The Farthest Fields are all Flowers
56 pages, Sanctimonious Press
the ashes were blown
from his bones &
swept into the
trailing winds of a
passing 18 wheeler
yet he careened along
a continuous mass
overlaid onto the
& abandoned farmhouses
BUY A COPY HERE
in the crowded room
waiting on the second
nerve pill to kick in
young and old
black and white
men and women
I don’t think the old black women
are here for a vasectomy
it is a gender fluid world now
so I could be wrong
maybe they have trouble peeing
what if their occupation
was that of a degrading dominatrix
specializing in water sports
the inability to pass urine
would be affecting their income
it could be a tax write off
She’s a Lot Better Than Me…
… and I knew that.
so why did I climb into the ring with her?
and why is the bar always jumping
when you’re getting your ass whupped, gloves off,
“… the hell were you thinking?”
by the sexiest woman?
“don’t you ever think?”
not deeply enough…
“god damn you!”
that’s a righteous right hook…
“you are such a…”
and a stinging jab…
“I should cut your…”
below the belt, but the ref doesn’t call it,
just pours me another shot
“… can’t believe…”
that smells like guilt,
“… back of my truck – my truck… ”
and tastes like eighty-proof stupidity,
“… my own fucking sister??!”
(also known as my boss’s wife…)
my corner man slaps another beer on the bar,
trying to stanch those cuts, but
the bell rings too soon,
and the next punch
god, she’s beautiful.
she telegraphs the next combination,
but I’m too proud to duck:
(full wind-up bitch-slap)
and the fight’s over –
I hit the floor,
she hits the door,
and the crowd goes wild.
inspiring or creating loathing, aversion, etc.
contemptibly low, mean, or disreputable
literary or artistic material of poor or inferior quality
Welcome to HSTQ: Fall 2019, the curated collection from Horror, Sleaze and Trash!
Featuring poetry by Mendes Biondo, Ben Newell, Alan Catlin, David Boski, J.J. Campbell, Casey Renee Kiser, John D Robinson, Anthony Dirk Ray, Damion Hamilton, Johnny Scarlotti, Maté Jarai, Jacob Ian DeCoursey, Scott Manley Hadley, Bogdan Dragos, Jack Henry, A.Theist, Thumper Devotchka, and Garvan Giltinan
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In pumpkin shades of streetlight
the vampires, the witches,
the double-stitched cloaks of aspiring wizards
swish through willowy, puddled alleys,
round the draughty tenement doors
and their gloomily-lit hallways.
Sacks of sugar-coated lollies
promise twilight turmoil, late-night frenzies
wrestling with demons and sibling rivalries.
Tangerine skins and monkey nut shells
will cling to shabby carpets
like departed souls that refuse to be expelled.
When the town sleeps, a pylon on the hill crumbles
like the burnt wick of a birthday candle.
The damp soil underfoot moulders and rots
until skinless fingers rake the sod,
hauling its entire frame to the surface
and we watch the shaded Mound of the Hostages
as it slowly lurches down towards us.
St. Tropez Tan
to my dishwashing job
when I see
a big-ass beer truck
parked outside Walgreen’s…
FIND YOUR BEACH
The driver mops his brow
with a handkerchief
then hoists another
He hasn’t found his
and something tells me
he likely never will—
As for me
the only water on the horizon
is mixed with
But I’ll keep getting shit-faced
of hot sand beneath my feet
as topless French women
beg for my autograph.