The Book of Poisonous & Evil Rubbish

By Boris D. Schleinkofer

This is poetry.
Some of it will hurt you in deep, hard-to-reach places.
Caveat Emptor.

(from the back cover)

Welcome to
my little book of
stupid written curses:

Certainly you'll find no worth
in any of its verses

You thought that there
were 'cullings' here,
& maybe there's a bit...

Surprise! You find
you hold a second
steaming pile of----well, you get the idea.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Boris D. Schleinkofer
• Release date: Jan 12, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370978250

Boris D. Schleinkofer

He is a fictional character in the Horror-Play “The Greatest Practical Joke Ever”, by Shaytan Komp’ü’tor. He has never made love to a beautiful woman, never wallowed in fresh kill, never found a briefcase full of hundred-dollar bills. In fact, he doesn't even exist at all. So there...And another:Boris D. Schleinkofer is a slave, just like you and everybody else. He lives near the monolith of Baal. His number is 5x2-00x1-11. He is a good citizen.

Book preview

PART 1: Thanatos

Do you hear the pain carried on the wind? It is the cry of wasted lives. Who dares add to that cry? Who dares drain the world of its light?

Chaim Potok, from My Name Is Asher Lev

Dear Poet

dear poet:

your art will benefit

greatly once you realize

that they're either already

converted, or else they're

just not listening.

My Reaction to the World at Large

My heart, with your thumbprints greasily slid into

its surfaces, full and coursing with tiny crystal

platelets, shaped into bizarre petrifying edifices

left to dry

left to dry

left to dry out and harden, multiple flaking scales

then baked in the flame of your hatred

will, once broken, cut you more deeply and bloody

than any knife could ever reach.

I am so, so

sorry this is true.

I've Been On This Boat For So Long

I've been on this boat for so long, my tongue

has turned green with algae and the seat of

my pants has grown into the bulkhead. Across

the vast expanse of nothing, I can see no

more than wave after wave and the promise

of another wave breaking beyond. Every so

often a gull will pass by overhead, laughing at

me in shrill tones and I rock with the water and

the sun beating down. I would compare myself

with its freewheeling scream but I know better—

we drift on similar currents but the bird and I are

nothing alike, the noise it makes of freedom is in

a dialect I will never understand, simply put the

bird would die before allowing itself to be broken

as I am. I wave to it as it goes, trailing long

green whips of seaweed from my hand, and

scoop another mouthful of salt water.

We Have Come to the End of This World

We have come to the end of this world; the

point of the story is that it has its conclusion,

and I have a can of gasoline and you are my

match, and together we’re gonna rub one out.

We have friends to assist in this burning; they

hide behind masks they won't even need in

the final counting, assuming we get our wants.

They, too, are ready for this stopping-point

and none of the strangers we've come here to

murder would recognize them anyway, or even

ask their names, had they met under more

auspicious circumstances. Better to take what

recognition you can get in this end of days as

we cycle towards the great undoing, where the

Halloween masks and hooded sweatshirts

signify something special, other than just being

the garb of the angels of death. We're all ready

to dance on the head of the match—we'll all fit.

I Cannot Believe How Bad My Kids Have Been

i cannot believe how bad my kids have been

acting lately—i should never have bought

them the guns. they just won't let 'em

alone. i can't even go to the park anymore

without the two of them going crazy on

some innocent bystander. it's getting to

be out of control. if i keep my head down,

maybe, i might be able to get past them

without drawing their fire. still, there's no escaping

being seen by the other parents in the park.

how embarrassing. i'll never live this down.

Two Nightmarish Misunderstandings

Today's the day you will open your closet

door and jump out at the monster and it will

be you, despite those brief, pleasant memories.

—

Janet woke with a cock in her mouth, jamming

its beak against the back of her throat to

peck worms off her tongue.

The Pedestrian

tonight my feet are heavy, but

the sidewalk stretches on; the

waters wash against the levy

—dark gives way to dawn

i sleepwalk through the broken gate

day sees me deaf and dumb

contact carries crushing weight

but distance keeps me numb

rigors sometimes ravel seams

and ties that bind may sever

crawling time may kill your dreams

but I can walk forever

The Watcher

It has watched him since birth, for a

handful of decades, the fingers mixed-up

and twisted; those same dispassionate slits

followed as he fell, further and further

into the gnashing maw of destruction. If

you can, imagine the beast, like the mouth

of hell with seven barking heads belching

forth the damned and the eternal suffering

and all that. Imagine the hot stinking breath

rolling over the bloody fangs, the shreds of

torn flesh and the snap of the lash; imagine the

slow fall into decline, the inexorable lowering

and the pit with no bottom. Now see it through

that stranger's eyes who visits the man from

his shadow and in dreams when he sleeps

weightlessly. The man has never known the

watcher's name; the watcher has never offered

a hand, but the watcher is full of fingers

reaching for buttons. If you can, imagine

where the clockworks guide those mechanisms,

what vomiting beast looks out through the stranger's

eye, and how many gravities you can safely handle.

To Urinate On A Pregnant Clown

The insult or assault of a pregnant clown is ridiculously

easy to accomplish, but not an unpunishable feat—

transgress in such manner one time too many and you

may find yourself twingeing at every tinkling bell, every

honk of a bicycle horn, every pitter-patter of giant,

floppy feet. To catch the man pissing on the fecund

clown is both ill harbinger and fortuitous fetchery,

for a clown's body robbed is a never-ending process.

To walk away with bales of knotted kerchiefs, a bloody

tire-iron and the keys to a tiny car marks you with the

stink of Cain and everywhere you go, you will be chased

by circus tigers and the target of many a thrown pie.

Wipe custard from your face with what dignity you can

muster and get used to doing it. There will be many more

where that came from.

We Need To Hold Ourselves Together

We need to hold ourselves together, says the tall man in

the long coat; I don't know what to do with my hands—he

wants to shake but I am filled with loathing and something

about his eyes is very, very wrong. "We have never been

here before, and this moment is sure to shatter now we've

seen it." He is speaking in ten thousand voices and now I

am beginning to put together just what it is that I find so off-

putting about him, but then he pulls open his coat and nine-

thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine reddish-black

centipedes fall out of it and crawl away and he is gone.

Bad Dream Number 58927

I had that horrible dream again, the one where the

zombie steps on me and does not kill me right away

or try to eat my brain, but instead holds me there

with its foot, motionless, while my mind shuts

down in the cascading wake of the alarmstorm

of fear, thundering helplessness at me and leaving

me completely immobilized. I do not try to escape.

The zombie looks around for someone else

with a brain to eat and I am still pinned,

crushed under waves of enfeebling panic

and a voice from everywhere sneers at me:

I have absolutely no pity for you.

Cockatrice, Cockatrice

Cockatrice, Cockatrice, bringer of shame

the bearer of tidings besmirching my name

come hither, and slither away with my fame

and ride me on railings compounding my failings

Cockatrice, Cockatrice, turn me to stone

condense my cold heart so I'm not so alone

give merciful rending of flesh from my bone

to stop up my wailings and top off my quailings

and all of them hailing exactly the same

bacchanailing the tone of the tame

I Rub The Steel Length Of The Growth

I rub the steel length of the growth in my hand: six

hollow chambers