Horror*Tailes from the basement
Friday, October 29, 2021
Sunday, October 25, 2020
Monday, September 5, 2011
poems by ross vassilev
under attack
the afternoon
of 9/11 I realized
the world
will not end
with a whimper
but with a huge
monstrous
cunt-busting
BANG!
some Air Force
pilot was recorded
saying,
“I think the Russians
snuck one by us.”
FUCKING GENIUS!
with minds like that
America will always
be OK.
then I realized
now they’ve got
their excuse to
invade one
country after
another.
the carnage
had only begun.
rolling thunder
ask me if I support the troops
and the honest answer is
no.
what matters most to me right now
is white butterflies
the patriots can go off to Iraq
or Afghanistan and get themselves
killed if they want. I couldn’t
care less--
bin Laden never did anything
to me
(when you look at things my way
nothing really matters.)
I’d rather think of red roses
and Joely Richardson dancing
nude and buxom in
Lady Chatterley
as it starts to rain outside.
chop my head off and stick on a pole
roaming the hot streets
praying for rain
if you’re like me--
beat down by uncontrollable
unknowable forces
then you need to find something useful
to waste your days with
like playing guitar
exposing yourself to Girl Scouts
or shooting people just to impress Jodie Foster.
Friday, September 2, 2011
short stories update
were looking for short stories of any kind as long as it scares the living crap out of us.
submit up 5 short stories.
submit up 5 short stories.
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Dark clouds follow me home
by unknown poet
sometimes madness follows me home from work before I even see
the sunset in bloody read tears of labor pains
the incriminating imprints of hard work
bat clinging on eye lids
they blind me in a mist of tears of hopeless
And all awl those is sit on that dead tree.
working the grave-shift
I'm made home.
by unknown poet
sometimes madness follows me home from work before I even see
the sunset in bloody read tears of labor pains
the incriminating imprints of hard work
bat clinging on eye lids
they blind me in a mist of tears of hopeless
And all awl those is sit on that dead tree.
working the grave-shift
I'm made home.
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