Neil Randall

by Horror Sleaze Trash on June 29, 2013

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Neil Randall is the author of the novels The Holy Drinker & The Butterfly and the Wheel (both to be published by Knox Robinson Publishing in 2014), & A Quiet Place to Die (Wild Wolf Publishing, 2013) and a short story collection, Tales of Ordinary Sadness (FeedARead, 2013). His short fiction and poetry has been published in the UK, United States and Australia.

 

The Girl with the Heart-Worn Sleeves

 

as soon as you sit down

you know it’s a mistake.

her beady drinker’s eyes

betray the lascivious promises

flickering on her full red lips.

something very bad happened to her once–

a violent lover, a calculated infidelity–

and now she apportions blame

to every man she meets.

sure of her power, she presumes

you will stay here all night,

buy her drinks, then take her to your bed.

she is the kind of woman

who leaves while you are asleep,

and when you wake up

your hand is on your cock,

but your cock is no longer attached to your body.

 

 

I Hope Your Children Die of Cancer

 

there are certain things in people’s lives

that are more important

to them than anything else.

it might be their lover.

it might be their children.

it might be their religion or their work.

it might be the vodka bottle or the credit card.

and while many of those things

may not be the kinds of things

you could ever find important,

surely you’re not ignorant enough

to doubt their existence.

 

Rainy Day Barmaid # 12 & 35

 

perhaps you like her

because she’s a captive audience.

she can’t turn her back

and walk away from you.

she has to smile, be friendly,

even laugh at your jokes,

pour you many strong drinks

without complaint or reproach,

bear the weight of your stare–

that rapist glint in your eyes–

the one the starts at her tits

and ends with her thighs.

and when her shift is over

she goes home and complains

about having to serve that creepy,

contemptuous prick…again.

 

Pete’s Cock

 

Pete was into everything

before it was fashionable.

he smoked weed, drank,

and shoplifted to order.

the only thing he hadn’t

tried yet was a girl,

and this frustrated him;

spots broke out on his skin.

at 13, Helen had too many

teeth in her mouth,

laughed like a spastic,

and her clothes reeked of piss.

but she gave hand-jobs

and blow-jobs for fags.

so one day, Pete took her

to the woods after school.

he paid her in advance

with two picture perfect Super-Kings.

in a secluded spot,

he pulled down his trousers and pants.

Helen spat into her palms

and rubbed them together.

Pete was already erect

but something was wrong:

his foreskin didn’t seem

to slide back at all–

only a glimpse of the head protruded.

this baffled Helen,

and she wrenched at it.

Pete howled,

like he’d never done that before.

horrified, Helen let go of him–

there was a thick,

calcified mush behind his foreskin.

despite his maturity;

his knowledge of all things adult,

nobody had showed Pete

how to wash himself properly.

 

The Careless Loves of a Casual Nazi

 

I’m only good for a night

and (maybe) a morning

of drunken high kicks,

100 mph chat, laughter,

and risky, uncomplicated sex.

then, when another fleeting sweetheart

sobers up,

she realizes

this man has no real job,

no money, that the wine

from last night was stolen,

and that he lives in a cave with a monkey

(and while that might be

somebody else’s story),

the ending, for me, is always the same.

 

My Beautiful Friend

 

when we took drugs

my friend often said,

‘I feel really fucked right now,

but if I can acknowledge how fucked I am,

can I really be that fucked?’

he used to get all disappointed.

he couldn’t stand anything partial or watered-down.

he wanted to do more than just blur life’s edges.

 

when he fell in love,

he fell really hard.

for those honeymoon months

he was the world’s happiest man.

but when the intensity started to wane

he used to get all disappointed,

more with himself, than anything else.

‘I know I really love her, always will,

but there are so many other women I want to screw.’

 

my friend wrote a book

that nobody wanted to publish.

he spent years working on it,

and I read it, and it was a very beautiful thing.

he used to get all disappointed,

not just with the rejection slips,

but with the fact he’d done

exactly what he wanted to do,

and regardless, it hadn’t got him

to where he wanted to be.

 

 

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