Anthony Dirk Ray

Shenanigans in the Bushes

in front of my workplace
between two bushes
we’ve found evidence
of strange goings on
in the recent past
for example one morning
an old stained pot
latex gloves and 
drug paraphernalia
were on the ground
another day multiple
used condemns and liquor
bottles littered the area
but today…
an older white female coworker
while shaking her head said
“I don’t know how to describe
this, you have to come look”
what I observed was a half
of an oversized hotdog wiener
caked with feces beside
a pool of brown liquid
with a latex glove nearby
I nearly vomited at the site
I hovered over the turd aghast
in utter bewilderment and thought
‘where’s the other half of this wiener?’
I assume it broke off and
wasn’t eaten as a snack afterwards

I guess it’s just like
that old adage

a wiener in the ass 
is better than 
two in the bush

Donna Dallas

I’m Clean Right?

Ain’t a pill I didn’t swallow
or grind up and snort
rolled through Broadway
years 
worn little jackets
covered nothin in the cold – that I didn’t feel

Tell you I was numb
always so sedated 
as I traipsed uptown
just before dawn
found the place
to hold me until 3pm
with something to steady me
those breaking hours
took a lifetime
when the demons would kick in
the paranoid sense that everyone knew
I was high as fuck
the suffocating guilt
of shit that wasn’t even real – my imagined self
on a 48-hour binge

Thought I wouldn’t make it home that afternoon
in the blizzard
I should’ve been dead
like Sydney
that same night
we were in the same places
drove our separate vehicles
Sydney drove off the Whitestone Bridge
I drove the Bronco into a snow drift
like it was a winter dune 
and I was Mad Max
in that movie
I could never follow

Rasping and almost unconscious
I found the key under the mat
frozen fingers pawed through layers of snow
an impossible feat 
it wasn’t me 
call it kismet
angels
fate
aliens – call that shit
whatever you want

I’m clean now baby
so clean I can hike four miles in the morning
every seven years or so we re-zhuzh – our organs
our blood
all of it
I’ve done a few cycles
I’m good right?

Ken Fleckenstein

Justin

It was almost 2AM

I was parked outside my apartment waiting for a friend to grab a half smoked pack of cigarettes from my living room

A man with his hood drawn approached my car window

“Hey man, can you help me?”

I didn’t know what to say, it being 2AM and all

“It’s me, Justin, don’t you recognize me?”

It was Justin alright, with his unshaven face and matted hair with a dead gleam in his eyes

The years of heroin didn’t do his natural beauty any good

Neither did the stories of his robberies across town

“Justin, no man, you need to leave”

“I just need a place to stay!”

“Seriously, you can’t crash with me!”

“Come on!”

“Fuck off!”

My friend returned, lighting a cigarette

“What’s up, man?”

“Oh nothing” Justin sighed and walked away, defeated again

I found out later he slept in my laundry room and the landlord had to call the police to remove him

I also found out his girlfriend thought “we’ve broken up” and “he’s in rehab” were the same thing

She had a Heartagram tramp stamp that moved in sync with her hips when she was thrusting herself up and down on me

He left me a very passive aggressive birthday wish on my Facebook wall that following year

He’s sober now

Jay Maria Simpson

You Seduce Me with Your Being

Your smothering shoulders
entangle me
Your tattooed arms
embrace my hips
You kiss my open silent wound
while I hold your secret safe
in the dark darkest forest
where our blood runs pure as honey
where the earth spills its beating heart

Life and art explode in battles
where only lovers can survive
in lust and mud and undergrowth

HST: Prose in Poor Taste, Vol. 3

The long-awaited 3rd volume of HST: Prose in Poor Taste has finally arrived!

Featuring work by Jason A. Feingold, Ben Fitts, James Babbs, John Yohe, Matthew Licht, Victor Cass, Elizabeth Bedlam, Zane Castillo, Anthony Dirk Ray, Judge Santiago Burdon, Ronan Cartwright, Kiki Von Kristmass, Kevin Brown, Eric Lawson, Judson Michael Agla, Tim Frank, Stuart Stromin, David Thomas Peacock, David O. Hughes, Duncan Ros, Charles Austin Muir, David Wesley Hill, Sean M.F. Sullivan, Kevin M. Flanagan, Ve Wardh, Jonathan Woods, Earl Javorsky, and Joseph Farley.

BUY A COPY HERE

Paige Johnson

Office After-Hours 

Once the microphones have wilted, 
their laser targets disarmed dotless,
we lower from stuffy leather seats
to dusty floorboards and bean bags. 

Matches kiss candle wicks 
above blood-red mahogany, 
splattering the wall with mauve 
shadows for a friendly séance:
a meetup with old acquaintances
and enemies young enough
to find mutable, moldable. 

The crinkle of ketamine tablets
from pop-out rounds, the dig
of your long, pale fingers into
the abyss of your sable suit 
jacket, always arouses me. 

The rush starts in my heart
and heads south, like the
cells in my aorta are home-
ward bound cars on the 
Autobahn: opal speedsters.

Nobody’s as slick as you, though.
And I don’t mean the Brylcreem
part in your auburn locks or the 
starlit twinkle off your bezel head.
But the fluidity with which you pass
one tablet from tray to tongue,
from yours to mine like waves 
jostling a buoy back and forth. 

The taste should be TV static, 
cherry-peppermint La Croix,
but I only notice your cinnamon 
tin sweetness and toothpaste. 
What should overwhelm me is
the gaggy smell of baby powder 
and Rx glove oxidation from the
blister pack, but I only notice your 
cool water cologne, lint-rolled lapels,
their bursts of veranda-flower breeze.

If we keep our eyes squinted,
the room should transform
soon: from bookshelves,
storage blocks, and 
egg carton foam 
soundproofing
to volcanic sunsets 
from rice-paper windows, 
the exhilaration of entrapment 
in closed convenience stores, and
wall-carpeted step-down trip caves 
that trump ski lodges in cocoa coziness.   

If we keep our fingers threaded
while our mouths fill with moon water, 
we won’t feel so ashamed when the soggy 
rocks dribble out. Lunar larvae, you’ve dubbed it.
“Debris of the cerebellum that alter balance, took
away your natural lightness, springy space boots.” 

We reclaim it all in one ring around the midnight sun.

Gordon P. Bois

A Little Less Jarring, A Little Less Rude 

“Had I known that he used words like that, I would’ve never considered reading his book, let alone give him a review.” 

“What words did he use that made you so upset?” 

“Well, they’re just vulgar and not something that a lady like myself should ever, ever have to say.” 

“I’m having a bit of trouble understanding the source of your anger.  Now take a deep breath and tell me what specific words he used that’s got you so riled up.  I won’t hold it against you.” 

“Very well if you really must know.  The two words that this heathen, who considers himself to be well read and a seasoned writer, are none other than: fuck, and cunt.  I feel so disgusted with myself now, for having uttered those words.  I think I’m going to have to wash my mouth out with soap.  Maybe say a little prayer.” 

“Oh my. Did you tell him how upset you were?” 

“Oh yes.  I even suggested that he change the words to something a little less jarring, a little less rude.” 

“And how did he respond to that?” 

“He said that the words were fitting for the pieces that he put them in, and that he wouldn’t change a thing.” 

“How did you feel about his response?  Did you try reasoning with him any further?” 

“Of course, I did, it’d be foolish if I hadn’t.  I asked him if he cared what his readership thought. Then I pointed out to him that he should put the wants and needs of his readers first, otherwise, he wouldn’t have a readership to speak of.” 

“And did that get him to come around to your way of thinking?” 

“Heavens no, quite the opposite I’m afraid.  He went on to say that he writes for himself, and if no one likes what or how he writes, that suits him just fine.” 

“So, what happened after that, once he firmly stated his position for writing like he does?” 

“Nothing.  There’s just no reasoning with someone like that.  So, I got up from the table I was sitting at and left the room.  I could neither stomach nor stand to be seen in the same room with him.” 

“Just a few more questions and I’ll wrap up this interview.” 

“Thank heavens.  I don’t know how much more of this I can take.  I feel sick to my stomach.  I feel as though I’m going to throw up any minute now.” 

“Just hang in there.  It’s almost over.  So where is he now?  Did he lose the very readership that you warned him about?  Did he happen to change his vile, writerly ways?” 

“He didn’t change anything about the way he writes, or what he writes about.  If anything, he’s at the top of his game now.  His readership just adores him, no matter what he does or says.  Last I heard, his following has grown exponentially.  Can you believe that?  Isn’t it insane?  Even the readers are pathetic, just like he is.” 

“Well, that pretty much wraps up our interview session for today.  Any last words for my reading audience and for those who’ll be tuning into my podcast later today?” 

“I’ve got nothing more to say.  If it’s any consolation, I’ll pray for him and his readership.  It’s not like it’s going to make a bit of difference.  They’re all going to hell anyway.” 

“Well, you’re certainly entitled to your opinion.  Anyhow, as hard as this interview was for you, I thank you for your time.  And for those of you just tuning in, hit the subscribe button, and like our page.  In closing, I hope everyone has enjoyed today’s session and that you and yours have a great day!”

Pat & Mac – Flesheater

Pat & Mac consists of multi instrumentalist Pat Durkin and his Mac computer. Pat produces all of the music completely DIY, with an influence from horror movie and video game soundtracks as well as classic rock, synth pop, and heavy metal.

Pat just dropped a new video and single, Flesheater, from his upcoming album Impost3r Syndrom3. This is the second collaboration Pat has done with Sean Bayles of BaylesDSGN who directed the video and filmed all of the stop motion.

Flesheater is available on all streaming platforms as a single and will be available on Bandcamp in the spring when Impost3r Syndrom3 drops at www.patandmacmusic.bandcamp.com. Fans can also sign up for the mailing list at www.patandmacmusic.com.

Pat & Mac post daily on TikTok, Instagram and YouTube, all @patandmacmusic.

Enjoy!

Gene Goldfarb

A Guy’s Guide to Manhood 

Try a nice hot shower before you meet her. If you’re not a youngster any more, it will insure your balls rise to the penthouse and you don’t end up kneeing yourself in the jewels.

Don’t use too much perfumy stuff. She wants the thrill of being with an animal, not a flower, 

even though she wants the security of being in bed with a hedge fund trader.

Don’t use too much filthy language. Even a trumpet concerto tires the ear before long.

Wear neat and clean clothes. A woman wants to see that, it means he respects himself and her.

I remember a woman who was turned on by a man who’d wear shiny brown shoes. You figure it out.

Don’t talk too much (a sin I’m guilty of, but I could go on).

If your name is Lauren, Evelyn, or Ambrosia, try to change it to Ross or John (or Johnnie if you want to sound like a bad boy—I couldn’t tell you how many Johnnie’s were love’ em and leave’ em lady killer heroes there were in film noir).

If you have a beard, make sure she likes being tickled where she likes. She doesn’t want to be tickled by a Brillo pad when she’s kissing you.

Don’t cry at the movies. And don’t try to tell me you never do. I knew a steamfitter once who cried his eyes out at Old Yeller. The only way to hide it is work as a chef with lots of onions to slice.

Listen to her. And punctuate her blather with, “Really?” but as if you’re impressed and not just wondering about how she could sit through a football game.

When you’re out with her, spend money carefully, but don’t look like a miser. Women hate misers. On the other hand you’ve got to limit the financial damage. It’s a tough tightrope to walk.

Try a restaurant that flies a variety of flags. This way you can both eat cuisine that you enjoy, or at least tolerate. And order food that fits in your mouth, don’t slobber.

Keep a dog or nothing. If you keep some other animal, even a cat, she’s likely to think you’re weird or hung up on your mother, even if your date’s a cat lover. In sum weirdness is the kiss of death with women.

Keep your place neat and clean. But not too much so. You don’t want her to feel you might be some kind of an ax murderer.

Try to appear decisive and confident. Of course you may be a total idiot, but women love lions.

If you find a very smart gal she may keep you safe, but at the cost of your freedom. So, figure out who you are (you may never figure out who she is) and understand it’s a big, complicated trade-off, one that you may look back many years later and realize what the cost and what the benefits were.

And a final piece of advice: Realize a man is an animal and a woman is something else, zoologically speaking. A woman seeks to control a man and will try to arrange or throw out 

things he’s become fond of and attached to, no matter how old and disgusting the she may regard them. You can defend your territory with a short stern demand: “Leave my stuff alone!” A man would never dream of doing anything with a woman’s property, except maybe toying with her light frilly things. Like I said, a man’s an animal. Anyway, no harm done. A woman’s reaction would likely be: “What is he doing? What a perv!”

In the end, all this stuff is guesswork. If these points were guaranteed, I would not have to tell you that the reason you’re a lonely shmo is that you didn’t have the big antlers that attract the female of the species. 

Donna Dallas

Field of Daisies

When the first stray “borrowed” 
my sterling silver belt buckle
along with my gold diamond pendant 
I knew I was making this sacrifice 
for his happiness and accepted this fate 
knowing full well these precious items
would never return to me

What returned?

Stone cold eyes 
seeking more valuables to pawn 
vicious fists to prove the road to sobriety 
was non-existent 

He was broken to the point of leakage
and I was in love 
with filling his cracks
I’d anoint the ooze 
to stop his bleed
my endless gauzing and soaking
the bleed disguised 
as an uncontrollable spigot 

The battered path to hell is glorious 
when hell is disguised as a sweet two room apartment 
with a petite backyard 
while stray number two lingered in the dark corridor 
waiting to be saved 
by yours truly 

We were homeless by the following spring 
I was prostituting to support our habits
I lovingly accepted this affliction 
because A. I was never taught how to say no 
and/or B. Not enough belief that I truly own
the right of refusal 

Fast forward to my arrest
central booking 
plead of insanity 
I was escorted to B-block at the institution 
and happily underwent rehab
I say happily as a complete lie 
it was death over and over 
I would have preferred to have been hit by an eighteen-wheeler 
over and over

And yet the lessons lay like a field of daisies I refused to enter into

Anytime I felt hurt I would fuck someone 

Later when wandering the streets
I ventured upon the next stray 
who became my loving pimp 
we engaged upon a merry-go-round of bandaging 
plugging 
shooting up and fixing 

Shit…I fixed no one  

I am so broken I’m a cracked piece 
of some bigger thing that is shattered 

So I’m trying to fix this last one 
when I ain’t even found my missing parts

no glue or magical cement gonna work

I’ve accepted this…..
I go to the bathroom 
pull the band-aids out 
of the wrecked and peeling medicine cabinet 
salve his ooze
tell him it’s going to be ok
we will kick this 
again