Horror Sleaze Trash: Poems Vol. 2

The long-awaited 2nd volume of Horror Sleaze Trash: Poems has finally arrived!

Featuring poetry by Jeff Weddle, Rob Plath, Jessica Heron, John D Robinson, Damon Hubbs, Clarice Hare, James Diaz, Donna Dallas, John Tustin, Jay Maria Simpson, J.J. Campbell, Kristin Garth, Andy Seven, Rp Verlaine, C. Renee Kiser, Nadja Moore, Anthony Dirk Ray, John Knoll, Alan Catlin, Bogdan Dragos, Omar Alexandre, John Grey, Michael Lee Johnson, Ryan Quinn Flanagan, Danny D. Ford, Devlin De La Chapa, Paul Tanner, Brian Rosenberger, Ben Newell, Saira Viola, Aimee Nicole, Johnny Scarlotti, David Boski, Matt Amott, Sherry Shahan, Joshua Jordan, G. Arthur Brown, John Yohe, Robert Guffey, Jacklyn Henry, PJ Grollet, Dustin King, Herman B. Triplegood, Eleanor Karinthy, Noel Negele, Dan Flore III, Ken Kakareka, Joseph Farley, Garvan Giltinan, Mather Schneider, Matt Dennison, Kyle Denner, Mendes Biondo, Daniel S. Irwin, Jason Melvin, Jon Bennett, Jeffrey Zable, Tohm Bakelas, Puma Perl, Judge Santiago Burdon, David Estringel, Damian Rucci, William Taylor Jr., John Grochalski, Mela Blust, Wolfgang Carstens, John Gartland, Alexander Poster, Paige Johnson, Walt Shulits, Scott Ferry, Jodie Baeyens, Noah David Roberts, Ruth Niemiec, Jay Passer, David J. Thompson, John Sweet, and Joseph Fulkerson.



Mike Zone

Tiny Desk Confessional

(to Effie)

Eye of the port
as the storm nears
imperial bedrooms quaking underneath zodiac trees
last supper inspiration
from a deck of cards
where communion has been rendered anything but
roller-derby brawler at the end of the world
fall down
burning bright
a celestial tigress aflame
claws tearing vapid skies
truth telling in a realm of toxic positivity
where the land that isn’t your land
is just the land
and so are you
skin to skin
beauty marks
corresponding with astrological projection
where do we find the reflections of oneself
but in other’s existential dread
in genuine paths 
in the places of dead roads
where romance has no place to fluctuate
but the nature of one’s being
no longer withholding
the desperation of truth
we all wish to speak
a tiny desk
the root of it all

Swingers Anonymous: Jonathan Woods


When two dead bodies and $20,000 in drug money show up at the end of a swingers party, Bill becomes…well, a little unglued.

Directed and produced by Quincy Perkins. Written and produced by Jonathan Woods.

Based on the story “Swingers Anonymous” by Jonathan Woods. 

Key West Film Festival, 2014 ~ Premier

FilmGate Miami, 2015 ~ Audience Award, Best Film; Best Actor, Tom Frank

Cannes Film Festival, 2015 ~ Short Film Corner

“A modern day Tell-Tale Heart, as if Edgar Allan Poe was a post-modern gonzo noir storyteller – Swingers Anonymous clearly reflects the influence of Hitchcock and Fellini, with a generous touch of the Coen brothers.” — Key West Citizen

“Classic filmmaking in 23 minutes.— Behind the Scenes

Jonathan Woods has written three pulp noir novels, A Death in MexicoKiss the Devil Good Night, and Hog Wild as well as two short story collections, Bad Juju & Other Tales of Madness and Mayhem and Phone Call from Hell and Other Tales of the Damned.

u.v. ray

The Passenger

it’s my last night in new york – still blazing and all the nightclubs are throwing out – not yet anywhere close to hitting baseline – with my fuses blown i’m caught in the symbiotic divide between the grey a morning and the violet luminescence a night

welter a white noise scuzzing round in my head – voices materialising throo the veil indistinct like a discharge a short-wave radio static – it’s 4 in the a.m – array a glittering street lights shift across the winnders a the taxi as it freewheels like blud throo the veins a the city in a stream a red tail lights – the cab slows down as we drift past the china doll XXX titty bar and they’re blasting out milkshake by kelis – two thin thai girls wearing nothing but tiny gold bikinis are standing outside the door smoking cigarettes – taxi driver’s got one good eye and the other one made a plastic – i ask myself was he in an accident or malformed in the womb  – the fucking thing freaks me out man – it just stares fixed in place – it don’t move in its socket at all as he eyeballs me in the rear view mirror and whistles with his tongue stuck throo his teeth

ooooh them girls just look at them knockout girls    he says

them kind a girls ain’t nothing but a badluck charm   i tell him   that kind a pussy is

  enough to drive any man to the nuthouse

but i don’t really look at nothing – i’m just a disconnected viewer operating on disparate frequencies – the last strands a my existence stretched out across the sky – acute pinpoints a light detonate in my peripheral vision – colours fading all fast and thin – black silhouettes – freeze frame stills jump cut all around me as if everything is playing out on a roll a black and white film and sumbody hit ffw>> on the video machine 

the cab lurches to a stop at a red light where on the corner there stands a bunch a skinny transvestites their bony fingers beckoning cars and all their jewels glinting in the passing headlights – the taxi driver shifts the auto box to P and he sits and drums his hands on the steering wheel in time to a roxy music track playing on the radio – graffiti sprayed across the steel shutters at the bank of america says corporate blood money / donate here– driver asks me what line a work i’m in and i tell him it’s a line a work more lucrative than blud diamonds – he laughs and waves his hand and says he don’t even wanna know nothing about that kind a shit – i keep staring out the back winnder up above the tower blocks looking at the vast expanse a stars and i bomb another wrap a speed and tell him that’s good cuz people who know too much get chopped up and put in cans a tuna fish

gleaming expressways shift in and out a the city – old crumbling buildings with paint peeling from walls stand alongside the steel and glass a the new – at 60 mph the driver holds the steering wheel between his elbers and sparks up a cigarette – he balls me in the mirror again and smiles with his teeth yeller as mustard

come off it hotshot who you think you tryna kid

we glide throo the streets as the night begins to dissipate – merging at the infinite horizon an amalgam of smoke and flame – everything is broken – the gods and angels are dead – hudson river glittering as the sun prepares to ignite – i’m being driven back to my hotel past empty billboards and vacant lots – four parked police cars on the sidewalk outside maggi lee’s 24hr chop suey café – red lights revolving strobing the street but nothing can animate the kodachrome picture a three incinerated bodies lying like heaps a charcoal on the ground – a young cop and an older cop stand and scan the scene with their flashlights and throo the taxi driver’s open winnder as the cab crawls by i hear the young cop say

jesus it’s just about enough to mek yr hair stand on end ain’t it – you know the

  first time i saw sumthin like this i threw up

and the older cop nods his head sagely and looks around – he douses his flashlight and hooks it back on his utility belt

i reckon i’m gonna have me sum a that good old chop suey while we wait for the

  coroner   he says

the old long yard the taxi driver tells me they call this place but it’s just a wasteground full a ruptured concrete and bits a railroad track jammied between a brick building and a chain link fence surrounding a dilapidated concrete basketball court that’s sposed to be for the neighborhood kids but is littered with syringes and broken glass

for the most part i myself never ask no questions about stuff no more – anaesthetized all i wanna do is absorb a shit load a speed into my bludstream – fuck myself up – fry my brain until the blud seeps from every pore as the price a fissile plutonium falls and our politicians itch to drop atom bombs

on the surface everything appears to sparkle and shine but i look in the faces a strangers on the streets tonight – everybody in trancelike states totalled on oxycodone and the intravenous bullshit drip fed to them throo newspapers and shell shock television shows – everybody at odds with life – howling like stray dogs in the alleyways becuz a the fatal manoeuvres in their lives 

i tell you summat   the taxi driver says    the dead bodies round this joint are amongst

  sum a the city’s most fortunate sons

from the car’s glove compartment the driver fetches a half bottle a vodka and takes a swig –  he puts the bottle between his legs and pulls a left heading west and five minutes later the headlights a the taxi contour my hotel as the driver rolls the big old Ford to a stop outside – he flicks on his yeller hazard warning lights punches a button on the taximeter and holds out his hand for the dollar bills

and you know it’s all too late – the rolling a the dice is underway – all the people out there fighting their silent private wars – and there’s no use praying now to the old stone gods that no longer exist and wouldn’t lift their little finger for you even if they did

so here’s to the beauty of this world and all the workers on the factory lines – here’s to all the drinkers in all the bars and all the gamblers at the roulette tables – here’s to the lonely and all them who’ve bin driven demented – here’s to the suicidal – the lost and broken hearted – here’s to the drifters of the streets –  and here’s to all those who sit alone late at night in tenement blocks burning cigarette holes in their own arms cuz they’re scared a the nightmares that come every time they close their eyes

here’s to all the losers in the game

they got a candy machine in the foyer a the hotel – i drop a dollar in the slot and press the button and pick up the bag a gummy bears that fall into the tray – the blonde night receptionist tells me to be looking over my shoulder up there and to make sure i lock my door

we’ve had sum rough looking customers check in tonight   she warns   bunch a guys

  just passing throo on their way to lenoxville 

the receptionist says she suspects they might be on the run summat to do with all that bad blud down in lakewood that’s bin all over the news

couple a people dead   she states closing her eyes tight like she’s going to sleep

 i walk over to the elevator and punch the call button

it’s the same the world over   i shrug    when yr number’s up it’s up pumpkin

i ride the elevator up to the 5th floor – back in my room i switch on the teevee with the sound turned down and hit the minibar – there’s old lipstick stains on the dirty glass i’m drinking whisky from

i lie back on the bed and stare at the dull grey walls – stretch my arms out like angel wings – there’s a spring busted in the mattress and i feel it sticking in my back – a reflection a red neon light slithers throo the winnder blind

my flight home is at 10pm tonight

Dan Flore III

Hits and Tits

two women
posted pictures
showing their breasts

the first woman
was naked
her nipples just there
hanging out
like cow udders 

the other woman
was talking about self help
but positioned the camera
right on her cleavage

I really shouldn’t be
seeing either of their breasts
I’m just scrolling through social media
but since I am

I can’t help but imagine
their breasts in a wrestling match
swatting at each other

until one woman’s tits
finally pins the other
with more likes

Ken Kakareka

Fuckin’ Pussy Licker 

Fuckin’ pussy licker
I said 
as piss skipped 
down the front 
of my pants 
as I was 
taking a piss. 
As a cockroach 
skittered up 
the wall 
and into 
the cupboard 
before I could 
obliterate him. 
As the clock 
struck 8
and I was late 
to be somewhere.
As my head 
from a migraine
that sprang upon me 
10 minutes earlier 
like an unwelcomed 
As it was 
a week before 
and I realized 
Christmas day 
was going to be 
80 and sunny 
in Fullerton, California. 
As my wife 
snuck up 
behind me, 
bit my ear, 
and squeezed 
my lonjas 
and said, 
Lick my pussy, 

HSTQ: Winter 2023

horror, adj. inspiring or creating loathing, aversion, etc.

sleaze, adj. contemptibly low, mean, or disreputable

trash, n. literary or artistic material of poor or inferior quality

Welcome to HSTQ: Winter 2023, the curated collection from Horror, Sleaze and Trash!

Featuring poetry by Scott Ferry, Eleanor Karinthy, John Tustin, John Gartland, PJ Grollet, C. Renee Kiser, Paige Johnson, Rob Plath, Joseph Farley, Damon Hubbs, Herman P. Triplegood, Jacklyn Henry, Kristin Garth, Ryan Quinn Flanagan, and Donna Dallas.

Get your FREE ebook here!

J.J. Campbell

one last run at greatness

the spanish princess is 
a vision in red

the gasoline to my desires

the energy propping up 
this old soul for one last 
run at greatness

suicide lovers racing against 
time, against all the powers 
that be

trying to prove love can still 
find a light in a world of darkness

reaching for a sun that gives 
more than just cancer

a sweet kiss on the edge 
of the night

endless miles between us

hope a flailing mistress 
in the wind

you live by the sword, you sadly 
know how you are going to die

a field of black roses

a sunset on the western plain

you once had a dream that 
your lover took you to the 
mountains and made love 
to you before the lions came 
to eat you

welcome to a brand-new tomorrow

James Babbs


When I answered the phone and heard him say Jimbo I knew exactly who it was.  It didn’t matter how long it had been since the last time I’d seen him.  I slowly let my breath out before I spoke again.

-Mark, I said.  It’s been a long time.-

-Yeah, he said.  How you doin’ little brother?-

-Okay, I said.  What about you?-

-Ahhe said.  You know.-

We both waited.  I guess neither one of us wanted to be the first one to continue.

-LookMark finally said.  I wanted to see you.  Will you meet me somewhere?

I said, I don’t know.  Things are kind of busy.-

-It won’t take long.-

-Alright, I said and he gave me the name of a bar.  I told him I knew where it was.


He was a dozen years older than me.  Grown up and gone from the house before I had made it to the second grade.  Most of the time it felt like I didn’t even have a brother except for an occasional letter or a stray phone call in the middle of the night.  I remember, when I turned 21, he just showed up out of the blue, laughing and hanging out with me and my friends like nothing was wrong.  And he insisted on buying me my first beer.  And a shot, he said.  I had to do a shot and a beer.  It was a good night and Mark seemed to be doing okay but in the morning he was gone with his scribbled note left on the front door–stay out of trouble kid, and then I didn’t hear from him again for another four years.

When Dad died I wondered if Mark would show up for the funeral.  Him and Dad never got along too well.  There was always something between them.  I think they were too much alike.  Both of them filled with restlessness.  I remember Dad talking about all of the things he had wanted to do before he married Mom.  I remember Mom telling me how Dad had wanted Mark to come work with him in the garage but Mark told Dad no.  It broke your father’s heart, Mom said, but he never admitted it to Mark.  Both of them could be really stubborn at times.  Maybe Dad resented Mark for going off and doing his own thing.  We never heard from Mark.  I think Mom kept looking for him the night of the visitation but he never showed up.  The next day at the funeral I could tell Mom was thinking about Mark but he never showed up and Mom and I never mentioned it.

Two years later when our Mom died Mark called me on the phone.  He told me how sorry he was he couldn’t be there.  He said it was just too hard.  The connection wasn’t very good and his voice sounded far away.  At one point I thought I had lost him and I almost hung up.  But then I heard him again.  Oh yeah, he said.  Too bad about Dad, Jimbo, but I’m sure you took care of it.  And before I could tell him what I really wanted to say the phone disconnected and he was gone.


So it was after ten and I knew I should’ve been going home but there I was heading toward this bar where Mark wanted to meet me.  I could hear Kelly’s voice telling me I shouldn’t go.  I could hear her saying I should tell my brother no.  I should tell him I’m sorry but I can’t do it this time.  But wives didn’t understand what it was like for brothers.  Hell, I don’t know.  Maybe I didn’t really understand it myself.  I mean, how many times had I agreed to meet him?  How many times had he asked me for money?  And how many times had I given it to him?  If Kelly ever found out.  But like I said, sometimes, wives just didn’t understand.

It looked like a rough crowd when I entered the bar.  I didn’t see Mark but I went ahead and took a seat along the wall.  I ordered myself a beer and Mark appeared from out of nowhere.  I barely recognized him.  His head was shaved completely bald.  He reminded me of Dad.  The same eyes and his smile with that slight hint of mystery.  Right then I realized my brother was getting old.

-Jimbo, he said.

I thought he sounded tired.  He eased himself into the chair on the opposite side of the table.  He ordered a ginger ale but I didn’t say anything.  I just kept touching the sides of my glass with the tips of my fingers.

-How much do you need?  I finally said.

I saw him laugh and then he closed his eyes.

-More than you’ll ever know, he said.  

But he said it so softly I wondered if he meant to say it out loud.  He looked right at me.

-Jimbo, he said.  It’s not about money this time.-

-WellI said.  What is it?-

But Mark wasn’t in any hurry.  He leaned back and ran his hand across the top of his bare head.

-So, how do you like it?  He said.

I told him I’d thought about doing it a few times.

-But, I said.  I don’t think the wife would approve

-Oh, he said.  So, are you in love?

I thought it was a strange question for my brother to ask me.

-Yes, I said.  I guess I am.-

-Good, he said.  You deserve it.-

I thought he was going to ask me about her but he just reached into his pocket.

-Here, he said.  I have something for you.-

He opened up his hand and let the small stone drop on the table.  I just looked at him.

-You don’t remember?  He said.

-No.  Should I?

-Well, Mark said.  You gave it to me.  You weren’t very old.  You told me it would protect me.-

-And you kept it all these years?  I said.

He shrugged and took a sip from his ginger ale.

-But why are you giving it to me?  I asked.

-I don’t know, he said.  I guess I don’t need it anymore-

I wasn’t sure what he meant but I could tell it was useless for me to ask.  I picked up the stone and held it in my hand.  I finished my beer and Mark bought me another one.  Later, when we walked out to the parking lot I asked him if he needed a ride.

-No, he said.  I’m not headed any place you are.-

He touched my arm.

-Stay out of trouble, kid, he said.

Then he turned and disappeared into the darkness.

Driving home I thought about the stone Mark had given to me and a memory came back to me.  It was a birthday party when I turned eight.  There were ten or twelve other kids and Mom made us hamburgers and homemade French fries.  I remember we were all in the backyard.  Mark wasn’t there but he showed up when Mom was getting ready to serve the cake.  He was drunk and Dad and Mark got into a huge fight.  Mark kept wanting to sing Happy Birthday to me and all of us kids thought he was funny but Dad told him he needed to leave.  I remember how Mark pushed Dad and Dad rushed at him.  I remember how Mark fell on the cake and we couldn’t help but laugh until Mom started crying and Dad told us kids to go in the house.  Dad said he was going to take us to the food court in the mall and we could have anything we wanted.  I remember Mark sitting on the ground with cake smeared in his hair and all over his clothes. I heard Dad telling him, maybe you shouldn’t be here when we get home.  I remember the way Dad looked at Mom.  It must’ve been later that night/, after I had gone to sleep, when Mark came into my room.  I just remember waking up and seeing his face.  He put his finger to his lips and told me to be quiet.  That’s when I gave the stone to him.  Because he said he was leaving and he might not see me for a really long time.  I told him Denny found it down by the creek and he gave it to me.  I said, it’ll protect you.  I remember Mark said, oh yeah?  From what?  I told him, from anything, and he laughed.  Okay buddy, he said.  Okay.  You better go back to sleep.

Preacher Allgood

kind of perfect

the perfect poem doesn’t exist
nor does the perfect blow job
the perfect cover band
or the perfect alibi

but so what
the blow job broke a long dry spell
the cover band flailed and screamed
the alibi held up for a while
and the poem appeared in a zine
edited by insane people 
all during a week when chaos
battered the rich man’s stock market

and that’s kind of perfect
in a don’t give a fuck
kind of way