GD Anderson

Post image for GD Anderson

by horrorsleazetrash on September 6, 2010

GD Anderson lives in Wollongong Australia. His first chapbook ‘Dancing On Thin Ice’ is available through erbacce-press (UK). A new one will shortly be released through Interior Noise Press (USA). He blogs at BOLD MONKEY:


everything now
wants to be contorted into a poem
into this sudden spurt of words across the page
even as I indifferently boff wider her tight ass
the day is opening like a book
drooling with hyperbole

yet I have as much a desire to write
as I have to hang myself

a dog squats to shit
a twot is wiped clean of cum
it’s all the same to me

double entendre
the contingent universe

her honey hooch
the spilling surf
now taking on a peripheral meaning:

after I strangle myself
will I really exist
beyond this page?


as they embrace he removes
the black patch from his eye

revealing a gleaming liquid sump
a teenage surfboard accident

the hard plastic nose of the board
slicing sclera emptying jelly

he cuts the lights
& he imagines the curves

of her body writhing under him
later in the night

he paddles in his sleep

into the parabola of the waves.

Bolton is Unable to Visit Granddad Anymore

I swing open the door to the private nursing home room.
Bolton is with granddad again.

He slyly removes his hands from under the blanket
& lecherously clasps them as if in prayer’s repose.

I am seething,
genuinely angry-
but don’t want to lose it
this time.



He is too frightened or stupid to continue.

Yes, NEVER to visit my grandfather again:
My grandad is a fucking vegetable!
He doesn’t recognize anyone.
He doesn’t even recognize me.
What were you doing in his room anyway?
What have you been doing to him?
Playing with his balls again?
Giving him a stiffy?
Did it give you, you warped cunt, a thrill?


That is when I hit him.
The liar.
Not hard at first.
The pathetic human.
Only a glancing blow on his lower jaw.
Then another.

Surprisingly, he crumples & crashes heavily onto the carpet.

I hated Bolton
& his whimpering,
I hated his apologetic attempts at denial
his stupid bovine look
the way he stole every last glimmer of dignity
my granddad may have had left.

I smash his nose
with a right cross
as hard as I can
hoping to drill it
deep into his
dopey brain.

Bolton’s body jerks spasmodically about on the floor of the nursing home.

He tries to utter something, but all that emerges is a long bubbling gurgle.

Bug Out

After twelve hours
of drinking shots in
between beers the
old man splay on
the bed a smoke in
his hand. I could
smell something
from the next room.
When I enter his
pillow is smoldering.
I race to the kitchen
& grab a bucket of
water and toss it on
him. Then another.
He drunkenly wakes
his eyes bug out
cursing me: YOU
He glances around
The room briefly
& soon crashes out.
I place a wet towel
on his bed & toss
his burnt pillow out
the window into the
laneway. The next
afternoon when I
return from work
he gives me the cold
shoulder. He sits at the
kitchen table sculling a
beer. Then another.
About two in the
morning there is a
violent knock at my
door. Another. It’s him.
What is it this time?
He is bug-eyed. Loud. He
is smiling broadly & extends
to me his large bent fist: PUT


He spoke afterwards
of bollarded flesh,
the brash branding
of skull between bikie gangs
at Sydney terminal.

He spoke of the simple question of
economics: the meth market
cornered. A chance meeting.
Airborne. Via Melbourne.

Spilling out of the Airbus
flags unfurled. The crunch
of fist on bone, boot on face
unquenching. The click into

Beast. The frenzied one-handed
swinging of steel bollards baseball
bat like, the slugging out of brain matter.

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