Ken Trimble

by Horror Sleaze Trash on November 14, 2012

My name is Ken Trimble and at present I live in the Yarra Valley. I have had two books published through Little Fox Press – see Clouds on Hanover Street & Shores of American Memory. I have an e-chapbook Drinking Wine under the Moon-see editor –Craig Scott. Have had a couple of pieces in horrorsleazetrash. And had a piece published in Also poetry on & & before that on Next year hopefully early due to health will have new book called –Some Kind of Crazy. I have a blog site through Word Press Blog called I am also on facebook/kenneth.trimble.96. Also can contact me

I was a mean kid.
I use to torment my poor brother
Because he stuttered something chronic.
I use to say things like
How you going you ******* ****
And he’d chase me around the house
Swearing he was going to kill me.
One day I was making faces
From my bedroom window.
He was outside.
He threw a punch.
He forgot about the window.
Blood spurted all over the place.
He ran around the house
The muscle in his arm half hanging out
Yelling I’ll kill you, you little prick.
Another night after going to bed
I felt punches raining on my head
Like a thunderstorm.
The best one happened when we
Use to ghost box.
It started off
Slap slap slap slap
Then progressively harder
Turning into punches
Smack! Crunch! Kapow!!!
Till I was screaming.
Our old man came in
And walked right in the middle
And wham!
My brother knocked him
Right on his ass.
When he got up
He started piling in on my brother
Like old fury Tyson
Smacking him from every room
Till he ran out of puff.
My brother just stood there
And took it.
He never raised his hands.
He just took it.
And what did I do in all of this
Well I did nothing
All I did was smile.


Some Kind of Crazy.
I don’t know why I do the things I do
Something crazy keeps turning in my head
Making me some kind of wild.

The more I listen to that saxophone
The more I want to just………….roll
Get a bottle and find a woman.

I want to lift the night of stars.

I want to run through the streets
Yelling and whooping
Butt- naked with the moonlight
Shining on my ass.




My uncle, the shaman of Williamstown
Wore a magpie’s eye
And danced with wolf spiders.

He was a lunar expeditionary
An opiate connoisseur
Of fine drugs,
A master of lunacy.
Teacher of the art of madness.

My uncle was a tripper,
An insane weaver
Of words,
Charging the inner
Of my crazy

Previous post:

Next post: