John Grochalski

by Horror Sleaze Trash on October 15, 2012

John Grochalski is the author of The Noose Doesn’t Get Any Looser After You Punch Out (Six Gallery Press 2008), Glass City (Low Ghost Press, 2010), In The Year of Everything Dying (Camel Saloon, 2012), and the forthcoming The Sun Causes Cancer.  Grochalski currently lives in Brooklyn, New York, where he constantly worries about the high cost of everything.

late shift blues


waking at a reasonable hour

you think time is yours

you fool yourself

make coffee

feed the cat

drink the coffee

turn on the television

to get the weather from some blonde

with a fat ass in a tight skirt

find out which middle eastern country

we’re swinging our big limp dick toward this week

continue to fool yourself

jack-off to internet porn

on a handheld device

before you get ready

to jack-off the economy

and pay the rent

but soon the stomach aches

so you eat cold pizza

standing by the open fridge

take the coffee shit


and it feels industrious

shave like a slave

pack a dinner in stained tupperware

the one you’ll nuke

and eat standing by an open microwave

take the afternoon bus

with the other lost idiots

packed like pigs going to the slaughter

slug through those eight hours of misery

only to come home

to stale scotch

outdated cans of beer

baseball scores

as old chinese ladies pick through

your garbage

clanking glass bottles for their fortune

as your sagging bed

beckons you back

to do it all again




some sundays


i get on the bed naked

get on all fours


let her stick her fingers in my ass

while she wraps the other hand around me

and starts to jerk me off


before she lays down

and has me sit on top of her


sucking my cock until

i think i might explode


then she tells me to lay down

hopping on top to ride me


until we both come such splendid ecstasy


after, we sit in the bedroom

drinking glasses of cold red wine

kicking the cat off the bed with each furry charge


we hear the sound of the voices outside


people working on their cars

or talking to their neighbors


such fools, i think to tell her


but i don’t


i stay quiet as she sighs beside me

letting the old fans dry the sweat on our bodies

as the red wine chills our insides


thinking some sundays

are almost too perfect

for the folly of simple words



poem to the unborn child of

an ex-girlfriend


your mom liked to lie about her age

she told everyone that she was twenty

when she was eighteen

just eighteen

but that was back then

and your mom liked to hang around

a lot of older guys

she liked to talk about sex

to prove that young women liked sex

she talked about sex with the older guys

and about being twenty years old

and enjoying sex

she was interested in how many partners

a guy had

the more the merrier

you mom said that having a lot of sex was cool


your mom liked to sunbath topless

in the public park

she was very european like that

she watched movies naked

and gave away nude modeling photos of herself

she was skinny and blonde and could eat

whatever she wanted and not gain a pound

she was a hell cat in the sack, too

she was the first chick i ever knew

who swallowed it down and didn’t complain

she rode vigorously

she liked her tits bitten

and her ass slapped when done doggy style

just as long as you didn’t try to fuck her in it

your mom wasn’t one for wearing underwear

in the summer, kid

she liked ice cubes shoved up her cunt

before she was eaten out


but your mom had a kind streak back then, too

she made food for everyone

and bought random gifts

when she was drunk she liked to bum

cigarettes from as many people as she could

and then give them to me

she’d show up at the job with lunch

when she knew that i was broke

and she drove me around when i needed to run errands

your mom stayed over a lot

she’d lay in the bed and skip work

not tell her parents where she was at

risked getting into trouble

all so a guy like me wasn’t so lonely at night

listening to the buses

as they rode up and down the avenue


but your mom was seeing someone

behind my back

she told me that she wasn’t fucking him

but i never believed her

shit, he could even be your dad

but i doubt it

because that was a long time ago

and your thirty year-old mom

was only eighteen or twenty back then

i’m sure she went through a ton of men

before she found your dad

now, that’s not calling your mom a whore

i’m just saying that she was picky

not that i know anything about her now

or even knew anything then


your mom will be a good mom, i’m sure

she’ll take you to school and make your lunch

and dinner

she’ll love you and bathe you and read books to you

she’ll love your dad and her life

maybe you’ll even get a brother or sister in a few years

when your mom does the laundry

she’ll fold every pair or underwear that she has

and if she catches you smoking you better watch out

i’m sure the years have been kind to your mom

i’m sure she’s grown and matured

and hardly remembers the asshole sitting here

writing this poem about her

i’m sure i never even come up in conversation

that’s fine, kiddo

i don’t think about your mom too much either

except on days like this

where i have nothing else to think about

and the ice cubes in my drink taste a bit funny.


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