Most of my boxers
have a gaping hole
underneath where
my balls laid comfortably
cupped—
now they spill through them
all hairy when I wear them
because I have no lovers
so why bother to shave.
I don’t know how and why
my boxers have those holes there
but there they are
and every morning
I wear them
and I see a testicle
spilling through
and although this is
such a clear attestation
of my financial struggles,
it puts a smile on my face
every morning.
Lesser pseudo sub-mutant quasi-low life underling
Rated six levels below sun dried dog shit parasites,
But even though that was the general consensus,
The group’s collective opinion, still they didn’t mind
A semi-pro chicken neck queen doin’ the whole team.
Dudes just hangin’ out on a dull weeknight boozin’
With this, the only woman there, late of a dive bar,
Now down on her knobby knees suckin’ to please.
True colors were shown when the time finally came
For pay off and no guy there would give her a screw.
They all laughed. She ran out angry, vowing revenge.
Yeah, always good times at Ralph’s place. Great fun.
But, cryin’ time, later, with all the slashed car tires.
I can make you no promises that I can keep.
In a moment of need I’ll say anything.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow. That’s easiest to say.
Just put off any thought that might interfere
with the matter at hand.
With luck one of us will forget what was said,
or what was asked, most likely me,
but you could forget as well.
That depends on luck, or what we were drinking.
Neither is a sound reason for a bet.
I should keep all my promises, all of them,
in a box in the garage, hidden in plain sight
along with the old car tires, the broken lawnmower,
and the hundred pound bag or road salt
kept for rare days when it snows.
That’s the only way I can keep a promise,
but it would involve too much writing
and rearranging the existing mess in the garage.
It would be better for both of us if I made no promises,
and you never tried to force me into being a liar.
This is a good night for what we are now.
Don’t say anything about tomorrow or the day after.
Such words would jinx the moment,
and we only have so many moments.
Maybe we need a box to save them in as well.
We meet in a slow moist belligerency
of heated bodies, flesh clenching flesh,
yet seeking more,
one pounding anxiously against the other
until an ancient rhythm’s discovered
and the impetuous dance quickens
as we feverishly taste sweat and salt,
and smell fading flowers.
Then the urgency overtakes us.
We are tickled and defeated
into incredibly delicious convulsions
that blind and obliterate everything.
With one final languid subsiding thrust
we are bleached of desire, ambition
and self
till at last we dissolve and settle
into the nothingness of night
and the great design of things.
these are the nights that apathy tastes
like the first time your grandmother
gave you a sip of gin
the poison that would run through
your veins the rest of your life
yet watching the woman of your dreams
walk away haunts every dream
each step a punch to the dick
trying to pen the perfect poem at three
in the morning while needing to take
a shit in some sleazy motel in the
middle of nowhere
the poet never gets the girl
only gets to listen to the stories of the
popular fucks and turn them into the
assholes they deserve to be
look out your window and watch a cat
chase a bird as a butterfly chokes on
a hazy summer nightmare
there once was promise in those skies
now, you only think about how soon
does death greet you in the middle
of the night
another glass of gin
you’ve been preparing for this
all your life
Clouds gray the morning light.
Black tires slosh one after another
through the same puddle.
The asphalt glistens, a touch of diamond,
as you stand under an umbrella,
a broken half-circle.
The book tucked under your arm
is already wet.
Drops race down your jacket.
The bus is late. A fact of life.
Strangers stare from car windows
at a fool who does not drive.
Time passes. You watch the tires.
Listen to brakes and sudden skids.
You practice avoidance,
hope the spray misses.
You are lucky. Sometimes.
You will get there, where you’re headed,
with wet socks and stuck pages,
alive, if not on time.
You will not worry long about it.
These are the small things
we live and observe.
They’re rarely fatal.
Just part of the bargain
of living one moment
after another.
All these drops, pearls really,
strung together for us,
making a life some how,
and though we kick and scream
at times
and try hard as we can,
it remains much the same,
a difference of degree only,
between a mild spray and a big splash.
Again she does
the things I once
found cute
at a party
for friends we
still share at a distance
close enough to register
wounds deep and unkind.
Her smile that shifts
by degrees to look
at me with a sweet sweetness
She could be a cat burglar
with knives for claws
slicing your heart.
A push up bra is an evil
trick but she wears it
to ready effect with
A blouse wide open
as if she was the star
of an orgy.
I can’t help but stare.
Her tongue licking the
knife while eating cake
is an old move
but she does it
far slower than before.
By the end of the dinner
every man has an erection
and several her phone number.
While all the women, even her
best friend, want to kill her.
She kisses me on cheek
bites it slightly
A final turn on as I
get up to leave.
I hate you she whispers
I know I say as I head
for the door.
Fade the maze-daze blues
Paid my rat race dues
Impulses i’ve calmed
late,
and collected-
mixed bag of nuts
from the men who dared
test
my crazy
Toss it down
the highest staircase
my short legs can climb
Feel the burn
Have a laugh
Take a bow
Tumble away, my darlings
Snap out of it
Pager buzzing in your pocket
Table is ready-
the new you is waiting
Your memory must be erased
again and your wig is crooked
A tequila sunrise will set you straight
Now,
take the elevator back down,
you dumb bitch
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 2022, the curated collection from Horror, Sleaze and Trash!
Featuring poetry by J.J. Campbell, Joseph Farley, G. Arthur Brown, Kristin Garth, Willie Smith, Noel Negele, Dustin King, Dave Cullern, Donna Dallas, John Knoll, Nadja Moore, Rob Plath, Michael Lee Johnson, Daniel S. Irwin, John D Robinson, Arthur Graham, C. Renee Kiser, and Bogdan Dragos.
Get your FREE ebook here!
squeezing water out
of the rocks again
this fruitless journey
to the bottom of
my mind
i will die penniless
and insane
some little cabin
a thousand miles
away from anything
some think it is tragic
i like to think of it
as fitting
being popular was
never my thing
being prolific was
just insanity taking
the wheel and bleeding
on the page
it gets a little messy
but anything worth
your time is supposed
to be that way
