Doug J Robbins

by Horror Sleaze Trash on February 21, 2017

 
I am a contributing author to the anthology 100 Voices. I also wrote a short script that is being turned into a short film called Past Reel. 
 
 
 
 
Taboo
  Mirror of society
   Interesting concept
    When I think of modern society in the USA, I want to vomit
      Ken dolls sing their meaningless songs
        And squeaky clean girls pretend to be bad
           They gyrate and talk about kissing the wrong boy
             That woe is me crap
                Has got to go
                  Don’t say nigger
                   Brown people say that to each other while they’re blasting each other
                    Or shooting cops
                     Misplaced anger is the worst
                      The whites should understand, black people feel the cops are after them
                      PC world
                       Don’t say faggot
                        Why?
                        They talk funny
                         Who are aids more prevalent among?
                          Black women or gay men?
                         Learned that shit in college
                             Most people miss out when they don’t write poetry
                              There isn’t anything you can’t write
                               I’m tired of the Browns losing
                               Tired of everyone caring now
                                That’s the thing
                                 Back to the faggots
                                Why now?
                                  As a kid, faggots were to be feared
                                   Something was wrong with them
                                    No parent wanted their kid to be one
I don’t think this is real kindness
Fat shaming
Slut shaming
Calling faggots, faggots,
Why is it not okay now?
Is it genuine kindness? Warmth?
A new found tolerance?
I don’t believe that.
It’s arrogance.
The current generation wants to be known as the generation who suddenly
Ended hate
They’ve escalated
What’s worse, is how the current generation
Plays plastic music with no real
Soul
PG 13 horror movies
Castrated garbage
He with the pen wins
Don’t like that, feminists?
Blow me
I won’t cower or falter to you
He with the pen wins
I have a voice
I use it
If you don’t put pen to paper, you don’t have a voice
Don’t complain
 
 

Pablo D’Stair

by Horror Sleaze Trash on February 20, 2017

 
Pablo D’Stair is a poet, novelist, essayist, interview, and filmmaker. He works a day job, he writes and films things, he runs the Art House Press (KUBOA)–but none of that is as interesting as a sentence makes it sound. If one is keen, this is a good place to start stalking: https://pdstair.wordpress.com/
 
 
 
 
 
 

an old song for wrong women

 

I

 

ladies, more stone than mountains and older than poison

ladies, more stone than mountains and ugly as glasses of wine

ladies, without penance or desire for penitence

ladies, prostrate broken animals nobody named

 

ladies, don’t need hands but have them

ladies, food not touched by dead dogs

ladies, don’t need curtains but nail them in place just because

 

remember the mirror glass actually is empty

no more no less for you in it

and dogs will go lap up at their vomit and

it’s fascinating when it’s dogs that go do it

remember the precious things siblings of precious things

daughters of precious things ancient as bad blood

 

ladies, more stone than mountains, greyer than lost teeth

ladies, more stone than mountains, sour as daisies they’ve stepped on

ladies, salamander seventeen skeleton skunk

ladies, graceless as water undrunk

 

ladies, read books and burn them forget them and laugh

ladies, undug up but also not left there

ladies, used colors of unvacuumed rugs

 

 

 

 

II

 

just when there’s rooms we write songs about rooms we write

songs about rooms when we find them

when there are holes through the window from stones flung from

outside and when there’s holes in the floors from feet through them

the plain night was furious and needn’t know why or at what

or that it would only last as long as the night

the night thinks it only has the left side of its face

and really I think the same

I think its pockets are full up with worthless worthless worthless

but that it would be worthless if it empties them

her words are sickly just the parts of old alphabets

we let die and then don’t even look at

her idea of a night sky is a song she doesn’t singalong

her idea of a night sky is her hair in her mouth and

cabinets cabinets cabinets

the cinema’s sour, a week old stomachache, but she covets

it like it’s all strong tongue and forearms to the sides of

her face

but paste that tear of her where you will paste that torn

of her wherever paste that rip of her in corridors in

kitchen drawers paste that break of her wherever

she’s hard and soft, she’s the inside and out of a

chair

she’s moor she’s moss, the lock with the wrong key

stuck in it

and why bother dressing her why’s she bothering with

dressing she’s just a street we didn’t pave because

we don’t ever walk that way, she’s a garden lot

we never dug

why bother telling her when she’ll just take what

shape she feels and not even bother to know

what shape that’s named

 

 

 

 

 

III

 

paint colored cattle

words colored claws

snow colored sand

we’ve never seen our own shirts

 

telephone colored store floor

scarf colored old window

cloud colored cemetery soil colored

purple

 

 

 

IIII

 

ladies, flat kitchen tile, neckties unnoosed

ladies, wet hands, pictures unlooked

ladies, hand on our thighs and our backs turned behind us

ladies, bread coffee candy coffee bread coffee clay

ladies, paperless imbecile cinema ticket

ladies, writingless scribbleless looks in their eyes

 

 

 

 

V

 

you sure made a knife but got nothing to cleave

I’d say slit the world and swallow it

but we both know nothing to fill you’s in there

and yes Christ it seems you’re all done pretending

you shouldn’t take your wine like that

it shows how much you’re the thing that killed someone

 

you can’t kiss curtly or catastrophe

and what are your lips for if not to be someplace to fall from

thought I knew the gall you were

the way you’d burn it down

until you burned it down

 

you’d love me to name you everything

even a crawl I’ve never crawled and never’ll crawl

you’d love to give me some

slut cold hisses

and still be no slut

just an invisible missus

 

you’d love to be tacks breaking thumbs pushing

down on them

you’d love to be corpses with rivers around

 

 

 

 

VI

 

you needn’t worry, no one’s looking

you’re lovely enough but more than lovely you’re

a lost lost sock

even if doors opened to you and even if you were

through them and even if clever folks were waiting

you’re something less than

a cramp in your jaw

you’re terrified and so paint paints

you’re terrified and so joke jokes

you’re terrified and so empty empties

you’re terrified and so rope ropes

you’re terrified and so wall walls

you’re terrified and so just justs

you’re terrified and so loose looses

you’re terrified and so rust rusts

you’re terrified and so pencil pencils

you’re terrified and so pen pens

you’re terrified and so letter letters

you’re terrified and so bend bends

you’re terrified and so forget forgets

you’re terrified and so flat flats

you’re terrified and so triangle triangles

you’re terrified and so fifteen fifteens

you’re terrified and so disease diseases

you’re terrified and so key keys

you’re terrified and so put something put somethings

you’re terrified and so underneath underneaths

eyelashes are bird beaks the things that you stick them

through

you’re watching so closely how nobody wants you

a wrong day in the week

a mislabeled spice

cold rum

piece of ice on a cankersore

 

 

 

 

VII

 

mornings mostly growling mostly what they’re for

growling closing opening remembering growling growl

lines, the mouth

the leaving the arriving

clothing is your preferred skin

you blush wrong brown

blush cinnamon

curse color call color kill

two o’clock nearly nothing

the sound it makes nearly never

three o’clock, phony prerecorded, listen back

you cauterize

you doorknob,

car key, memorize me

any of it never again

comma, period left bleeding out

period, comma stitched shut wrong

 

 

 

 

 

VIII

 

you’re the only thing to put your teeth to pluck your tongue

from after

your sugar, sap, your saffron

 

something different bloody different dread something

different liar leper

 

see that field there lay inert

the only flake of world not spinning

 

see that kitten kick it jail it jar it

wear it

the only cat not nothing but swallowed whole

 

see that rapture, read it, wretched

rape the libraries and gut the

violins

 

 

 

 

VIIII

 

here’s a face, tonight another, tonight another two

and here’s a leer and here’s a

faucet and here’s some sweat to wash from you

 

believe in cures the way you do in

curses the way you’re only told about

oceans you neither understand nor you traverse

and call out to Mama

and call out to crooks

and call out to stolen from other Mama looks

and call after everyone else got no voice

call after your voice isn’t a thing but

frayed rope and you’ve

no desire to even fall asleep to her anymore

that girl that you loved well your love

never loved her

because you might not be nothing but

you’re also not enough

 

hey split a finger bone

clean your broke hand with your spit

drink this water you left out and know bugs’ve bred in

hey you’re a Chopin, a vision

a pirouette

but you’ve forgotten to be anything but

something that I’ve left

 

what a calloused heel what a coin what cartoon

what blood from a nose what

sounds you make when you’re flirting

what a chain what a bellow what a loaf grown

hard and unbitten

 

 

 

 

X

 

ladies, more stone than mountains, indifferent as dusk

ladies more stone than mountains, have to have not

ladies, strawberry drunken, hands dry from soap

ladies, wasps in the walls, telephone hung up

 

ladies, feel wire around them wire around

ladies, smile, car exhaust, mailbox unlocked

ladies, return to every place that they forgot

 

remember you won’t find stories in history just

history, corpses, the shit they leak, horseflies

and people will dress like words they read describing nothing

that ever was or even should be

remember discarded things mothers of discarded things

the dolls of discarded things so gone that we can’t dream them

 

ladies, more stone than mountains, prying at other people’s shadows

ladies, more stone than mountains, wailing little children’s peals

ladies, new legs and skin thin over them, veins brandy veins good hard knots

ladies, arched backs blunt as photographs, parcels and church steps

 

ladies, kiss fingers, bite fingertips, touch me with toes

ladies, consistent as unpeddled bicycle wheels

ladies, mules and men and maggots, mules and men and moans

 

 

LUNA LOVE

February 19, 2017

  LUNA LOVE is a pen name. She is a southern gal, now living in the great Atlantic north east. Who’s writing tends to be on the erotic side. Luna loves music and nature, sometimes incorporating them into her work. Additional work may be found on https://deepundergroundpoetry.com/poets/LunaLove6963/ and  https://boyslutmagazine.com/tag/luna-love/   —   Addicted to Your Punishment  Original sin   […]

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WP Newnham

February 17, 2017

W<J>P Newnham Is the winner of the 2016 The Lifted Brow experimental non-fiction prize with numerous short stories published in ‘Nocturnal Submissions’, ‘Overland’, ‘The Lifted Brow’, ‘Meanjin’, Westerly and Horror Sleaze Trash [to name but a few]. His short story Merry-Crack-Mass has been published by InShort Publishing as a ‘pocket book’: http://www.inshortpublishing.com/shop1/uncategorized/merry-crack-mass/. 2 of his […]

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Beau Johnson

February 17, 2017

Beau Johnson has been published before, usually on the darker side of town.  Besides Nikki and Paulo and Jack’s tattoo episode, he enjoys Lost almost as much as Breaking Bad.       BRAND NEW WORLD   First there was sound; after sound, light. And it hadn’t realized it could not hear until it did; […]

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All The Feral Dogs of Los Angeles

February 15, 2017

Benjamin Blake Benjamin Blake was born in the July of 1985, and grew up in the small town of Eltham, New Zealand. Blake spent time in Southern California several years back, and fell in love with Los Angeles whilst he bummed around, drank, and smoked too many packs of Camel Lights. After spending a night […]

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