B U R N 

I fell in love with a con man
He conned me outta some smiles 
and a few flighty years
but
a storyteller never allows a single smile
to go to waste
He tried to steal my spine
cause he didn’t have his own
I thought I heard him roar once
Turns out,
it was just the television
He’s got fire in his birth chart –
a flirty, flaunting Leo is a good time
But this particular would-be king
is fueled by some quite
 misguided 
passion – that tiny
 jawbreaker heart 
on fire
destroys everything in its path
like a bowling ball knocking down the girls
blazing down the alley
with a passive aggressive ball drop
Ha!

And a cowardly lion is no match
for me
I was born year of the dragon
so
My soul came prepared
but thanks for the story, man
I am grateful for every lie, every smirk,
every knife in my back, 
every spine-stealing intention that I easily
dodged
I will use it all wisely
The Devil can only hold the power 
we give away
freely

He gonna learn now 
about that four-letter word 
that he loves so much
And I wonder, then
will he take the time out
to look through his inner 
child’s eyes
at the wonder of the
boomerang

Writer’s Block

Yeah, well, nothing comin’ to mind
With a major case of writer’s block.
So I scratched out my obituary,
In case they might need it sometime.
Hard tellin’ what non-descript crap
They’d put down on their own.
When Mama died, the funeral man
Said a good paragraph in the paper
Cost three dollars, a one liner was free.
Sister said, “We’ll take the free one.”
Moron!  Mama not worth three bucks
To put a decent spiel of a send off?
Got mine done, all nice and colorful.
Then added some crazy shit for a laugh.
I got no 100% DNA match with Godzilla,
Ain’t never partied in Lennon’s tomb,
And I am no longer wanted in France.
Whoa, better check on that last one.
Then I up and lost the thing somewhere,
Maybe at the laundromat or some bar.
Anyway, somebody found it and, hey,
It made the top spot on the obit page
Of the local weekly chronical.  Ring.
“Hello?  No I ain’t dead you sick bastard.
And you still owe me that twenty bucks.”

Jack Used To Write Horrible Sex Poems

Jack used to write
horrible sex poems

stuff like
“my penis sloshing around
inside of you”

but he made us laugh so much
with his dull, explicit lines 
he had to be some sort of poet

perhaps he was the the poet of suck 
he sure liked to use that word a lot

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: Summer 2021, the curated collection from Horror, Sleaze and Trash!

Featuring poetry by Damian Rucci, Jon Bennett, John Tustin, Paul Tanner, Daniel S. Irwin, Mather Schneider, J.J. Campbell, Tohm Bakelas, Willie Smith, Kristin Garth, David J. Thompson, Danny D. Ford, Michael Lee Johnson, Aimee Nicole, Wolfgang Carstens, Jason Melvin, Mela Blust, James Diaz, and John Yohe.

Get your FREE ebook here!

a lucrative business

i had a dream
i started a lucrative
business writing
suicide notes for
those who could
never find the
right words
 
everything was 
going great until
my shrink asked 
me if i was simply 
avoiding writing
my own note
 
the dream started
to fade from there
 
and i asked myself
what ever happened
to the dreams about
the beautiful women
 
i woke up laughing
 
that fucking shrink
doesn’t know i wrote
my note years ago
 
just waiting for it 
to get published

I Fucked God and I’d Do It Again

1. You Called Me Beautiful First.

We always flirted, and you said God had picked this friendship, me, for you.

If that’s not seduction, I don’t know what else it would be you did to me.

It’s insane how much we flirted in Bible college,

And I should have sucked your cock instead of Shane’s.

You always talked about showing me God’s love, but I wanted yours.

I dreamed for months of your love squirting hot wet into my mouth, and laying with you in the secret sweat that could’ve cost us everything.

But now your dumbass has a wife and nasty little crotch goblin.

And I’m sure Shane is still somewhere lying to himself, and luring in more secret sexual conquests to fulfill his need while trying not to blow his cover as a filthy religious heterosexual zealot.

Things could have been different if we had just quit pretending and stopped lying to god and ourselves.

Thanks for nothing.

2. Dust in the Hull of a Ship.

Dusty left a violence in my heart I can’t scrub.

There’s no way to mop away his soot and pretend that friendship didn’t fuck me up.

The “Belief Lovers” cling to their holy books in their boats and spit onto those below them,

And being better than others is such an isolating lowly place I don’t understand how they mistake heaven for the hell they live in inside their hearts.

I am holy, and beautiful, created in God’s image,

Even when I’m tripping acid slurping on dick after dick and shoving my cock in some cum thirsty twinks for hours.

God is now dead and if we need miracles we have to be our own saints. 

3. Fuck God

I killed god and I’d do it again.

I fucked his lifeless body and swallowed all his cum.

I sit on his throne and masturbate on all his children.

I’ve burned all his books and given myself tattoos with all the ashes.

I am heaven now and when you die you enter my orgasm.

Don’t try to save me because at this point you should worry more about your own salvation.

You’re a hypocrite, no one will love your homophobic little black heart, and you will never know god.

Be cursed for all eternity and when you are cold in the dirt I’ll have a little orgy and give myself a golden shower on your grave.

Tim.

Some Zero Game

Sat on a bench on the edge of a lawn,
nursing lemonade with gin, 
toying with memory’s engine.
Why is yes minus es. Memory of
an echo echoes in the memory. 
Swallows desolate the colonnade.
A distant couple’s berating passes out of hearing.
Little boys in the shadows 
spit machineguns.
A bat slices the air, 
reverberating in the ear. 
Stars not yet there 
in the purple poise. The gears, 
the worms, the shifts, the buttons 
down the suit disappear. This early fall 
early evening suits itself, leaves 
blowing across the lawn 
like leaves 
blowing across the lawn,
the soul the sole remains.

Learning New Things 

I stay up late,
covers pulled to double chin.
My cat is curled like a waxing moon
against operated spine.
I’m scrolling through tips
for deep throating from my fellow gays. 

I brush the back of my tongue
every night for a week,
gagging Tom’s toothpaste
all over the sink.

I ignore advice to practice with a banana—
the tip too rough and dirty for my liking.
Just call me confidence
as I grab your dick with both hands,
swallow that joystick in three big gulps,
vomiting all over your freshly
laundered sheets.

Such A Gorgeous Dying

Cigarette smoke hazing over your face, Clove. 
Sex smell because of you—sheets wet all over.
I remember our first time together:

“I never knew about that,” I said.
You pushed my face between your legs. 
Sweet, the taste of you, no longer a cliche.
You held me in your hand, slow and loose. 
Then fast until I came all over your stomach. 
You looked down, slid your finger through it, 
brought it to your lips. Then kissed me.   

“I’m just going a little longer,” you said,
rolling over, fingers tracing circles
between your legs.

I laid next to you and watched.
Then, startling me, you sat up 
and straddle my face. 
“Let me see those bastard eyes,” you moaned. 
And came, covering my face, wet. 

“Give me your tongue.”
And you pressed yourself against it.
“You’re such a good boy,” you said
as you grabbed my hair and brought
me harder against you.
“Taste all of me. I want you to have it all.”  

You pushed my head away by my hair:
a hot, hard stream hit my face,
and I couldn’t help but open my mouth,
just a bit, and swallow.   

cum stains and cat litter

with one final squeeze 
she pushes me and 
all my cum out of her
and lays on top of me;
everything drips down my leg. 

the sun burns through
the turning autumn leaves
my dirty window
my cat litter bedsheets
my heart. 

everything upon this bed dries up:
time, love, cum; only cat litter remains. 

i leave her to pick my kids up from school.

after dinner they’ll slip into dreamland.

and soon i’ll stand before my bed, 
contemplate changing the sheets, 
forget it, lay down, and go to sleep.