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Horror Sleaze Trash
Horror Sleaze Trash proudly presents 10 years of Horror Sleaze Trash! A collection of poems by Melbourne-based writer, Ben John Smith, ranging from the depths of horror to the boundaries of sleaze and the absolute bottom of trash.
111 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2010
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Displaying 1 - 22 of 22 reviews
June 10, 2014
Ben John Smith
is not my friend.
(At least
I think not.
I knew a Ben Smith
once in South Bend
Indiana.)
I do not know
his brother,
girlfriend, dad.
He did not
pay me for this
review.
Not even in beer.
Though I acknowledge
this volume was provided gratis
by the unmerited munificence
of the magniloquent Shamus McCarty.
To return to the matter:
to wit, Ben Smith:
Ben Smith,
if he dwelt
on my continent
could be one of
those guys
I used to meet
in bars.
The talking kind.
Not the drunkenly
slurring type who
tries to grab your knee
or tells the same story
over and over.
The same
fucking
stupid
story
over and over.
No.
The drunk who
at a certain tipping point
of inebriation
bares his soul.
Or at least
what's weighing
on his heart.
And you hear
all about
this stranger's shattered dreams
and wrecked relationships
and the card
he forgot to send his mom.
His dog that died
when he was ten
and how he still regrets
that practical joke
on that poor
snot-faced neighbor kid who nobody liked.
You listen.
Uncomfortable.
Half-fascinated.
Wishing the barman
would bring another beer.
Finally
he staggers to the john.
Half an hour later
after you've started
wondering
if he passed out
and maybe drowned
in a pool of
his own vomit
he comes reeling back
his junk hanging out
like all the ugly
vulnerable
bits most people
prefer to keep
hidden.
September 23, 2016
Ben Smith is a drunken Aussie manchild with a heart as big as his homeland, which just so happens to be the only nation on Earth that is also a continent of its own. If Charles Bukowski weren't already known as one of the most imitated poets of the last half century, I suppose I might compare Ben Smith to Charles Bukowski, but that wouldn't be doing much justice to his singular poetic voice. Besides the affinity for cats and booze and whatever else leads men to write poetry of this nature, they're not that much alike. Watch this if you don't believe me. Or maybe you shouldn't believe me after all. I never saw ol' Buk dressed up in a corset and pearls, but...
Full disclosure: Ben John Smith is the editor in chief of Horror Sleaze Trash, a very fine website that has also been known to publish Arthur Graham from time to time, for some reason.
Full disclosure: Ben John Smith is the editor in chief of Horror Sleaze Trash, a very fine website that has also been known to publish Arthur Graham from time to time, for some reason.
October 1, 2013
UPDATE THIS JUST IN: YOU CAN TOUCH ME HERE
A boyfriend once told me I was more like a man than he was. I suspect that may be true, especially when it comes to feelings (and perhaps things that rhyme with "fuck"). Ben John Smith is a sensitive man, but make no mistake, he is definitely a man. A man with a mission.
These poems are sensitive, dare I say even romantic, in the (must read in your best Aussie accent) "Ahm-a-man-an-these-ah-poems-and-things-Ah-think-end-Ah-don't-feel-silly-sayin'-em-out-layud-cuz-Ahm-Australian-end-Ah-heave-a-uge-cock-so-wot-tha-fack-man-Ah-don't-geeva-shet-I-neeta-write-poetry-so-fack-you-betchis" way. I wish more men could write stuff like this. Hell, I wish I could write stuff like this!
She asks me in the shortest time possible why I can’t write a nice poem about pretty things that don’t include sweaty dicks and eyelid type opening vaginas.
And as I entertain such a foolish and romantic notion,
I quietly start to cry.
And:
She whispers to God. The cat brushes past her bare feet.
I don’t know what she said
or if he heard
but I bet he doesn’t need her as much as I do.
And then, there is this:
Sometimes I drive around town with my dick in my hand.
Nothing perverted, just outside my pants, and smiling out the windscreen.
Giving it some air.
Because it gets lonely in dirty jeans and he wants to see the world too.
Sometimes I wonder if that’s a strange thing to do, but it doesn’t really matter cause no one will ever see me and I sure as shit
will never mention it
to anyone.
And:
I push the end, the tip,
of my foreskin into the opening of my beer bottle.
Of course it's a strange thing to do.
Especially when I take my next sip.
...
These poems make me want to be a better man.
A boyfriend once told me I was more like a man than he was. I suspect that may be true, especially when it comes to feelings (and perhaps things that rhyme with "fuck"). Ben John Smith is a sensitive man, but make no mistake, he is definitely a man. A man with a mission.
These poems are sensitive, dare I say even romantic, in the (must read in your best Aussie accent) "Ahm-a-man-an-these-ah-poems-and-things-Ah-think-end-Ah-don't-feel-silly-sayin'-em-out-layud-cuz-Ahm-Australian-end-Ah-heave-a-uge-cock-so-wot-tha-fack-man-Ah-don't-geeva-shet-I-neeta-write-poetry-so-fack-you-betchis" way. I wish more men could write stuff like this. Hell, I wish I could write stuff like this!
She asks me in the shortest time possible why I can’t write a nice poem about pretty things that don’t include sweaty dicks and eyelid type opening vaginas.
And as I entertain such a foolish and romantic notion,
I quietly start to cry.
And:
She whispers to God. The cat brushes past her bare feet.
I don’t know what she said
or if he heard
but I bet he doesn’t need her as much as I do.
And then, there is this:
Sometimes I drive around town with my dick in my hand.
Nothing perverted, just outside my pants, and smiling out the windscreen.
Giving it some air.
Because it gets lonely in dirty jeans and he wants to see the world too.
Sometimes I wonder if that’s a strange thing to do, but it doesn’t really matter cause no one will ever see me and I sure as shit
will never mention it
to anyone.
And:
I push the end, the tip,
of my foreskin into the opening of my beer bottle.
Of course it's a strange thing to do.
Especially when I take my next sip.
...
These poems make me want to be a better man.
July 13, 2013
“We are all trying
to prove to each other
that this world
is a
beautiful
place.”
I feel bad for this Ben John Smith character. He seems to have quite a few problems, the foremost of which is this constant and incessant need to expose his drunken and wretched soul for the entertainment of those of us sadistic enough to listen. Ben John Smith suffers for his art like a sex-obsessed Jesus suffering for the foreskins of all mankind.
What I’m saying is, this book is fucking excellent. And now I’m going to tell you why:
I never really considered myself a “poetry guy.” I once took a creative writing class, years and years ago, and there was this dude in the class who always wore a black turtleneck and blue jeans who would write poetry. He would read his shit in front of the class; poems about riding on trains. Very paced, very metronomic. And when he was done, he would pause and slowly look up with one eyebrow arched, like we were all supposed to drop to our knees and start kissing his Birkenstocks for blessing us with his words. That was my perception of poetry. Until I got my hands on some Horror Sleaze Trash.
Herein are poems that are written to expose something ugly. Something uncomfortable. Something equal parts hilarious and painful. This takes true talent. This isn’t self-congratulatory, black turtleneck, arched eyebrow poetry. This is poetry in the fucking RAW! There's something visceral in Ben Smith’s writing. Something desperate. Something enlightening. Something real. There is something very intentional about every word and how it’s arranged on the page that just screams louder than the thunder THIS IS ART. And what he may lack in elaborate descriptions or flowery language, Smith more than makes up for with these emotional gut punches. And they don't stop. Some of the poems I had to read 2 or 3 times. Just because I couldn’t believe so few words could have such an impact.
If you’re into poetry, you NEED to give this book a chance. If you’re not into poetry, this book will certainly make great strides in changing your mind. Trust me on this. Have I lied to you before?
to prove to each other
that this world
is a
beautiful
place.”
I feel bad for this Ben John Smith character. He seems to have quite a few problems, the foremost of which is this constant and incessant need to expose his drunken and wretched soul for the entertainment of those of us sadistic enough to listen. Ben John Smith suffers for his art like a sex-obsessed Jesus suffering for the foreskins of all mankind.
What I’m saying is, this book is fucking excellent. And now I’m going to tell you why:
I never really considered myself a “poetry guy.” I once took a creative writing class, years and years ago, and there was this dude in the class who always wore a black turtleneck and blue jeans who would write poetry. He would read his shit in front of the class; poems about riding on trains. Very paced, very metronomic. And when he was done, he would pause and slowly look up with one eyebrow arched, like we were all supposed to drop to our knees and start kissing his Birkenstocks for blessing us with his words. That was my perception of poetry. Until I got my hands on some Horror Sleaze Trash.
Herein are poems that are written to expose something ugly. Something uncomfortable. Something equal parts hilarious and painful. This takes true talent. This isn’t self-congratulatory, black turtleneck, arched eyebrow poetry. This is poetry in the fucking RAW! There's something visceral in Ben Smith’s writing. Something desperate. Something enlightening. Something real. There is something very intentional about every word and how it’s arranged on the page that just screams louder than the thunder THIS IS ART. And what he may lack in elaborate descriptions or flowery language, Smith more than makes up for with these emotional gut punches. And they don't stop. Some of the poems I had to read 2 or 3 times. Just because I couldn’t believe so few words could have such an impact.
If you’re into poetry, you NEED to give this book a chance. If you’re not into poetry, this book will certainly make great strides in changing your mind. Trust me on this. Have I lied to you before?
October 20, 2013
"These Are the Ones, Benny Boy"
Hey, Ben
I heard you had a bit of an accident. I hope you're well, or at least, on the mend.
I picked your book up this morning. I decided to start it straight away. I kept my head down and read it in one sitting.
Gee, that went down easily, just like a Clinton intern. Pretending to be famous.
Your verse has everything, nothing perverted of course. Just crazy, quirky, box and cock tales about perky tits, "tenting up" beneath your jeans and Polaroids of your dick taken "while it’s looking pretty big".
You made me laugh, about your silliness, your memories and your love, and I needed a laugh today. You might, too.
Hail to the King, Benny Boy.
"Now the Works of the Flesh are Evident"
I might have made the book sound very masculine. It is, but it will appeal to many women with an open heart, an open mind and open legs.
The works of the flesh are evident, it’s true. It’s not for the faint of heart. But they don’t live here anymore.
I encourage you to seek this book out, if you feel the allure of any of the following Galatian subject matter: sexual immorality, impurity, sensuality, idolatry, sorcery, enmity, strife, jealousy, fits of anger, rivalries, dissensions, divisions, envy, drunkenness, orgies and things like these.
Other reviewers have pointed out the influence of Charles Bukowski. The book could be an antipodean version of Henry Miller Lite in verse. I thought I could detect a groovy remake, remodel of the ratbag and former Moodist Dave Graney. Plus I could hear Tom Waits playing piano on the soundtrack.
"There is No Way We Could Pull Back Now"
Arthur Graham, author, raconteur, ecdysiast and publisher at Rooster Republic Press, let me have a squiz at this book for review purposes. By the time I get Ben into and out of a bar somewhere in Melbourne, I suspect that I will have devoted far more than the price of a hardback to this adventure. But isn’t that what a lush life is about?
I would also like to pay tribute to the layout of the verse done by the German artist, {ths}. This is the best presented book of prose or poetry I’ve seen since I discovered the English graphic artist Neville Brody in the 80’s.
VERSE:
Sunday Morning, Graye Starling Hotel, Collingwood
Ben and I are standing at this bar,
Desiccated elbows propping us up.
Freshly poured schooners arrive
In the clutch of a swell-titted
Beer wench from Belfast
Who goes by the name of Irene.
A little the worse for wear,
Thinking about the night before,
I spit out, that sure was some good shit.
"A mate drove it down from
Mullumbimby in a hotted-up
Red second-hand Ford."
No, not the dope, you dick.
I meant, I love your book.
We start to laugh all over again,
As if his reading hadn’t stopped,
Then we click our glasses, cheers,
And take our first sips of Amber Vitale.
"I wonder if they named this beer after a chick?"
SOUNDTRACK:
Tom Waits – “Romeo Is Bleeding”
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n7ieiI...
Dave Graney – “You’re Just Too Hip Baby”
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CcnWo7...
Hey, Ben
I heard you had a bit of an accident. I hope you're well, or at least, on the mend.
I picked your book up this morning. I decided to start it straight away. I kept my head down and read it in one sitting.
Gee, that went down easily, just like a Clinton intern. Pretending to be famous.
Your verse has everything, nothing perverted of course. Just crazy, quirky, box and cock tales about perky tits, "tenting up" beneath your jeans and Polaroids of your dick taken "while it’s looking pretty big".
You made me laugh, about your silliness, your memories and your love, and I needed a laugh today. You might, too.
Hail to the King, Benny Boy.
"Now the Works of the Flesh are Evident"
I might have made the book sound very masculine. It is, but it will appeal to many women with an open heart, an open mind and open legs.
The works of the flesh are evident, it’s true. It’s not for the faint of heart. But they don’t live here anymore.
I encourage you to seek this book out, if you feel the allure of any of the following Galatian subject matter: sexual immorality, impurity, sensuality, idolatry, sorcery, enmity, strife, jealousy, fits of anger, rivalries, dissensions, divisions, envy, drunkenness, orgies and things like these.
Other reviewers have pointed out the influence of Charles Bukowski. The book could be an antipodean version of Henry Miller Lite in verse. I thought I could detect a groovy remake, remodel of the ratbag and former Moodist Dave Graney. Plus I could hear Tom Waits playing piano on the soundtrack.
"There is No Way We Could Pull Back Now"
Arthur Graham, author, raconteur, ecdysiast and publisher at Rooster Republic Press, let me have a squiz at this book for review purposes. By the time I get Ben into and out of a bar somewhere in Melbourne, I suspect that I will have devoted far more than the price of a hardback to this adventure. But isn’t that what a lush life is about?
I would also like to pay tribute to the layout of the verse done by the German artist, {ths}. This is the best presented book of prose or poetry I’ve seen since I discovered the English graphic artist Neville Brody in the 80’s.
VERSE:
Sunday Morning, Graye Starling Hotel, Collingwood
Ben and I are standing at this bar,
Desiccated elbows propping us up.
Freshly poured schooners arrive
In the clutch of a swell-titted
Beer wench from Belfast
Who goes by the name of Irene.
A little the worse for wear,
Thinking about the night before,
I spit out, that sure was some good shit.
"A mate drove it down from
Mullumbimby in a hotted-up
Red second-hand Ford."
No, not the dope, you dick.
I meant, I love your book.
We start to laugh all over again,
As if his reading hadn’t stopped,
Then we click our glasses, cheers,
And take our first sips of Amber Vitale.
"I wonder if they named this beer after a chick?"
SOUNDTRACK:
Tom Waits – “Romeo Is Bleeding”
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n7ieiI...
Dave Graney – “You’re Just Too Hip Baby”
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CcnWo7...
July 30, 2013
"Now the works of the flesh are evident: sexual immorality, impurity, sensuality, idolatry, sorcery, enmity, strife, jeaousy, fits of anger, rivalries, dissensions, divisions, envy, drunkeness, orgies....." This piece of work is like stepping into the mind of a man who is able to express all the works of the flesh through his trials and tribulations. I am in love with the words on these pages. Simple words and statements brought together to give you a glimps into the male perspective. And not just any male; this book is def. a very personal collection of the author and how he views himself in his work,as well as how others view it. CHUMP is one of my favorite ones that illustrates this as well as THE BEST POEM I EVER WROTE and YOUR FUCKING RING. Other poems like THE BIG FELLA, PEPPERS TITS and CEMETERY HOTPANTS were fun reads, and if you can believe it I actually can relate to SHAVING MY BALLS (at least part 3 ha!). What I loved about these poems, is every one made me think or reevaluate my role as a female in a male female relationship. I'm a girl, the author a man, I feel I have more of the second side of the story now. The book as a whole has a very conflicting almost self depricating undertone feel to it that is picked up right away but still manages to convey an almost nonchalant comical voice. I love everything about this book from the cover, to the poems, to the bio and thank yous (I am intrigued by this D'Arne, being the best creature ever created and all. To quote THE DRIVE, I will leave you with this, "When I finish it, my eyes tear up and I tell him it was good. It was just kinda sad." Horror Sleaze Trash is my bedside table book.
RECEIVED VIA GOODREADS GIVEAWAYS
RECEIVED VIA GOODREADS GIVEAWAYS
April 15, 2013
Before I started writing songs and playing music, I started with poetry. It's not much of a gap, and it's not hard to understand that words are music. That being said, I have an affinity for a good lyric, a good line and god knows...
It doesn't have to rhyme.
I haven't read poetry in years, and when this book was suggested to me, this thought crossed my mind...
Dude... poems...
But these aren't your sissy, run of the mill poems. They're like little drunken vignettes.
Ben Smith captured something here, captured fragments of life. Desperation, tragedy, comedy, perversion, love, delusion. And he captured them with style, shamelessly. I instantly felt a bond of kinship.
I laughed quite a bit, I smiled often, and at times he plucked a few strings of my heart. I did not expect this. I was surprised. Jaded as I am, I am quite fond of anything that makes me remember that at one point, I was alive, that I am alive, and I'm not quite as dead inside as I like to tell my lovers.
I would be delighted to share this book with anybody who reads anything deeper than a sports page. There is some frothing talent here, and I came away from it smiling and inspired. Kudos, Ben Smith. Bravo.
November 10, 2015
I think it was how many times I smiled or laughed, but it could be the subject matter.....maybe it was that I really identified, like I was often the one in the poems. Okay, probably all three, but I thought that this was great.
We all have some disgusting habits or behaviors. I loved that Smith was able to turn his into what I just read. This guy is good....really good. I hope that there is more out there from the author. I will be looking.
We all have some disgusting habits or behaviors. I loved that Smith was able to turn his into what I just read. This guy is good....really good. I hope that there is more out there from the author. I will be looking.
December 31, 2013
I never knew I liked poetry until I read this book. Ben, you have awakened a monster.
1. Are you a man?
2. Do you drink too much?
3. Have you ever shaved your balls when you were drunk?
If you answered yes to all three of these questions, you will love this book. I hate poetry. But as a man who drinks too much and shaved his balls when he was drunk ONCE and only ONCE! I fell in love with this book.
You don't have to be a guy who hates poetry and ball-shaves to like this book. But it doesn't hurt. Now excuse me while I go take a bath and try to make my crotch feel better.
April 9, 2013
I expected to enjoy these poems, but I wasn't expecting them to be this good. They remind me of Bukowski, but without that usual feeling that someone is copying Bukowski. There are some similarities here, particularly in the kind of tenderness that can be demonstrated amongst the most non-tender things, but it feels all it's own. I feel no derivation here, though perhaps some influence (I don't know for sure). The poems are gritty, profane, austere, and moving. Far from using shocking material to cheap effect, they just dwell in life...which happens to be shocking. Poetry people will be able to appreciate how good these poems are, and like Bukowski non-poetry people will still be drawn to them. This is a poet we'll definitely be hearing more from.
March 23, 2013
1. Are you a man?
2. Do you drink too much?
3. Have you ever shaved your balls when you were drunk?
If you answered yes to all three of these questions, you will love this book. I hate poetry. But as a man who drinks too much and shaved his balls when he was drunk ONCE and only ONCE! I fell in love with this book.
You don't have to be a guy who hates poetry and ball-shaves to like this book. But it doesn't hurt.
2. Do you drink too much?
3. Have you ever shaved your balls when you were drunk?
If you answered yes to all three of these questions, you will love this book. I hate poetry. But as a man who drinks too much and shaved his balls when he was drunk ONCE and only ONCE! I fell in love with this book.
You don't have to be a guy who hates poetry and ball-shaves to like this book. But it doesn't hurt.
May 8, 2013
Honest, raw, confronting words - just how I like them
December 27, 2020
Can't believe it took me this long to get to this collection of Ben's. Absolutely love his writing, that madman. Definitely a collection to get a copy of.
June 3, 2013
He says he is the worlds most famous poet. Ben John Smith shits sea shells, dances with Cemetery Hot pants. And gives poetry a dirty word.
Beer, sleezy trash and dirty minded poetry. Kinda reminds me of Ethan Coen's poetry but more on the sexual content.
"Eating minestrone soup always made me feel like a gangster"
"Sometimes it needs air too. Its lonely in the dirty jeans and wants to see the world too"
"My shaft would grow harder. Firmer. Like those dinosaur toys that expand in a glass of water."
Some of the Titles:
★There's No Way
★Chestnut
★Shaving Balls (3 part epic)
★Stars on 45
Beer, sleezy trash and dirty minded poetry. Kinda reminds me of Ethan Coen's poetry but more on the sexual content.
"Eating minestrone soup always made me feel like a gangster"
"Sometimes it needs air too. Its lonely in the dirty jeans and wants to see the world too"
"My shaft would grow harder. Firmer. Like those dinosaur toys that expand in a glass of water."
Some of the Titles:
★There's No Way
★Chestnut
★Shaving Balls (3 part epic)
★Stars on 45
August 1, 2020
What I've always liked about Ben Smith (old or new) is the sensitivity howling between the laughter and the shaven genitals. God truly is a motherfucker if he can't forgive a maverick of such depth.
August 2, 2020
Oh man, what a collection. This is a deep dive into the recesses of a mind that feels eerily similar to anyone who has thought or done what not ought to be thought or done. Then there are moments of observation dangerously bordering on the profound. A terrific read!
April 12, 2023
Just a good book of random poems that are truly horrific, sleazy and trashy. Some made me laugh out loud and some were gut punches. Great for when you’re wanting something different!
January 17, 2024
My homie the Best poet.
August 5, 2015
only 2/3 through this, but fuck it. Ben John Smith is the kind of poet who, when you're reading him, makes you say, shit, why didn't i think of that? fuck, why didn't I see it that way. hell, where's a fucking pen and a piece of paper so i can start writing ideas down.
October 17, 2016
Only way for me to enjoy poems...
I rarely read poetry but this book kept me intrigued with the genre of the poems in this book. Thought it was cool read.
I rarely read poetry but this book kept me intrigued with the genre of the poems in this book. Thought it was cool read.
April 6, 2017
A full, detailed review will be posted soon.
Displaying 1 - 22 of 22 reviews