by Horror Sleaze Trash on March 17, 2013


I can drink 5L of beer in 3hrs and drive you crazy because I practise a lot on myself and I can eat flowers and cover my face with mudd and I can watch the moon and be afraid of her smile. I can be a total asshole and lose the sense of reality and I can feel the rain on my leg while pissing in my pants and then I can hope for some people to die fast. I can be a poet. Sometimes.



he was talking about some crazy shit about

his life

and Sancho was his name, born in 1980.

meals were waiting for us in the

dining room, meat steaks with

eggs on top

and a glass of red


Sancho was wearing a cooking


and I was wearing the same – one size smaller

as he was built as a giant –

“and I enter the restaurant, sweating as hell

with my rollerblades and the maitre d’

let me him and I order some spaghetti

with tomato sauce and two bottles of wine

when the cops broke into the room

and ask for a guy with rollerblades …”

Sancho had always a story to

tell as he seemed to have lived

many crazy lives in one.

We got to work and everything went fine

– we even managed to got free beers and

whiskey in our coffee –


the locker room

was on the basement and as usual

we stole bottles of chianti and a cask-wine

and we smiled as we passed the

maitre d’ and he wished us good night

but didn’t smiled in return


we crashed under a bridge and

watch the late flyboats

moving forward blindly

while drinking life









there are giants out there, tall and heavy and calm, some kind of god-like creatures

with no needs for coffee and cigarettes or love or sleep,

almost invisble,


so blurred and smoggy that

the few you can feel about them is a faint vision emerging from a bad


but you still know they ARE

part of your fear and

unconfessed will

and once in a while


smash your soul so hard in their powerful hands

and drown you in a sewer

you fall on your knees and cry and cry and beg


and at some point I kinda feel I am taller and


even calmer

when I tear an orange in half on a misty

morning and with my fork

I destroy segments of the fruit and juice is leaking all over my hands

sugar sugar sugar and I squeeze it

I squeeze it until it dies dry on the table like most human souls I know

from now on





I was drinking beer and reading a poetry

book printed by black

sparrow press in 1994

the year K.C blew his head off

with a shotgun


when I reached

the glass

my left hand hit it and

beer spilled on the pages like a




the title of the poem was

Love but I can’t remember

the brand of the



I haven’t even tried

to save

the pages


the poem

I just stared at the beer

and the



the ink

and vanishing

through the paper


I recalled I thought ‘it’s sad’

and I went to the fridge

grabbed a bottle

and started sucking

the bottleneck

while the glass remained

empty and my heart




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