Ross Vassilev

by Horror Sleaze Trash on November 28, 2014


Ross Vassilev is a born loser and a poet. He’s from Bulgaria but lives in Ohio now?!? You can read more of his poems at

lights out

typing away into the darkness
the window is open
the moon hides her face in shame
and the ghosts of Murder, Inc.
still haunt the streets of New York

millions of Bolsheviks died
fighting the Nazis

I watch Britney Spears
shaking her big white ass
on YouTube

the only monster under the bed
is my own memories

I tell Moloch to rise up
and smite the world

a siren screams into the night

I recall Mickey Rourke
slaughtering all those people
in Angel Heart
and the first lezzie video
I ever saw

I guess my only revenge
is murders on the local news
fatal car accidents
and flesh-eating bacteria
in swimming holes

the moon flashes a sly
white smile

I beg the Buddha’s forgiveness
and ask him to teach me
about forgetting.



some might say …

that insanity is a kind of freedom
but I remember it as a prison
my mind was both inmate and jailer
and the windows let in only
a terrible sun
I wondered how it had come to this state
and realized that, yes
hell is other people
or, to put it another way
most people are shit

I remember a boy (not me)
who stuck needles into his arms
at school every day—
if you’d known his family
you’d understand—

perhaps the best thing,
as some suggest,
would be
to just start killing people
but that’s still a kind of giving up
and I remember one of the few friends
I had
his name was Randy
and everybody was afraid of him
and I remember what he often said
to me and anyone else who was around:

fuck everybody.



Tim Tobin

by Horror Sleaze Trash on November 27, 2014


Mr. Tobin holds a degree in mathematics from LaSalle University and is retired from L-3 Communications. His work appears in Kind of a Hurricane Press, Grey Wolfe Press, In Parentheses, River Poets Journal, Static Movement, Cruentus Libri Press, The Speculative Edge, Rainstorm Press, Twisted Dreams, The Rusty Nail, Whortleberry Press and various websites and ezines including Yellow Mama. Follow him on Twitter @TimTobin43.


Daddy, Daddy, Candy Eater

A woman she never knew named her Candy. A father she loathed tasted the candy, often.

She wrote Candace on her job application but her real name stuck. She was Candy to the office, especially to the men, And those men sampled the candy too, often.

McMillan, Murphy and Collins, attorneys at law, enjoyed candy. Candy endured, not enjoyed, the attention, the gifts, the flowers, the sex. Every man who penetrated her smelled like her father, tasted like his cigarettes and beer, reeked of his sweat.

Candy murmured lies and pocketed the cash. Each month she examined her brokerage statement and thought to herself, “I’m a slut but a rich one. Thanks Daddy.”

Mr. Gregory Solomon, Vice President of Finance, took her to dinner, a show and then to bed. On her way out he patted her on the rump and put an envelope into her hand. She kissed his bald head, fondled him a last time and started for home.

Candy never spent the night with the candy eaters. Her father, now a decrepit old man, needed her help bathing, shitting, and eating. He still loved candy, now the chocolate kind.

Candy stopped in a convenience store and bought a box of chocolate cherries, her father’s favorite. The clerk commented on how much of it she bought. Candy smiled her sweet smile at him while she paid.

The dark house surprised her when she pulled into the driveway. “Maybe the old man’s asleep,” she thought. She listened in the dark to the quiet of the house. “Eerie,” she said aloud. “I should hear him snoring.”

Candy thought perhaps the old man died. “Oh no,” she cried. “Not yet!” She raced to his room and flung open the door into an empty room with a made bed.

“He never goes out. Where could he be?”

Candy sat on her father’s bed and let the memories chew at her soul. She sat until the hatred flared and devoured her reason. She made her way to the kitchen and rummaged under the sink for a surgical mask. She tucked the chocolate cherries under her arm and descended into the blackness.

Candy fumbled with the light switch at the bottom of the basement stairs. She reminded herself to empty the trash can loaded with empty candy boxes. With the surgical mask fit snugly over her nose and mouth, she unbolted the door to the spare room.

Even with the mask, the odor of urine, feces, vomit and decay overwhelmed her. A harsh moan drifted into her ears. She held her breath but forced her closed eyes to open when she switched on the dim bulb.

A festering mass of flesh greeted her. Her father lay in own waste chained to the wall. Dozens of boxes of chocolate cherries littered the floor. “Look Dad, I brought you dinner,” she said.

The old man ripped open the box and stuffed a handful of the candies into a toothless mouth.

The stench from his mouth made her gag.

“Dad, Dad! We really have to get you to a dentist. Your teeth are awful. You eat far too much candy.”

“And while we’re at it, we’ll get a dermatologist to check the acne on your face and those puss balls on your skin.”

“Now I‘ll bet you‘d like to listen to a kid’s song, OK? I know just the one.”

Daddy, Daddy, Candy eater, had a daughter and couldn’t ……..”

Ben John Smith ~ Two Poems

November 25, 2014

Ben John  Smith is the EIC of Horror Sleaze Trash. He lives at home in Melbourne with his wife, 2 cats and the ever haunting anxiety that he is a self absorbed wank asshole. — “Men-stration”   During our photo shoot You read “How to get a fuck”   so loud my that neighbor the […]

Read the full article →

Daryl Hall

November 24, 2014

I am Daryl Hall, a young writer of poetry and prose from Staffordshire England, what ever any of that means. I turned to writing awhile ago to try to get some clarity from the unreliable light of reality. I pore in what i see and hope that something which makes sense flouts to the top. […]

Read the full article →

Ben John Smith – “I am woman, hear me ROAR”

November 22, 2014

This is my reply to poet and writer Koraly video “how to get a fuck” video launched last night at Polyester Books.

Read the full article →

November 19, 2014

This is on this FRIDAY! If you make ONE poetry reading in a whole year, i PROMISE you this is the one, at polyester books, i PROMISE this is going to be a good night! Guarantee. If you dont have a good time, i will buy you brunch.

Read the full article →