Gareth Eoin Storey

by Horror Sleaze Trash on June 10, 2011

Gareth Eoin Storey is Irish but has lived in England for the last 20 years. He’s survived a car crash, two mental breakdowns and three poignant relationships. He started writing back in his teens and hasn’t stopped since. His work has been published in the Nth position, The Smoking Poet and various other rags. He enjoys strolls through cities, drinking at lunchtime and women without baggage. His blog can be found here.

Bowling Alley Bar

I drink Saturday night Sazerac
Without fever all these ladies
Are dressed like 1970
And the dumb DJ plays foul disco

The couch is made of sand
There’s two mirrorballs
A lesbian waitress with breasts
Like cushions bites a double cheese
Burger next to me

And I raise my hard earned hand
And a black girl of short skirt
And legs of smooth muscle
Eyebrows arched
Says ‘Hold on boy.’

She puts the tumbler on top
Of my notebook and pouts

As if I hadn’t seen enough

‘What you writing?’ she asks.
‘The history of cocktail waitresses.’

She leans down so swell
Her titties are magnificent

‘How much have you had to drink?’
Women interrupt moments of play
With too much banality

‘Je ne me souviens pas.’

‘Vraiement, smartass.’

Hand on my thigh
She takes my blue pen and
Puts down numbers

‘I’m done at 1 and live
Two streets away, but you,
Can walk me home.’

Indonesian Hookers Hang Out In Saritem’s Alleys

And I Lay Around

Not cleaning the tulip staircase,
Scratching my legs ,

Letting my toenails curl,
With disappointed Catholic sperm,

Bereft of passion,
No copulation in sight,

The end of my tether,
Soaked in Dubonnet,

Not near, wet shaved legs,
Or just worn panties,

They’re reserved for the clean

Lungs and red tongues,

The multilingual,

Those that don’t pick up
Dog turd or stroll
Canal St Martin,

They banquet in large dining
Rooms with crystal chandeliers,

They slip through any
Sized crack,

And tire of lick outs
And spooning,

They don’t hide internet
Prescriptions in matchboxes,
Or write poetry.


You’ve got your right hand
And both testis intact-

You’ve got a bottle of Ricard
On the windowsill

And you can spell
Your name.

You don’t forget birthdays
You’re at ease with
American tourists

And toilet attendants.

“They” say too much.

You look like Brando
In The Teahouse of August Moon
Or a critically deformed Di Caprio

But you don’t feel it
‘cause there’s no lipstick collars,
No tampons in the bathroom
Cabinet ,

You pass out weekends,
And sniff doi choi,

You’re not refereed,

They don’t discuss what you work on,
Or Schrödinger’s cat.

So, slip a note into a pole dancer’s g-string,
Bribe a child to nick first edition Hemingway’s,

And rest your eyes on stupid murals.

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