Robert Guffey

mom 2.0

what’s far more painful than your absence
is the knowledge that you
lied to me 
and snuck around 
behind my 
back 
and refused to discuss your
feelings with me, 
despite the fact that for ten months I had to endure constant 
accusations
of lying cheating satanic sacrifice and murder, despite the fact that every emotion 
i could give 
was given willingly
with no strings attached, no recompense demanded–
except for openness 
and 
honesty.

odd,
now that i think about it,
how much you resent your mom for cheating on your
dad,
how much you resent her for not appreciating all he 
sacrificed for you, your sister, your mother,
how much you resent her for playing games with your dad’s emotions,
how much you resent her compulsion to shut down her heart when situations get too stressful,
how much you resent her for running away rather than face a difficult situation head-on,
how much you resent her for molding you into a newer,
more elegant and sleeker version,
of her.

Judge Santiago Burdon

Bad Poetry is Bad Poetry 

“I just can’t figure it out,” she moaned. “No one seems to be reading my poems. I post them in my writing groups and even on the rest of those bullshit social media sites. I’m not getting any comments or likes.” She

“Wish I had an answer for you.”

“I’ve been thinking I should change the font of my poems. Maybe print them in a classical style format. I know, then post them over an image of a scene that captures the poems’ themes. What do you think?”

“My opinion isn’t important. I’m not at all familiar with how to present a piece of literature. Marketing is a mystery to me. I have no taste. People think I suffer from ageusia.

It was my poor excuse for not wanting to give her the actual reason.

“Why won’t you answer my question? I would really appreciate your professional critique. I’m trying to reach a larger audience and I believe the reason for my poor readership is the way my poems are presented. If I make them more attractive by adding a few features to capture their attention, I will become more popular and recognized. Don’t you believe it’s true? Tell me what you think.”

“My professional opinion? I’m not sure I can be categorized as a professional. Okay, if you want my take on your conundrum I’ll offer my honest assessment. And please don’t get all defensive and uptight and shit. Don’t take it as a personal attack.”

“Of course not. I know you’ll be honest. Why are you going to put me down?”

“I’m going to offer my opinion.”

“Okay, tell me.”

“I think you’re way off course. You’re not seeing where the actual problem lies. The early classic poets didn’t have social media and marketing tools available to dress up their work. Dylan Thomas, Robert Frost, Emily Dickinson and the Beat Poets as well, their poems became favored because of the content. The poem stood as a great piece of literature solely on the words alone. What is your reason for writing a poem?”

“I’m not really sure. I guess because it is something that is easy for me to do. Plus I think I can become famous and wealthy for my poems.”

“Your purpose for writing a poem is insincere. If your intention is to use it as a tool to attempt to win a popularity contest, receive sympathy, praise or become famous and shit like that, then you’ve missed what the purpose of poetry is about.”

“What, you don’t think I’m a real poet?”

“I think anyone that creates a poem is a poet. But not every poet is talented. Some just produce ‘bad poetry’ pablum, doggerel, drivel or pure shit.”

“So you think my poetry is shit?”

“Your poetry is always about you. About your thoughts, desires and dreams. You believe your experiences, your emotions and your opinions are as important to everyone else as they are to you. ‘Just because it happened to you doesn’t make it interesting’. You’re so depressed, so misunderstood. What I interpret from the poem is that it’s a pathetic cry for attention and sympathy. Then there’s the sappy, cheesy love poems filled with grammar school rhymes and overused phrases. Love and dove or above, home and roam. When’s the last time you roamed? Pure shit. How can anyone not see their poems as mediocre or ordinary? You’ve spent more time thinking about and planning the its presentation than the 10 minutes you spent creating the poem itself. And then you use cliches and idioms that were created by someone else and have been overused, worn out. Have you ever considered the fact you may just be a shitty poet? And as far as your ideas to gain attention, when I see a poem overlayed on a picture with fancy, hard-to-read fonts in some jumbled format, I don’t even take the time to read the title. I think if it takes all of that bullshit to giftwrap the poem, its content can’t possibly be worthwhile. Then people wonder why their poem has been rejected by every magazine they’ve sent it to.”

“You don’t have to be so mean. I just asked for help, not your degradation. Ya know what, fuck you. Your opinion doesn’t make you right.”

“That’s correct, I never claimed to be right. I said I would give you my honest opinion.”

“No sex for you until, when? Maybe forever.”

“If that’s the case I may as well add one other point. I see it so often that a poem with a creative theme turns into a mumbling, stuttering piece of rhymed words, completely losing the poem’s original theme. The emotions become secondary to a line or verse written to appease the rhyme. What’s left is that the feel becomes lost in a mixture of tangled words.”

“What makes you Mr. Know it All, huh? I don’t see your books on the bestseller list or your poems being quoted. Just who do you think you are?”

“Guess I shouldn’t have said anything like the hundreds of others that don’t read or comment on your poetry. Now here you are reacting exactly like everyone that doesn’t receive flattering comments. You said you wouldn’t become defensive. You believe everyone should shower you with praise. Do you know what else I see as a problem? There’s this undeserving praise or kudos given to someone who obviously has no talent for writing. They post their poetry and it receives a false positive response. What people are doing with their bullshit comments of approval is giving the person an unrealistic assessment of their writing. An untruthful evaluation of their poem or talent is a cruel act. False encouragement will backfire on them sometime. It’s considered being nice, but I’d rather have an honest critique of my writing, positive or not, instead of bullshit. I don’t need anyone to be nice, I prefer the truth. 

“You hurt my feelings. I thought you would give me advice, not belittle me. You don’t know what being nice is.”

“Please, whatever you do, don’t write a poem about it, trust me. I’m sorry if you’re upset but it’s just the way I see things. Ya know what, didn’t you take some painting classes a couple years back? Maybe you should take a shot at being an artist instead.”

Ken Kakareka

Jam

Now I know why 
Bukowski quit at 35 
and went on 
a 10 year drunk 
after 10 years
of hammering 
the keys 
with little 
to no return

I am in 
a similar boat
35 is a scary age – 
especially when 
you’ve worked 
so hard 
for so long 
at something 
with little to show

Especially in 
a society where 
we have to show
Maybe that’s why 
show and tell 
was such a big deal 
in grade school
Maybe that’s why 
there was so much 
ridicule 
if you didn’t have 
much to show

Bukowski didn’t have 
much to show 
after 10 years of 
pouring his soul 
through words, 
so he quit 
temporarily
Luckily, 
he bounced back
I don’t know 
if I’d be so lucky 
if I quit

I’m trying to use 
the wisdom at hand 
not to quit
It’s not my wisdom, 
but I’ll borrow it 
for the time being 
if it gets me 
out of a jam

Daniel S. Irwin

The Stranger

Now, here’s a bearded wonder
Wandering into the bar,
Red suit, boots, hat and all.
“Ho, ho, ho!  Drinks all ‘round!
When Santa drinks,
Everybody drinks.”  Okay,
Fine by me.  He could be
Tinkerbell for all I care.
But, I’ll have a drink
Or two or three on him.
Whoever this guy was,
He came in on ‘empty’.
Guzzled down whatever
Like he was a fish.  Hell of a
Dayshift bender.  Ol’ Nick
Could really put it away.
Then he headed to the door,
“Merry Christmas to all!”
Barkeep says, “Who’s payin’
For all this booze, Santa?”
“Why, my elves of course.”
“What elves, Mr. Claus?”
“My elves, everyone drinkin’
Here with me.”  Ain’t nobody
Pullin’ that stuff at Fred’s Bar.
Me, and the rest of the ‘elves’
Ran out the door chasing after
That fat bastard.  Didn’t matter.
He eluded us all.  That’s the fastest
I’ve ever seen a fat man run.
Drained our pockets and gave us
A good reason to look forward
To Santa’s next Christmas visit.
We’ll surely be waiting with
Milk and cookies and a
Baseball bat.

Damon Hubbs

Impression

after Thom Gunn’s ‘Expression’

for several months I’ve been reading
the poetry of my juniors
or maybe they’re my contemporaries
it’s hard to tell 

who’s who these days
there’s so many voices 
battling in best of 
the beat cover bands

and there’s still much talk 
of Mother, the abandoner
and Daddy, the angry alcoholic 
both hated equally

however 
all that hatred 
was confessed better 
long ago.  

I go to the Art Museum 
though I’m not sure what it is 
I’m looking for 

Pop Art 
doesn’t pop 
and Impressionism 
fails to make 
an impression 

then I reach it, I recognize it

I’ve acquired a taste 
more primary than art considers proper
so I head out the emergency exit 
to find a blowjob and a sandwich.  

John Tustin

Sex Games 

You could be younger
and getting wet thinking about
dancing for me,
aiming to please;
shaking that phat azz at the edge of my bed
while I get all worked up
over that mesmerizing shimmering flesh

or you could be getting old like me,
wanting the attention someone else
has made you feel like you don’t deserve,
finally emerging from that pit and into my arms,
wanting to be pawed all over.

I’ve played these sex games for decades
with women I’ve met –
at work
on social media
between the stacks of library books –
but it’s rarely worked out
and when it has,
it hasn’t been for long.
Now I’ve stopped looking
but I oddly haven’t given up hope.

If you think every whisper in the ear
must be I Love You
or if you think some words are never nice
and your gender studies professor 
or psychotherapist belongs in bed with us,
then maybe we should both look elsewhere:

and if you think rough sex just means
a man thrusting as quickly as he can
and if you think that being submissive
in bed 
just means letting him thrust like that
then it was nice meeting you
but let’s not waste each other’s time
any further:

I can’t thrust that hard anymore.

Robert Guffey

flop flip

she says, “this smokin’ hot japanese girl at the vegetarian  
restaurant down the street 
has been flirting with me every day.  she keeps asking 
to see all my tattoos, just to make me lift up my 
shirt and stuff—you know that ploy.  I think you used 
it on me, didn’t you?  she came all the way into fingerprint’s
just to give me some free coffee.  she used to 
have a multi-colored mohawk, but now she’s 
growing it out.  her tats are as hot as her tight body.  oh, 
man, I don’t know if I can take it anymore.  would you 
mind if I fucked this cunt in front of you and get it 
out of the way before I go ahead and cheat on you with
this little bitch?”

I say, “jesus!  why the fuck not?  how soon can we 
get this to happen?”

she says, “oh my god, I can’t believe it.  you would do 
that?  you think so little of our relationship that you’d 
let some chick you’ve never even met before fuck me
right in front of you?  how could you even stand to watch 
that happen?  how?  how?”

I whisper, “but… I… thought… you wanted that to 
happen.”

she says, “it doesn’t matter what i want.  what are your
priorities?  what matters most to you?  that’s what’s
important here.  is nothing sacred to you?  what’s wrong
with you?”

Matthew J. Gleason

Disasturbation

The flies circled in the sky above like great vultures. Their wings cast shadows on the rust colored sand below. I may be the last person left alive. I hope I am. No one deserves this suffering. I should have given up already but my body wants to live even if my mind does not. I grasped my manhood firmly and begin to masturbate. Pleasure can be an effective if brief distraction.

The flies were not an invading or alien force. It would have been simpler if that was the case. We could fight them and kill them and be done with it. No,they came from us. For years secularism and reason had grown powerful and secure in their hold on the human mind then this all went and fucked it up. Chaos was king again. We were cursed by our own desire. The human orgasm became a tool of human destruction. When it first happened to me I was in the dark of my bedroom playing with my meat. I came with the usual lively joy followed immediately by minor shame. Then I felt them squirming around my lap; flowing like mud through the small folds of my hairy scrotum. I turned on the light. I was covered in two dozen or so tiny white maggots. 

This in the coming days would prove to be a non unique experience. It wasn’t just those with cocks either. The whole human race was producing that vile shit upon each and every orgasm.  The world was overrun with those sticky little bastards in a week. That would have been bad enough. The metamorphoses turned the disgusting into the apocalyptic. The maggots grew large as bears. They walled themselves off in chrysalises for no longer than a few hours.If they were not destroyed by then the creatures emerged as fully formed flies identical in appearance to houseflies save their massive size which in some cases rivaled that of whales. The smallest of  them were larger than horses. They were hateful things. The flies would swoop down and devour animals and people like ripe fruit. 

As I manually pleasured myself I eyed the monstrous flies circling above. They saw me  but there was little urgency in taking my life. I closed my eyes and replayed an orgy I had once attended in vivid detail. I felt the most likely long dead mouth wrap its lips around the base of my cock. The imagination is a wondrous thing. I shuddered in ecstasy as I busted my vile nut. Upon opening my eyes it took a moment to adjust my vision to the blinding light of the sun. When I was able to see the fifty or so tiny worms I had produced squirming in the sand I quickly set to work gathered them into a small pile. “See this you bastards?!” I shouted up to the monsters. They seemed to be flying lower than before. I shoved several maggots into my dry and mostly toothless mouth. They sprayed bitter juice when I crushed them between my bleeding gums. 

Suddenly one of the flies was on  me. It probed at my eyes with its proboscis. Its six limbs engulfed my body. It was vibrating with joy and fluttering its massive semi translucent wings. That’s when I went for the blade I had taped to my side. It was more a broken beer bottle than a blade but for these purposes it might as well have been a magical sword. I stabbed the fucker once. It attempted to tighten its hold on me. I stabbed it three  or four more times, taking care to poke holes in one of its wings. It attempted to fly away and join its brethren which still flew above us. It could do little more than hop like a one legged chicken. I went wild. I no longer used the broken glass. I ripped into it with my bare hands and extracted its innards. They felt cool and soothing against my sunburnt skin. Eventually it stopped moving. I would be eating very good tonight. 

HSTQ: Fall 2022

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: Fall 2022, the curated collection from Horror, Sleaze and Trash!

Featuring poetry by Ken Kakareka, Devlin De La Chapa, David Estringel, Kristin Garth, Jeff Weddle, William Taylor Jr., C. Renee Kiser, Jessica Heron, Dustin King, Damon Hubbs, John Yohe, Ryan Quinn Flanagan, Walt Shulits, Alexander Poster, John Tustin, and Damian Rucci.

Get your FREE ebook here!

PJ Grollet

Czech casting video

I watched the video with  
Marbela (4078) and they did

the “just the tip” thing and I
almost lost my mind and they

say those that can’t write the 
poem write the short story and

those that can’t do that write
the novel and by the end of the

video she said, “shove it all the
way in,” and wow what a show.