Poetry: Selections from PJ Grollet
the hotel maid said no
I woke up in the hotel room and
lain next to me in the bed—the maid.
she was in a deep sleep, didn’t respond
when I nudged her to wake. I called the
front desk, to complain. “we’ll do our
best to get her up,” said the agent, “but
expect from housekeeping—poor service
for the rest of your stay.” what is this?
I thought to myself and then the woman,
an older, black lady, popped out from under
the covers. she had slept in the maid uniform
—a classic black and white—but now
awake, she wore a neon spandex tank and
biker shorts and what a woman she was!
makeup on, hair braided and beaded whilst
her body pressed, struggled against the nylon
stretch. I went to kiss her straight away; her
tongue and mouth cold, like she’d been
sucking ice. I pawed at her ass and haunches,
pulled her in close and grinded my erection
into her, through my boxer briefs. we
continued like that—to the bathroom; ready
to fuck, I grabbed a hold of her wrist, placed
her hand on my cock, when calmly she said,
“no. I can’t do this.”
black rites in a Sunday
the feature story in this week’s
Parade magazine profiled a woman
from England with long white hair,
a priestess, who ministered
bizarre black masses.
the piece included multiple photos
of the woman and of her rituals too.
she and her disciples cloaked themselves in
hooded black robes and performed their
unholy rites underneath ominously shaped,
mirrored chandeliers which emanated a
macabre sort of power, a strength
onto the celebrants of the black mass.
through the sorcery, a handful of the
higher initiates transfigured into
hellish, black-wet lizard creatures.
the priestess was quoted, “I am here to bring
darkness into the world.”
yikes, I said to myself, who thought this
would be a good article for the Sunday paper?
a man recounted the following story to his woman:
“during my time in Vietnam, a young boy helped
the team; he must have been 12 or 13 when I
first met him. the kid was mentally unstable,
sadistic even, but I promised to bring him over
after the war. otherwise, he would have been
killed for sure.
by the time we cleared out, the boy was 15 or 16.
he was a big kid, would have played linebacker and
he wore his hair long, down to his shoulders.
a family here in the States agreed to take him in.
a family with young children and I never told them
anything about the boy; not about what he’d
seen, or done.
for a while, things were okay until one afternoon,
the kid went psychotic and savagely bludgeoned,
sodomized their two young boys in the playroom.”
“oh my God!” his woman screamed. “how could
you do that? that’s your fault! that’s all on you!”
the man needed to unburden himself of his story and
his woman claimed she wanted for him to open up. the
blowback of repulsion was unexpected, crushing.
as the man packed his things to move out, he
considered how these shared living arrangements
never seemed to work out for him.
PJ Grollet is the scribe for the five-volume series, The Book of Dreams and has been published in Horror Sleaze Trash, Stereo Stories, āraśi, and Bare Back Magazine.
Post a Comment