Brian Pitt

by Horror Sleaze Trash on August 13, 2012

Brian Pitt began writing poetry five years ago during his twelve hour shifts as a street cleaner while living in Enterprise, Alabama.

Brian is a poet, as well as the drummer and vocalist of the psychedelic/occult-garage band Switchblade Cheetah, and one half of the experimental music project Neon Lushell.

He currently lives in Tallahassee, Florida with his wife and son, and works as a security guard.

Pink Angel Vomit.

by Brian Pitt

I pulled the boney plug out of my head and out poured my slime

Bright yellow with tiny black specks

The base of my skull was like a wet crouton

I pressed my finger to it and it left an imprint

An angel fell on the floor in front of me

Earlier it had been clawing through my ceiling from where it had been living for a while

It’s arms and legs were broken, but the peach colored tube-like appendage

that hung from it’s lips seemed to be erect

The tube had little pulsating teeth at the end of it that rose in

the air and danced around like a snake

The tube-teeth attached to my lips so that the angel and I became one

I was the angel

The angel was me

And to tell you the truth, I always knew that I was an angel

Through it’s peach tube it vomited a creamy pink tapioca

liquid into my mouth

When the pink chunky cream would wet my lips I would automatically puke it back through the

peach tube into the angel’s mouth

We were disgusted with ourselves

The angel removed it’s dancing teeth from my lips and told me to go wash up

I went to the bathroom and I cleaned myself

When I came back the angel was gone

Didn’t leave a note or anything

Self Destruct (I ate the wine pt. 2)

by Brian Pitt

On that lonesome night I put the bottle to my mouth

I took out my good blade and slit both of my wrists

I smeared my blood all over the walls and I kept punching myself in the face

I used my own blood like lipstick and then I beat my eyes black

I danced around my living room shaking my ass to the sound of the static on my television set

I walked to the hospital and told them that I had attacked myself

“We can’t help you tonight, sir.” they said, in their white coats and rubber gloves,

thinking that they were something really special and important.

They couldn’t help me, so I helped myself.

I made hypodermic needle angel wings.

“Look at my wings Doc! I’m a movie star now, Doc! I’m a real Hollywood guy!” I told them.

“I attacked myself, Doc!” I reminded them once more in case they had forgotten.

“Look at my eyes and lips! I did myself up all pretty for you and now you are going to turn me away?”

I am going to be a star.

I am going to be in the movies.

Oatmeal cream Pie

by Brian Pitt

In line at the store and I feel the death seeping out of my pores

My head hurts so bad and they can all fuck off

Everyone is overweight

Everyone is buying Little Debbies

They will go home and watch FOX while they munch on their treats

Dead already


by Brian Pitt

The old man sat there with clam chowder dribbling down his chin .

In the corners of his mouth were crusty lumps of chowder that had been turning into chalk-like peas with every toothless slurp.

He made the nurses call him Henry even though that wasn’t his real name.

Henry had a little microphone connected to a tube in his ear that we had to speak into so he could hear us.

The nurses aids would walk by and say “Would you like fries with that?” into the ear mic.

Henry was also blind.

He was a blind and deaf dog of an old man with a loud voice and a crusty chowder mouth.

He smelled like mothballs.

A classic, this guy.

He had a nickel sized hole in the top of his coppery-purple spotted head.

The hole smelled like fish.

Yes, I smelled it.

We all snuck a smell of Henry’s head hole at some point.

The candy stripers would throw M&M’s in it when he was catching a quick snooze at his little dinner table.

I used to say “Thank you, drive thru.” into his ear mic and throw pennies at his head.

Santa Clause.

By Brian Pitt

I will be like the real Santa Clause

with my red, white, and green snow gown flowing miles behind me in the

darkness of the frozen woods that surround us

My beard will hang below my knees and I will deliver gifts to the good children with a furious delight

The bad children will spend the eve of Christmas packed tight in my bundle

I will leave them in the snow and let the wolves get at them

Chicken boy in the slave quarters.

by Brian Pitt

My Mom and I were sitting at the ocean side cafe, the one where the water washes

over the tops of your feet while you eat those tiny breadsticks that are wrapped in plastic.

“I think I’m gonna get a new car. A big one!

Bigger than anyone’s car in the whole neighborhood!” she squealed.

“Ok.” I said.

She continued to yap about all of the stuff that she was going to buy.

“Mom, do you see that huge whale rolling about in the crystal blue?” I asked

She kept talking.

Didn’t hear a thing.

It was like the teacher from the Charlie Brown cartoons.

She was really showing herself the way.

I kept my eyes on that gigantic thing in the water.

It was going crazy.

It wasn’t on a sandbar or anything.

It was the first rabid whale that I had ever seen.

This thing was only a stone’s throw away.

It was doing a death roll in what must have been only 12 feet of water.

“Mom, what the fuck?! That whale is headed straight for us! We are gonna die!” I yelled.

“…and a Gucci bag, and some Stoli to drink after I buy it, and then I’m going to put on my heels and walk around the block so Pam and Doc can see my new bag and all of the amazing things that I keep inside of it!”

She was screaming her fortunes to be at this point.

And now here it was.

The whale slammed on my like a pack of wild dogs.

I started to punch it in it’s gargantuan frontside, somewhere between a hole, some whiskers, and an eyeball.

We were all tumbling around ourselves in a vomit of green and blue salt water and black and pink fish carcass.

Our table was stable.

It did not move at all.

The whale was messing us up good now.

I was scared, I think.

“This is it!” I yelled.

No matter how hard I punched the whale in it’s huge face, the damned thing just wouldn’t stop

thrashing my ass around like a rag doll.

I started to cry like a child, and I think that it started to feel bad for me.

It started to swim away.

It swam about half a mile out and then turned towards us and gave my mom a nod.

My mom nodded back.

“I’m gonna take these breadsticks home.” she said.

She grabbed the sticks, and left me with the bill.

“Leave a good tip.” she said.

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