Michael Faun

by Horror Sleaze Trash on September 20, 2017

Michael Faun writes erotic horror and exploitation fiction. His books include Black Heart Metal Monster, Deep Invaders #3, X-haustpipe X-tasy #X, Cannibal Island, SS Death Simulation, HÆX, Drugula, Gillian’s Marsh, Neon Golgotha and Pulp Junk, published via Dynatox Ministries, MorbidbookS, and Electric Pentacle Press. He lives with his wife and daughter in Lincopia, Sweden, where he fuels his drug-addled brain with doom metal and underground comix.




Kult of Bukkake


Turbid globs of wiry goo,
Dribbles from her glued eyes.
White stalactites dribbles from her pointy nose

She is a cavern in flesh, for sexual explorers.
Off-white frosting on the human cake
The kult stood gathered in a circle,
To watch her slowly melt away
With the tidal jizz.




by Horror Sleaze Trash on September 18, 2017


(An account of a person’s life written by that person)

The Truth is often Contextual


As far back as I can remember I was drawing. I grew up in the suburbs of Toronto where I fulfilled my obligations as a juvenile delinquent, the details of which are on record lost in some dark moldy basement.

Scholastic History;

Wexford C.I. Visual Arts Program

O.C.A. Foundation Year

George Brown Chef Program

Capilano College Classical Animation Program

Toronto School of Art, various classes

I draw; write, sculpt, carve and paint my way through life and have had my successes and defeats. Art chose me, it’s my life, blood and guts, and I couldn’t stop if I wanted to. People will either love my work or hate it, it’s part of my job to make sure that they don’t ignore it.




The Invitation

Life isn’t subject to your needs and aspirations, whether you’re on top gliding over problems or tumbling beneath the waves, the choice isn’t yours. You’re given an assembly of tenuous instructions, most of them being wrong, too cryptic, or just completely useless.

We do have choice; however the options are usually of the lesser evils or desires, minimalizing whatever open doors we think we may have.

You can’t compare sufferings and as we walk blindly through our lives we’re expected to choose from obsolete information and lies written by men about deities, that don’t exist. To frighten people out of their wages, a propaganda machine fueled by the poor.      

Consider your time as an invitation to greatest party in the universe, one were the most beautiful guest comes back home with you, only to find them dead when you wake, from an over-dose of smack, jelly beans and no explanation for the cops.

Everything is twofold, Ying and Yang, the Destructor and the Destroyed, the Conquistadors and the slaughter that followed, Aztec blood still pooling in the jungle, Native children stolen from their families and put into Christian schools for the beating and rape in the name of god.

We’re curious animals, aside from being so parasitic we do have legacies of moral good as well, just because I can’t think of any doesn’t mean there not written somewhere.

My intention isn’t to point fingers; I myself have an energy of compassion and cruelty that surrounds me. I choose from which will better my life. Unfortunately, sometimes I don’t act with moral judgement; I do what I can to get out of whatever fix I’ve tied myself up in.

When I look at this invitation in the candlelight I begin to realize that the script is written in the blood from those who died before me, and the parchment; a tanned hide from the tortured and the meek.







I woke to the shivering realization that I forgot to take my pills the night before, an ever growing self-destructive routine I’ve slipped into. As it goes, the length of my room, the distance between my bed and my pills becomes insurmountable in my inflicted state of mind.

I’ve been in this fucking room many days and nights, I’m not sure exactly how long as I’ve burned my calendar in hopes that the pain from the flames on my fingers would distract that vengeful obsessive sick organ that some call a mind. Cutting myself had lost its potency days ago, besides I was running out of space on the non-lethal areas of my skin.

A cool city breeze was coming in through the open window, tragically masked by the stench of the room and my soiled body. I pissed out the window and shit in a bucket. Everything I owned was on the floor forming a solid mass, developing a toxic ecosystem of mold spores and even what looked like grass growing close to the walls; it would all have to be burned eventually. Before crawling into my usual fetal position I turned on the tube and layered myself in blankets which helped with the sores that were forming on my skin. There are different kinds of pain, some help, some, not so much.   

I had destroyed the phone and my alarm clock the day before in a drunken rage for no good reason at all. I had acquired a good sum of booze, usually the sickness comes without warning. However, as I get older, signs appear before the abyss has me by the balls. This sign shown above the liquor store.

I grabbed some pills and bourbon and drifted into a midway between sleep and wakefulness, I don’t know for how long but from what I saw, revived as I could be under these conditions, caused me some concern.

It was a “MONKEY INSURRECTION”. I’ve heard of this before from books and drunken stories from ostracized old men in seedy bars. I knew it would inevitably swing my way but you’re never really prepared, you’re never quite sure that you believe.

Just to be clear. I’m crazy, I take pills, or rather I’m prescribed pills, it’s all documented and I have many friends and professionals who will stand by this truth. It is also true that I’ve taken large quantities of acid, mushrooms, pcp, ecstasy, cocaine, grass and every type or flavor of alcohol. I suffer from bi-polar disorder, o.c.d., a.d.h.d., a.d.d., depression and occasional thoughts of suicide.

I agree that in light of these confessions I may have revealed myself as an undependable source or correspondent but I assure you that what happened really happened.

 After a quick shot of bourbon I began to open my eyes which was difficult as they were stuck shut, I felt like a pig shat in my head and the noise was driving spears into it from all angles. I began to become more alert, having a huge ball of monkey shit smacking me dead center on the face. Pissed off and wiping my eyes I saw that there were several monkeys that had chewed they’re way through the walls and ceiling, they obviously had the upper hand. I couldn’t imagine what they wanted, what’s worse; I didn’t believe that they did either.

I watched as shit flew across the room and whatever hadn’t already been destroyed was being destroyed. I hadn’t been able to discern there numbers, they were moving too fast for my blurred vision. I did notice that a few were trying to eat my television which I was not going to permit, however, what kind of retaliation could I possibly unleash?

I had a large cash of knives, swords, machetes and such (some call it paranoia some call it being prepared). I even had a cross-bow but after the first shot they could be all over me in a flash of teeth and claws, using the blades would definitely end up in a fierce blood bath besides they could probably use them against me. Yes, I was definitely fucked. I made myself into the smallest ball I could at the corner of my bed and pulled my soiled sheets around me, laying as still as I could.

Things weren’t going to be the same in the aftermath but wasn’t  that what I wanted, what I was craving, a new spark, a fire under my ass, a meaning, some driving force leading me to a new beginning. Maybe I was destined to be brought down in a monkey insurrection. I’ve tasted death so sweet I’d crawl towards it hands and knees, my savior, my benevolent stranger, my vaccine. I’ve been chasing this ghost all my life. People don’t realize what it’s like when your own mind is in the throes of battle against itself, to fantasize about the end with no want to walk through the promise land but to step over the precipice into the abyss, into nothingness. Gods don’t get me off and religion is unintelligible marks scratched into a bloody wall centuries old and rotten.

Will I get sicker? Am I fighting to live or living to die? I think about suicide on a regular basis, I’ve never tried because I believe I’d fuck it up and one thing worse than having a mental illness is being hospitalized with a mental illness.

It’s hard to describe the horror I feel when the realization that things won’t get better begins to rise, to boil over, to consume. And things won’t get any better, the pills suppress the illness but they don’t release me. There’s only one release. I can’t say how many different pills I’ve tried, prescribed or recreational but I’ll say this; if there is a god and I have a chance to meet him, I’ll sack him between the legs and stab him in the neck.

Thanks for the life you dangled in front of my eye’s

For the sorrow that never leaves

For misleading me down the path of dirt and dust

For giving me faulty parts

For giving me a soul that anguishes for death

Murder and rockets, the peaks I’ll never summit. I’m watching you through my mind’s eye, that’s how close I’ll come to finding myself amongst all this garbage.

The belief in Deities is one thing; being trapped in a room with monkeys going ballistic is another and certainly more pressing. Maybe if I only had some bananas or dynamite I could end this chaos (the one in my mind as well as the monkeys). It would leave a hell of a mess, a fine civilized way to go. I thought of overdosing, drinking myself to death is too expensive, I’d let these monkeys tear me apart but I won’t give them the satisfaction.

It seems as though the monkeys are leaving, there crawling back through the holes they made, nothings left standing and while I was distracted by my melancholy they did eat my fucking T.V.(FUCKERS). As the last of the monkeys made their way back through the walls and ceiling the holes closed up behind them leaving no signs of their presence, even the state of my room could be attributed to one of my rages, although the condition of the T.V. could be cause for question. So this is how it goes, every day they come, every day the “monkey insurrection “seems realer than real. Maybe it is, maybe I’m just trying to exit, save up for that final ticket out of here.     




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