A.j. Binash

by Horror Sleaze Trash on November 30, 2013

 A.j. Binash is a post-post-post-modernist poet from La Crosse, WI. He has released a book of poetry entitled Cautionary Tales of an American Boy Out Past Curfew (Rattlesnake Valley Publishing) . He has also been featured in the W.F.O.P. (Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets) Muse- Letter and Murmurations Magazine, among others.

Also a performer-Binash has shared the stage with Acker award winning poet William Taylor Jr. and Grammy award winning musician Bill Miller.

He also is an active Board Member for the Wisconsin Writers Association.

Currently working on a new manuscript, Binash will be releasing books for years to come. If time allows.


Baby, Don’t Kill Me.

I kiss her laceration.
She moans.
Like any victim of blood loss

I breathe crime
Onto her breasts.

With my kiss
She tastes a villain’s motivation.
Along with my loneliness.

My thigh muscles flex.
What lovers mistaken
For affection,
And flicks off my leg hairs.
Stroking until expiration

What secrets she keeps
Are revealing themselves.
While I taste my flavor of loneliness
On her thighs.

She uses her fingernails
Like daggers.

Peeling away dead skin cells
From my aging flesh.

She lays there still
As a corpse.

I remind her
That she’s alive.



Are You Happy?

The question
Rested upon her pupil.

Legs opened wide.

I saw a comfortable place
For my answer.

If my eyelash
Wouldn’t have flinched.

I imagine
The legs would still be open.

And I’d be fucking
The answer.

Into her.



My Company Will Kill You.

Some. Have dreams. About a California shore.
They fantasize about the salt water.
Cleaning their wounds.

I am paused. Atop my air mattress.
Stabbing the mainline,
For a rush of creativity.

Staring at a blank page.
Inhaling the permanent marker
And roses smell.
Wafting in through my window.

Late nights
Or is it early mornings?

In my eyes
Sunlight mutates
Into starlight.

If not for the overcast,
I wouldn’t be able
To distinguish a difference.

Little red veins
Are sprawled across
The whites of my eyes.

And I think of the California shore.

And I would love to piss in it.

Then I can be carried
Inside a harlot’s infection.

I’ll be the promise
She vows
To the porn director:
“Don’t worry
It’s only temporary.”



Sometimes The Night is Kind to Me.

It’s 3am.
I open my bedroom window
To smoke a cigarette.
A car door slams,
Footsteps sprint to the neighbor’s door.
It’s the paper delivery.
I shout:
Watch them turn their head
to identify the voice.

The phone rings.
The cell phone’s illuminating screen
Hurts my eyes.
I close them as I answer.

“I am drunk.”
“So? ”
“So, come get me!”
“If you come get me…I will fuck you.”
“So? ”
“So, I am drunk and horny!”

I remember the taste
Of whiskey and beer.
Exhaled into my mouth
With each kiss.

“I’ll pick you up. No sex, though.”
“Then I am not coming.”

The phone goes silent.
The cell phone’s screen dims.

Sometimes the night
Is kind to me.

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