Parker jamieson ~ Smutty Abominations’

by Horror Sleaze Trash on September 23, 2017

 I work at the Marilla cemetery in Marilla, NY. I also work at Erie Community College as the poetry editor for Mutata Re Literary journal. 

  – 3rd person:  Parker jamieson looks at the night sky upside down, searching for a small village from an old dream he had. He listen to music that froms from the thoughts in his head, wondering if it l’d be a good sound track to die too. he laughs when writing in 3rd person, who cares though – it’s like a cigerattre, it must be smoked. hes probably smoking right now. Parker’s probably going mad.




Little red riding stops by each day to give me a blowjob


It’s usually 12pm

When God spits sun

In cardboard boxes

Upon the happy trail

That ends

At my cabin.

She nurses my swollen boil-

ing point

as exorcisms,

With cottonmouth sleaze.


She’s frightened by Pan

Who hides in the shed –

By all his looks,

And the ticks that snuggle

Below his epidermis.


She sounds like a little girl

Talking bubbles with father.

I know nothing else about her

She comes, then leaves.

We have no history.

Found her rubbing herself one day

On the stump were Pan sits

When he’s grumpy

Or hunting wolves.


“I’m surrounded by so many ladies”

She said “I’m on my way to grannies;

I want this slab to quit sweating”- feigning

She left her legs open.

Since that spur

she knocks each day.

Making it only

Right inside the door.

She’s the girl who smiles when you cum

On her face.






All the STDs between us keep us looking sexy


I imagine Jayne Mansfield’s body decaying like a flower

Each time your legs are spread apart,


It makes me smile that smile I have while shitting a tricky shit,

And the counterfeit air which tastes like make-up or tacky wine


Is a cover-up to take us boldly go where any cock has thrusted it’s past

And break a hundred memories to charcoal sketching’s


Of some American fruit, like Florida’s oranges, black and pulpy.

I also imagine an ugly proverb from the mouth of a Christian pube


Falling onto my toilet the way he tells me about it,

But I was only raised on blasphemes so I don’t understand his jargons;

      I was raised like bread in some yellow-lit cottage


And I could smell her

Like a package of fresh yeast and stark like the taste of Marilyn Monroe’s


Beer farts while posing naked in some nameless bedroom – Cameras never capture the smell.

And I was laughing while the devil came to Buffalo

      To smoke his Bethlehem steel pipe


And stayed in the Hyatt and laughed as I had laughed, and put on

His shades to hide his toxic eyes in spell-casted cloaks appearing Layne Staley-like


And joke of prayers on football fields of Hail Marys that failed      

To score with the nun who rubs her cunt each Friday


So no one could smell it through lent’s fish frys.

And all the STDs between us keep us looking sexy,

Because that’s the way that death creates itself;


The way that all my dreams piss something Luciferian,

Like a watery flame which is totally false, unless you belch a patch of gasoline,

      Every-time it’s like a sacred tear I can’t help but cum.







Your caught in a ball of fucking

and cigeratte addiction

cause you love

Like prayer when i jerkoff.

even satan

knows you are the best 

at what you’re doing 






I hope…

like milkshakes at 2:20

at dennys.

i hope you like it,

like your cracking

Matryoshka doll

giving way to insanity.

I hope you like it in hell.

cause the nuns are whores

in heaven, and they need practice,





5) The butcher you met in a dream

His playdough sandwich smells

like chubby ‘BIG MAC’ b.o.

I’m getting angry at this city

for locking the bathroom doors.

the butcher you met in dreamland

is president lawsuit.

his eyes like buttons/Brooches.

you wait… they’ll never tarnish.

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.




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John Grey

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John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in the Tau, Studio One and Columbia Review with work upcoming in Naugatuck River Review, Examined Life Journal and Midwest Quarterly.       THE MONSTER SNACKING The creatures that wallow in the saliva pool of her jaw don’t just pleasure her taste buds but cling […]

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