Arturo Desimone

by Horror Sleaze Trash on April 14, 2013



 Arturo Desimone was born (1984) and raised on Aruba, but of immigrant origins. When he was 19 he went to live in the Netherlands. He then quickly decided to leave the Netherlands, but on the way out did an exhibition of his drawings at the Iranian cultural center of Amsterdam hoping this will prevent an Israeli attack on Iran. Since then he has lived on the road, between Poland, Romania, Tunisia, Greece, an arrangement better enabling writing and drawing. At the moment he is based in Buenos Aires, Argentina, his grandparents’ hometown.  He is working on longer fiction projects. His poems and stories have been in Horror Sleaze Trash, Unlikely Stories, at the blog A Tunisian Girl and are forthcoming in Hinchas de Poesia, the intercontinental poetry mag based in LA. His drawings have been exhibited in Krakow, Paris, Trinidad and Tobago Erotic Artweek, the Netherlands, hopefully, one day, Iran and Israel.

(ANNA PAOLA , Poem in CockShape #230)


Anna Paola,

when I saw you

sitting at the table,

low-sea-level sunlight

filled the dock bar,

in Amsterdam andIspilled


from crystal ball.

this is no metaphysical

obscene sexual

puerile allusion


as condemned by Chinese poets

it is truth. I held a glass of whitewine,

distracted from friend, when in low-sea light

spectacle you forced me to see you

as you sat across the room, quietly looking at the water.

Whitewine abandoned its glass skull

when I saw you, waiting for your man who had left you,

the day before  you returned to Napoli.




a spider in a wine bottle told me

big world was once unflat, of giants

lovers one-thorax, two heads, twinbodied


nerve-sweat handed gods mixed up the cards

like Arubian casino coupiers



They hid lovers ,

they hid the star, Iztlali,

Aztec for star, with whom I danced tango rigidly


last night and then sat down to drink

and eat my own face



An artist writes and seeks success

revenge all

that blood sex money

glory, Schadenfreude

cruelty wave hand at award

ceremony tv-head

each poems compensates

the absence not of a father

but of a sniper,

but it is more a desperate effort find

companion hidden under

knocked-out giantesses of autumn

between threads of thatchwork

latticework that roofs a soulless

world the artist is homeless, a wandering jew, a yahoud

enchanted ass nose-seek true mystical refuge of Isis

in this world delighting more in cruelty.

he seeks what is more tender

than just god or some vacuum

he seeks the companion, living idol, rip

fingers across her lips

pre-boarding long death-boat

across afterworld’s, afterdeath’s azure.


Boxer’s Prayer/ Don’t you Curse my beloved Miss Fortune


I don’t believe in misfortune

fortune’s javelins and


her blown

polaroid leaf of

puckered red mouth

do not easily miss

I believe in

Miss Fortune

Miss Fortuna

Don’t you call her

A Strumpet

Or a Puta


is my girl




I only have sex

when I am in love

it takes me five

to fifteen minutes

on average

to fall in love

I only kiss on the mouths

in order to postpone

I feel, it is good I

usually postpone


postpone, postpone


They called me Medusa

in the town I fled

The public priests

the unofficial parliament said:


One day you will wake up

Medusa you little slut

on a bed of cracked wine glasses

if you keep acting this way,

one day, your pretty hair

will be full of eels

and all the soft boys you will turn into John Mongers

will in turn become cement

as cement,

and not more poetic granite or asphalt

they will be preserved

 from you,

and the corruption

that you hip-spread

Why didn’t I listen

to the public charlatans

the unordained, beloved bishops

of my town I quit

I woke up,

my twin tulip roses sore

my hair now,

no longer beautiful

but full of disaster-eels

Now only

blind men with state allowances

fuck me in the head


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