Adam Hazell

by Horror Sleaze Trash on August 31, 2011


My cousin used to always sneak me horror movies to watch when I was around seven or eight years old. I would always have to rewind the tape, seeing flashes of blood and nudity whiz past. Usually I was caught before I could get to the beginning. The shame and curiosity was overwhelming. This is what forged who I came to be. This is all I write about.

A Flicker across the Lens

I have been mistaken for a clown happily frolicking upside down. Children laugh and then children scream. My bed, by the window, is too close to the street but it’s nailed to the floor on doctor’s advice. And it’s fucking with the flow. So I dish up another serving of sour whiskey and rice because I’ve got nothing to do but play games with my tolerance and talk about talking, occasionally observing. Sometimes I wish I could get out…(this is inspired by my prescription) but outside my door stands a giant with a leaking head and behind him lies an endless distance filled with senseless letters. It never gets to me much at all really though. There are plenty of reasons to stay indoors: It’s shocking, the filth they put in the air. Breathe too much and you get sick, don’t breath enough and you pass out – giving them enough time to empty your wallet and leave you with nothing but a receipt for two hydrotherapy lessons. No I better not take my chances out there. I did it once and they tried to capture me on film but I was just a flicker across the lens. Caught a limp running up the street. Home is where your lungs are. That’s why all the homeless exhale.

Memory vs Me

I am an avid book collector and I waste years inhaling the asbestos of 3rd hand bookshops. There is a time transcending my boozy-memory where I go to Melbourne and get lost on a tram to outer suburbia. Find a small area of market stalls that deny the physics of construction. A suspended cloth waves around me as those sets of rotting shelves engulf all vision. They have a basement where one can browse through too, tantalizing me with the possibility of a real golden find. I glance at a few cracked spines and when I don’t find something I am not disappointed because as I leave the store I notice that I am surrounded by even more of those rough shelters housing discoveries. Then I wake up, no longer walking those pebble strewn paths frenzied between shops. God, it’s real. I just have to think back real hard…I just have to lay off the substances for a while.

Auditioning for French Films

My how embarrassing: The flies are prancing around regurgitated meals, their bodies drawing the story of Ted Bundy. Only they’ve lit the pictures of their children alight with the pilot light and the crowd can’t see who his sixth victim is through the smoke. Nothing’s original anymore and they’re all buzzing while burning. Desperately calling their wives at home. ‘We don’t have to talk every day when we have every night.’ But you have to audition every week for some role utterly beneath you. I’d recognize you more if there wasn’t this encore in my ears. I’m not too good for you though, in fact, I cut myself to keep myself in touch with my fans. Otherwise I’m destined to become God and God doesn’t make guest appearances.
Not even for the final act.

The Cafe
I refuse to be served by anyone with bad teeth.
Sitting under the current of seedy Spanish guitars screwing like wounded cats We talk of romance i.e. bad coffee drunk by those cafe vampires Sitting across from one another we race hyper-accelerated thoughts of failure And give waiters the evil eye. They have not brought us our sandwiches yet

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