Sometimes when reading poetry
I feel like a grumpy old man
scoffing at abstract art, declaring
“a child could have done that”
Lines and stanzas
pass over my head like
encrypted codes
I cannot crack
Somebody recently read my book
and described my writing as
“the antidote for pretentious,
indecipherable poetry”
I’ll take that
My poems may be more
paint-by-numbers than Jackson Pollock
but at least you’re picking up
what I’m putting down
Right?
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: Spring 2026, the curated collection from Horror, Sleaze and Trash!
Featuring poetry by Gabriel Bates, Willie Smith, Eric Robert Nolan, Donna Dallas, Charles Rammelkamp, Salvatore Difalco, William Taylor Jr., Dmitriy Kogan, Damon Hubbs, Daniel de Culla, James Callan, Casey Renee Kiser, M.P. Powers, Andy Seven, John Yohe, Wolfgang Carstens, Ronan Barbour, Ben Newell, Taryn Allan, Arthur Graham, and Todd Cirillo.
There is something comforting
in the hum of people and the jukebox music
of a Friday night.
A liquor lullaby
that can soothe and strip away
the pain of the week
and the disappointment of the world.
Like that soft return to the womb
people talk about after they have taken
a weekend yoga or regression therapy retreat—
but much drunker.
An opulence of cock
champagne foam
down the shaft
A bounty of boobs
and caramel thighs
caught in fishnet fabric
bursting with butt
pulsing with need
a moving muscle
in my pocket.
Crystals and mirrors
smoke and scents
perfume and sweat
Sit on my lap—
can you feel it?
Techno beats
and sweet teats
disigner heels
on woolly feet.
Love that shade
on your lips
around my finger
on my schlong
and the rings are cold
like your ice blue eyes
that you insist are green.
Can we get a second opinion?
Okay, so they’re green.
I get lost in those eyes
getting lost in the heat
of the moment
and the throng of
limbs and giant asses
bumping my legs
and concussing your
beautiful head.
Remember when you pushed me off a cliff?
I do. I survived
and thrived. And even came back
to thank you.
I waited a while by your coffin. I waited
for you to get over your fear
of coming out:
showing your TRUE FORM
And when you finally stuck out
a rotted arm to test
the safety of the moon; the star sass,
the bat-friendly atmosphere, wondering
if you could grab a quick BLOOD BEER
(….creak….) is it late enough???
I slammed the last nail right in!
And I would’ve pushed you
in that coffin
off that same cliff. But I was kinda done
with giving FREE RIDES
Mother, won’t you listen
to my bedtime story, since you’re
LOCKED IN FOR THE NIGHT
That burn box you sent me–
I return the flames to sender! Surely,
you remember popping me out
Year of The Dragon. If you wanna talk
fire,
I’m your girl. I’ll even GET OUT
the disco ball.
***
“the fuck’s going on?” I asked the bartender as I climbed
on my barstool; the only one left unoccupied in the crowded
bar by the port.
“some military ship docked today; Americans,” she replied, while
running around filling up mugs of green beer.
“fuck,” I spat under my breath. to her credit, she ignored several
jumping thirsty guys to get me my triple Four Roses and large draft beer.
after a swig that emptied half the lowball, and after lighting a cigarette,
I looked over my shoulder at the barroom. all the small tables were covered
with empty mugs and bottles of beer, and swaying, slurring young men
were clinking glasses and making grandiose proclamations about
their manhood and their conquests. ten women, all in barely-there outfits,
entertained the tables, accepting free drinks and grabbing crotches, telling
big lies about what they were feeling up. Jeanette was one of them; surrounded
by three bulky young men; young enough
to look like they should be sent back to junior high.
I chugged my remaining drink, and the buxom bartender, whose name I could
never fucking remember, poured more Four Roses over the ice cubes that
hadn’t had time to melt.
“it’s her job,” she reminded me, I guess because she saw some
red coloring my cheeks.
“I know,” I grumbled and kept my gaze focused on my drink.
“you ain’t no sailor, are ya?” the young man next to me said; also with a buzz cut, and
clean-shaven, too fucking young to be out in the world without parental
supervision. I was long-haired, with a full beard, in a dirty t-shirt and a worn-out
leather jacket.
“what gave it away?” I asked.
“I thought this was a bar only for sailors.”
“it is. I’m just the local barfly with special privileges.”
“what makes you so special?” he pursued. he was looking for a fight.
I lit a cigarette, and blew a plume of blue smoke on his face.
my regular haunt, where I could get a backup of fifteen bloodthirsty bikers
was several blocks away; and I didn’t have any phone numbers.
I didn’t care. Jeanette was getting harassed by three morons, while another
moron was trying to pick up a fight.
“look, kid,” I said. “you want to fight, go pick on one of your drunk friends. I’m
not getting entangled in your bullshit.”
“we’re out here protecting your godless country,” he said. “I won’t fight my brothers.”
“go fight Commies, then, if you can find them. the Soviet Union collapsed
long before your parents even thought about having a kid.”
“you’re a fucking Commie,” he accused me.
“quit yelling, or you’re out,” the bartender threatened him; I raised my glass at her.
“fuck you,” he told her. “the only reason you’re serving drinks is because you’re
way too ugly to be a whore.”
without thinking, I put my hand on the back of his head and used his face to smash his beer mug.
he started wailing like a little kid that got stung by a bee,
holding on to his face as blood started painting his fingers crimson.
I barely managed to finish my drink before several of his buddies
dragged me off my barstool and started stomping me.
I was drunk enough to take the pain, and high enough not to
remember much of how more than a dozen combat boots
made sure not an inch of my body and head remained intact.
I lay on the floor, a bloody, broken mess, when the bartender
called for backup, a couple of bouncers, to remove
all the assholes. they helped me up, I got a free Four Roses,
and Jeanette abandoned her suitors to come to me.
“are you okay?” she asked, her hazel eyes emanating worry, and perhaps
even affection.
“I’ve survived worse,” I mumbled. even touching the brim of my lowball with
my swollen lips was painful. at least, a good gulp helped numb the pain.
“come on, I’m taking you to my place. you need to rest.”
I didn’t resist when she put her arm around my waist and led me out
of the bar, under the murderous glares of the rest of the sailors.
“why did you have to get into a fight?”
“the little fucker insulted the bartender,” I explained.
“you just cost me a lot of money,” she said.
“you know I can’t pay for that.”
“and you know I don’t care.”
she was a Florence Nightingale in a whore costume, and that
was why I really liked her.
we reached her apartment—she had to drag my carcass up the
staircases—and she tossed me onto the couch.
“thanks,” I said when she gave me a brimful lowball of cheap bourbon.
“drink up, this is gonna hurt,” she said and without another warning
started rubbing an alcohol-soaked rag on my bloody face.
I flinched, winced, and drank, trying to hold back the tears.
“it was a very brave, and stupid, thing to do,” she said, and kissed my
swollen lips.
“emphasis on stupid, huh?”
“you think she hasn’t heard worse?”
“probably from better,” I chuckled dryly.
“exactly.”
she kissed my lips again, and for a few moments we just
stared into each other’s eyes. she was a prostitute; I was a drunkard.
we should have been a match made in heaven.
it was never meant to be.
however, for that one night, the night she decided to take care of me
instead of taking home paying customers, we truly became one—thankfully,
none of the fuckers that beat the shit out of me attacked my dick and balls.
after I finished my drink, in two gulps, she took me to
her bed; there, she showed me that chivalry is still rewarded.
I had cracked ribs, two strained arms, and potentially a concussion.
if I had died while sleeping on her squeaking bed, after coming inside her,
I’d have died a happy man. I didn’t die. death doesn’t want me.
the devil has ensured I live to be a hundred just to avoid me.
I woke up, hungover and beaten up. she made me
coffee, then I had to go home to get drunk.
For Jaime
I follow my bartender
wherever she slings drinks.
Over the dozens of years
I have sat and swayed across from her
at Boondock Saint, Jimani, MRB
and now, at her very own joint,
Schooner’s Saloon,
corner of St. Peter and Burgundy.
Her bar is one of good time potions
spilled from taps of tender mercies.
Jaime has saved me more times
then she will ever know—
when my heart was on the rocks,
Christmas Eve lonesome late-nights,
twinkling hazy-eyed Christmas days,
the beginning love affairs of the moment
and the last call of the long-terms.
She offers comfort and care with a smile
and a strong one on the house,
not just to me but my friends,
fellow Quarter Rats,
strangers and service industry sweethearts.
If there was ever a serious candidate
for saint, sinner and savior
it is her.
In the golden age of piracy,
she would be captain.
So, when people get stupid and she yells,
only one person in the bathroom at a time–
and NO coke!
One of y’all best take the stash
and get the fuck out.
This city spills champion bartenders out from
the Lower Ninth to Pigeontown,
Gentilly, Algiers to Mid-city,
the Lower Garden District to Central City,
Seventh Ward, Treme’, Bywater
to the Irish Channel
and every corner in between.
And I love them too,
I truly do,
but Jaime regains the title
each inebriated visit
because even after all this time,
the birthdays, break-ups, blackouts,
strong shots, cold beers and heavy pours
I still never have to wait
for a drink—
even on Mardi Gras day
and that goes
a helluva long way
in these parts.
***
From Happy Hour Heart of New Orleans, Roadside Press
she wore a face
that cracked
and broke
when forced to
leave the hidden
light she loved.
bright nighttime
glows wreaked
wonder to her eyes,
eyeing constant death
obsessive attractions
little
greens
reds
yellows
pinks
teals
mixed up just so much
resulting
bombed out flesh
welcoming
all callers
gangly hipsters
beaten pussycats
hands pumping
love sold easy
back arched
molten pilled out
legs splayed
entombed
in
forgotten splendors
I hate cigs,
but the way she lit it
in the frosty winter night
It must have been November
or December
And I remember you shivering
in the parking garage of the casino
And you so were cinematic in your black coat,
dyed blonde hair, like a movie star from the 40s
I just wanted to put my arm around you
and kiss you right then
But we had just met,
and I hated cigarettes, the smell
But looking into your eyes
and hearing your Filipina accent
and laugh meant so much for me
Were you married or not?
They said you were married
but you said you were not
You were a mystery
And I became enamored at the end
of a cigarette that night
And I knew I would walk through
gunfires and hurricanes
to hold your hand and to kiss you
At this late age, at 43,
I had given up on
love and torment
Yet there you were, beckoning,
and I was hooked for a time
There she is. Scratching at the wound on her left arm. She doesn’t remember how she got it. But it’s there. Circular. The size of a dime. An abrasion. But she makes it worse with the scratching.
She scratches until it bleeds, and she gets blood beneath her fingernails, half-moons of crimson, which dry and flake away, ruining her pristine pedicure.
Sometimes she presses a paper towel against the bloody imperfection in her otherwise smooth skin. The bleeding subsides, just taking a break, until she gets the urge to scratch again.
Sometimes she scrutinizes the blotches of red that permeate the paper towel. She rips away one of the stains, puts it in her mouth, sucks on it, rolls it into a ball with her tongue, and swallows it.
Her motivation for doing this eludes her.
Scratching, scratching, scratching.
There are streaks of blood up and down her arm now, looking like war paint. She presses a blemished fingernail into the center of the wound, watches the blood pool up like a red bubble of mercury.
She licks it away, grits her teeth against the sting in her skin.
Maybe she’s gone too far.
Horror Sleaze Trash 