy arf!
I built a shrine to you
out of all of the dogs I ever hit with my car
I wear corrective lenses.
I’m toasting you with absinthe
I made in my garage.
I laid in the street while wolves charged the house.
You are everything. Eat me,
you fucking retard.
kick the bitch steal her puppies and drown them in the crick smoke crack rocks from a dried out frog boxcar knock-out kid you did your mummy proud all star hell yeah I’m the fuckin man a feathered flock of führers takes wing raining sheet after sheet of chiffon shit across my spit and sawdust body open wide bomb mom and pop caps in cops pow pow needle blood stuck recite the incantation: Heil Heil Heil! Hitler was a bird! Satan and Gabriel rolling in the hay, WAIT!!! You forgot your lifeless sack of fur,
Everything I say with this frog to my lips is true–
God is a bitch.
Hitler was a bird.
Rejected Blurbs for Jeff O’Brien’s New Book, “The Night Manager.”

I don’t know if O’Brien’s pen is worth shit if there aren’t big boobies involved, but if there are you better hold onto your ass.

Jeff O’Brien made America great again, and all it took was whatever the fuck this book is about. 
If I had a nickel for every time I read and re-read The Night Manager, I would have no nickels. But Jeff is a really nice guy, some say, so you should definitely read this book.
If O’Brien can make a masterpiece out of discarded Frankenhooker plot angles and shitty punk music, then just imagine what he can do with nights. And managers!
If Jeffrey Higgins O’Brien is as passionate about writing as he is about corncob pipes, then this book is definitely a doozy. IF.
Jeff “Feet for Hands” O’Brien has done the unthinkable, and written another book when we all expected him to be dead by now.
“I’m Feeling Pretty Good Today”
I get this way, sometimes
after a lowtide
when the waves
wash in the seratonin like the
happy crabs on so many beaches
like i could paint the perfect blizzard landscape
with my swollen purple guy
or crack the skull of my enemy
with my heavy tumescence
like ringing the fucking liberty bell
I’d like to free you from your pain
here’s my cock
like when the southern girl offers you “swate tay” and you’ve fallen in love and you’re married, it’s
I drive to work
That song comes on
my veins are sparkling
I work at work
its all so easy
it all makes sense
I drive home from work
that song comes on
My dick is enormous
its hard
these afternoons
noone has time for me
noone thinks about me
but right now, I’m good
a blizzard is coming.

John Patrick Robbins

October 13, 2017

John Patrick Robbins is a barroom poet and fulltime drinker and professional smartass who’s work has been published with Inbetween Hangovers ,Your One Phone call and can read at Hello Poetry and a few bathroom walls inbetween. My words like my thoughts are always unflitred .     Splat   I was hangover and […]

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Beau Johnson

October 10, 2017

Beau Johnson has been published before, always on the darker side of town. He resides there, lurking in the shadows, awaiting to strike. This does not mean he lacks empathy. Far from it in fact. He who lacks empathy is truly not human. And if Beau is anything, it’s human. Fallible to his core. He […]

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Chris Butler

October 8, 2017

Chris Butler is an anorexic starving artist.     Reckless Abandon   I paper cut webs between my fingers, shoot intravenous ink into my hair stare at the epileptic screen forever, knuckles become carpel tunneled under   the weight of this page.         Sloppy Seconds   Leftovers never taste better the day […]

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Benjamin Blake

October 5, 2017

Benjamin Blake was born in the July of 1985, and grew up in the small town of Eltham, New Zealand. He is the author of the novel, The Devil’s Children, the poetry and prose collections, A Prayer for Late October, Southpaw Nights, Reciting Shakespeare with the Dead, and Standing on the Threshold of Madness, as well as the forthcoming split, All the Feral […]

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