From the Top Shelf: A Six Ft. Swells Anthology 2005-2025

From the Top Shelf: A Six Ft. Swells Anthology 2005-2025
Six Foot Swells Press
174 pages

An interview with Todd Cirillo

HST: Over the years both Horror Sleaze Trash (HST) and Six Ft. Swells (SFS) have published many of the same writers, including William Taylor Jr. and yourself among others. For HST readers unfamiliar with SFS, why don’t you start by introducing yourselves?

SFS: Six Ft. Swells Press is a small publishing house that specializes in After-Hours Poetry. It is poetry for truck-stops, bowling alleys, soccer moms and barrooms. We strive to create connection through common experiences, stressing an economy of language. We are attracted to lean, clear, straight forward lines that tell a story. Our philosophy is, if the poet has to explain their poem to the audience, then the poet has failed. Our goal is to make poetry accessible, interactive and fun. Poetry for non-poetry fans. It was started in 2005 by myself, Julie Valin and Matt Amott. It remains us three to this day. 

HST: Last year saw the 20th anniversary of SFS Press. How’s it feel after so many years out to sea?

SFS: Julie pointed out that it was our 20th anniversary and suggested we do some spectacular things to mark the occasion. To be honest, I didn’t get a true sense of the importance of it until I was putting the anthology together. It is like being out at sea for so long, that life just goes up and down with the waves, no real sense of time until you run aground. When going over all the poems from all the extraordinary poets over the years so many moments flooded my being. I recalled editing this poem, drinking with that poet, falling in love with that one, getting this poet published for the first time, costuming up for Mardi Gras with that one, encouraging many of them in their work. When the anthology was completed and I looked at it from 10,000 feet, so to speak….I smiled…I was truly proud ya know?

What I am really proud of is that after twenty years, we still hold true to our same poetic values and what excites us about poetry. Our books are distinct, people recognize a Six Ft. Swells Press book and, most importantly, the friendship between myself, Julie and Matt remains intact. We are poets, publishers and pirates.

HST: Tell us a bit about the latest anthology.

SFS: The anthology: From the Top Shelf: A Six Ft. Swells Anthology 2005-2025 was one of the four celebrations that we produced last year, the others included publishing Jake St. John’s book, The 13th Round, a first-ever book by myself, Julie Valin and Matt Amott: Three Poets Walk Into a Bar and we put together a huge party to launch the books in California.

The anthology was a way for us to celebrate and thank the poets and the press. It gave us an excuse to throw a party and bring old friends together or at least try to get in touch with some and find out who still speaks to us. The collection brings together the best After-Hours poets in the country. Poets who were published for the first time or are nationally known: Wolfgang Carstens, William Taylor Jr., Madeline Levy, Ann Menebroker, Bill Gainer, Amber Decker, Carey Floyd, Marilyn Souza, Jake St. John, ourselves and others. These are poets who should be read more widely. Plain and simple.

The anthology spotlights well-crafted poetry that celebrates connection whether over drinks, dreams, jukeboxes, heartbreak or first kisses. Poems meant for non-poetry lovers. The poems affect the reader and every poem is written by some of the best writers in the country. Plus, another high point of the collection is that it is a quick read.   

HST: What makes a poem “good” in your opinion?

SFS: My belief in what makes a good poem is that poems should be like a cherry bomb, providing the biggest bang with the fewest words while telling a good story. The use of common language and style to allow the reader/listener to connect and identify with that story, “hey that happened to me!” or at the very least relate to it, not be alienated from the work. A good poem is crafted and revised, like the track listing for one’s favorite album, meant to elicit big feelings from it. Lastly, my philosophy, as with Six Ft. Swells Press, is if the poet has to explain their poem to an audience, the poet has failed. 

HST: Leave us with a few poems from the anthology.

SFS: Certainly.

Pirate’s Alley
William Taylor Jr.

I’m drinking absinthe at a little table
outside a 200 year old bar in New Orleans,
blocks away from the chaos and noise
of Bourbon St. tourists.
It’s midnight in August and 100 degrees.
It’s quiet here, everything old and pretty.
A black cat with pale green eyes
sits a few feet away and looks at me
without expectation.
I raise my glass and the sweet
liquid burns my tongue a bit.
I am one with Poe and Baudelaire,
channeling the ghosts of ancient poets
as the bright indifferent moon
hangs above.
Even the man-gunned guy at the bar
with the Bermuda shorts
can’t ruin this for me.

Moving
Ann Menebroker

The memory is sweet
and embraceable.
The slow, hands-all-over dance
with the turn-on in your life
pressing lips to your soft ear.
People all around, making touch
more exciting. A soft sweater.
A rough hand.
Something in the way you move
making the room too warm.
A trumpet blowing out its
sex, confetti, falling over everyone.
The floor is too small.
The world is too big.

Wolfgang Carstens
the human animal

possesses
an uncanny ability
to justify any action
after the fact:

if the devil
didn’t make us do it,
we were drunk,
stoned
or temporarily
insane.

when all else fails,
we blame it
on love.

BUY A COPY HERE

Charles Rammelkamp

Perspective

When my friend Rodney 
showed me a poem 
about excruciating anal itch
at the age of five, his mother,
fearing pinworms, those small,
parasitic roundworms that 
infect intestines, sticking 
her finger into his anus
the poem ending, “pretending
I didn’t like it,”

I vividly remembered
my own daughter,
same age, scratching
at her own butthole,
making the same complaint,
me doing my parental duty,
and my immediate reaction,
I could be arrested for this!

I only learned later
Rodney’d been fourteen at the time –
another fresh perspective.

Ivan Jenson

Thanks But No Thanks

I have given
a damn about
you in the darndest
ways darling of mine
who shuns the only one
who ever truly cared
when your chips
and your mood
and the very sun
was down and out
in the gutter
with the roaches
and the rats
as you spiraled
into that clinical
low and had to be
triaged by a team
of doctors and nurses
who had to
resuscitate and revive
your once bright
and shining
personality
and all the while
there was me
and my big heart
and wide smile
watching over
the proceeding
and believe me
I was the one thing
you were craving
and needing
as your spirit
was bleeding
and now that
you are feeling like
you’re yourself again
you shun the only
person who showed up
in rain, wind, sleet and snow
and I can plainly see
you’ve got your groove back
just like in a tearjerker movie scene
and I can just sigh with relief
and finally say goodbye to you
my real-life Netflix drama queen 

Eric Robert Nolan

Confession

Poetry is
pornography for the heart,
lust in the lexicon.
It is ever The Nude Girl.

At its best,
it renders white pages into flesh tones and dark downy darts
between legs.
It renders text
into sex.
Mouthing the round words curved by assonance
renders them as breasts.
The firmer consonants
slide against the tongue like areola.

And I like it like that – it should be lewd and low.
It should be stuffed under mattresses, hidden in pockets,
and, at first, glimpsed furtively
when no one is looking.
Part of me will never want
to show poems to my mother.

Catholic school nuns
Persuade their victims by rote:
“Our Father, Who Art in Heaven,
“Hallowed be Thy Name,”
but vulgar little boys like me
hallowed the sounds of vowels
and clutched at consonants privately.

The Sisters were moving towers —
black masts sailing
up and down between the desks.
Their paddles fell like falling spires
against the inattentive.
“Jesus loves me, this I know.
“The grownups hurt my knuckles, though.”
Curious boys will always
eye the girls in the even rows.

I, low,
nursed my favorite heresies in whispers —
paganism in the pages —
and easily adopted other Gods.
I, a secret Heathen,
Took Poe’s “Raven”
as my inner golden calf.

And poetry
nurses the Sin of Wrath.
At my desk I told myself
in inner ceremonies
I privately hoped
I’d someday pick the perfect words
To finally tell God
I never loved him either.

HSTQ: Winter 2026

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 2026, the curated collection from Horror, Sleaze and Trash!

Featuring poetry by Ryan Quinn Flanagan, Misti Rainwater-Lites, Salvatore Difalco, John Yohe, Casey Renee Kiser, Ivan Jenson, William Taylor Jr., Jeff Weddle, Daniel de Cullá, Nathan Bas, Donna Dallas, Luz Aida Rodriguez, Daniel S. Irwin, Todd Cirillo, Paige Johnson, Brian Rosenberger, Karl Koweski, Ronan Barbour, Arthur Graham, David Estringel, and Dana Jerman.

FREE EBOOK HERE

Dana Jerman

Meditations For The Age of Discernment

The first word in boundaries is bound —Jerry Stahl

Been meaning to ask my dad if his best friends’ house is haunted. Just feels like a discount disappointment machine alive with petrified guesses. 

The last time I met a decent man was my father, and even then that’s a shade away from never.

I’m not sure my heart goes to 💯 anymore.

To cheer me up, here. I’ll make a swift list of my favorite pornographers.

Definitely we’ve got Genet and Bataille. De Berg and Apollinaire. Passolini and Houellebecq, King, Sotos. Cocteau and Indiana and Nin. Nabokov, maybe Huxley. Maybe Sexton. Algren too. 

Education in the recovery of their tatty disillusions. Margins ripe with glimmers of failure. Degenerate as birdsong. There, whew, all better. 

Since Covid, everybody has been so good at staying in their lane, it’s given me more room to get out of mine. But the loneliness remains industrial. Show me a fence and I’ll move my hips around it.

Late morning sleeping pill hillbilly fever dream neighbors trash fire blowing across the road. Could I give one huckleberry fuck about these tinsey gods of odds and ends sighing united into some leaky biohazardous hopeless hospital mirage?

Overheard: “you’re really on brand, goddess” at a bar yesterday. Definitely a phrase dudes should be heavily incorporating into the modern lexicon.

However much most might prefer to stop pretending and let it evolve like some tangerine aftershave mellieu caught on my shoulders for a few hours post sex.

Not going anywhere today. The black silk robe. My favorite burgundy lip color. Old classy nuance. Time to stain tea mugs and watch traffic cones tip over outside the pawn shop. Ah ha now a windstorm. No wonder for all the bad fantasy.

Todd Cirillo

Lullabye

I usually wake
in the middle
of the night
around 2 a.m.
when all is dark,
too quiet and cold.
I stay up for about
an hour and a half
reading, pacing,
scrolling social media,
peeping out at the stars,
dreaming of her
singing me a lullabye–
shhhh darlin, lay back down
it’s only a dream.

Damon Hubbs

Roosevelt Island Haiku 

Please consider my taste
The captivating pivot 
leads to the inevitable collapse
The truth of a time-
stamped poem is like 
too many detectives 
in search of a grand piano

and in another life 
I’m building rooms
exploring connection and exclusion
but today 
let’s just say the speed skater 
has an ass like the most beautiful 
windmill in Holland 

Let’s just say 
I read your Roosevelt Island haiku 
and found it marvelous 
Let’s just say
I never knew 
that Dawson Leery lived in Massachusetts 
I wonder if he listened to The Modern Lovers 

     drunk on the tramway
     hospitals & asylums 
     Young Turks, graffiti 

Daniel de Culla

Perfect Friendship

Because you never settle for a quickie without a condom
Or for slapping your tits with an erect penis
Now I want you to spread your legs
On the donkey of our love bed
Because I want to thank your vagina
In the name of the maternal vagina
For so many things you’ve given me in life
Because I want to tell you:
 -Thank you, Cunt!
Before we separate
And buy two beds so we don’t sleep together.
Thanks to you, and my seed, we formed a family
Creating a warm home.
You helped me get a job
So I could earn my daily bread
With the sweat of our two brows.
Sometimes, you let me rest between your two tits
To meditate on the sex we shared
Throwing myself from your moving cunt
To come against the bedroom wall.
I know you came to Earth
So that your carnivorous vagina
Could devour this little churro of mine
That rose erect before you
Like the tongue in our labial kisses
Your hands gripping it tightly
To lead it to the true and necessary hole.
Instead of singing, I bellowed
And you moaned, feeling your nymphs turn to mush.
Tired now of our labor
Of inveterate fuckers
Now we separate rooms
Because I can’t stand
That unpleasant skunk smell from your cunt
And you can’t stand
The farts I let out, telling you as I fart:
-Catch them with your hands
To let them enjoy your peace.
That’s why it’s better that we sleep separately
Each in a room
Giving ourselves
Perfect friendship.
I, in my dreams, will raise my penis
To the temple of your vagina.
You, in your own way
Will sing to the penis that was light in your vagina
And the heaven of its palate.

David Estringel

Shadow Cat, 2004

After Richard Hambleton (1952-2017)

Shadow cat
p   r   o   w   l
Low’r
East Village
silky
sidewalk
slink
lookin’ high
lookin’
low
‘round lampposts n’
alleyway
piss puddles
for
a tasty
trick
or treat.

Oil slick
tangles—
blacktarsexy
sheen—
brown sugar
smile
n’ puncture claw hunger
jonesin’
for the exhale
of a hypodermic
pounce. 

Fat rat’s
‘round the corner
throwing bones
sniffin’ bacon
playing
its fat rat
games
ripe
for the pickin’
to plop

on the doorstep—
eight lives
d
o
w
n—
on this ol’ city
street
for a thump
(n’ a thump
n’ a thump thump thump)
n’
its lil baggies
o’ cheese.

***

Previously published in The Daily Drunk