Snob Dogg

I write with the sounds of barking dogs,
screaming babies, and angry, unfulfilled neighbors
fighting in the background.
Occasionally, there will be cats fighting
on the rooftop because life loves to be cliché
like cups of coffee in Paris held by snob hands
who wish they had read
as much as they advertise they have.

I reach half the poem and everything falls quiet,
still, ominous, silent, 
as if a dagger were about to shoot out of the dark
and lodge itself in the back of my head.

From behind me, I hear the sound of my dog
licking its ass, vigorously and unrelenting.

I stop writing and turn
“Goddamn it, will you stop it?!”
and the dog stops.
I turn towards the laptop once again
and the licking resumes even louder.
“GODDAMN IT!”

I bet my dog would love to spend the afternoon
at a Parisian coffee shop, licking its own ass 
for everyone to hear.

Urban Legend

“I don’t know,” Del hesitated,
offered a hit of LSD.
Friday after classes,
the weekend looming.
“They say it causes genetic mutations.
Ten years from now, your wife
might give birth to a kid with gills,
an eye growing out of his forehead,
or webbed feet.” Who knew what?

We all counted on having a family
sometime in the future, but,
what about today?
We were in college! Carpe diem!
“It can’t stay in your body
all that time, can it?”

“You’ve heard of flashbacks?
Stuff stays in your spinal fluid, I’ve heard.
Causes chromosomal abnormalities.”

“‘Chromosomal abnormalities!’” Ricky scoffed.
“Sounds like something you read
in one of those news magazine scare stories.
You with us, Del, or not?”

“Sure,” Del agreed reluctantly, after a pause.
He didn’t have a girlfriend.
None of us did.
“Give me a hit.”

Sure It’s Ok When I Buy The Cascadian Farm Organic Raisin Bran, But When I Bought The Nature’s Path Organic Peanut Butter Panda Puffs, That’s When:

“You’re 54, that cereal is for kids.” 

“But I mix it. So I’m half and half, sweet and bran.”

“It’s just gross.”

“But maybe it’s a metaphor: sometimes you’re peanut butter, creamy and smooth. Sometimes you’re bran, crunchy, and takes time to chew.”

“And sometimes you’re an ass and say stupid things.” 

“You see, that’s what I mean, and…”

“AND I hate the way you smash down your cereal in the bowl, clinking your spoon against the side.”

“I’m introducing the cereal to the oat milk, spreading it around so each piece starts to soften equally.”

And you look at me and shake your head.
Maybe you have words or maybe, really, there is just

surrender. You decide it’s better to leave
the room and turn on the television

and watch The Real Housewives Of Wherever 
bicker. At least none of their husbands

mix cereal, or clink spoons
on the sides of bowls.

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

Featuring poetry by Robert Beveridge, C.L. Liedekev, Niklas Stephenson, Paul Tanner, Clarice Hare, Brian Rihlmann, Dave Cullern, Tia Mitsinikos, Judge Santiago Burdon, Brian Rosenberger, William Taylor Jr., James Diaz, Jon Bennett, Daniel S. Irwin, Mendes Biondo, John Maurer, Donna Dallas, Alexandre Alphonse, Dan Cuddy, David J. Thompson, and David Estringel.

Kindly PayPal 5 USD to arthur.graham.pub@gmail.com, or get your FREE ebook here!

More of the Lovely Miss Foxx HERE

been there done that

“let’s do this
thing, warden,” 
said the death 
row convict 
ready for a shot,
his horrible crime’s ticket
down to a hot vacation,
at least not permanent 
like the Catholics say 
& hopefully not back to
press the button/throw
the switch on another 
or fret black beads
like the prison chaplain
or the warden himself 
numb and bespectacled 
waiting to retire 
or a watching bug on the wall 
or a haunting invisible spirit 
to say nothing 
of that little girl 
in the woods 
made suddenly aware 
that she’d never
be a princess

What’s in a Life

The way he told the story was 
he never had a chance
father left before he turned five
his mother used to hit him 
a lot
almost as much as she hit the pipe
he thinks she hit the pipe more though 

and those are the good memories

he’d tell you what went wrong 
and he’d own every damn bit of it too
‘I fucked it up, sure enough, 
I was so good at blowing up my own life 
it scares me to think 
just how used to it all I got’

word come down that he did himself in last October 
most folks would say they were amazed it took him so long
to reach that bottom, last song, no dancing

I never really saw it that way
yeah, he’d lost more than most of us could bear
but to hear him tell the story 
that was all a part of the magic of this shit life
how what you lose 
makes you appreciate the hell 
out of what you got left 
all the more
and when I had no place to go once 
and he was livin’ outta his car 
hell, he gave me the back seat
and not once did he ask for a single thing in return 

to hear him tell the story though 
that’s just what you’re supposed to do for others in this life
and that oughta count for something
more than all the shit that went wrong 

it oughta be the whole story 

it kinda is.

Short History of Bad Relationships

Caught head lice in Mexico
from my younger brother.
My mother recommended 
pet shampoo, but it didn’t work. 

We took a trip to the ocean:
me riding shotgun, and
my siblings in the back seat. 

For two weeks, I pulled bugs 
from my scalp, flicked
them out the car window
into the highway. My sister helped. 

We were nitpicking.
Going through everything
With a fine-toothed comb.

Had one-night stand in Isla Mujeres
with a drunk frat boy from Texas.
I hope he caught my head lice.
We never spoke again,
so I never found out for sure.

A hurricane hit the island,
and I contracted dysentery.
I lay in my hotel bed, moaning
as the gales roared outside.

Back home in Chicago,
I gave my boyfriend head lice.
I didn’t tell him about 
the asshole from Texas.

My boyfriend was the jealous type
and prone to sudden violence.
He had to get a Kwell prescription
filled at the corner drugstore.

Later that morning I stood in the shower,
washed parasites from my scalp,
and watched nits swirl into the drain.
I didn’t think about the future, 
just the eradication of pests. 

Something That Sings

There’s more truth in the silence of the dead
than in the next hundred poems you’ll have
the misfortune to read

seems like poets today can’t be 
bothered with the music of things 

their words half-clever
careful and stillborn

clamoring for praise
offering praise in return

with their poet beards
and poet hats

their poet boots weighed down 
with important things to say

I choose not to think of them

as I drink wine and watch
the women on Broadway

trying to translate their magic
into something that sings

as it all comes apart

All That Sticky Stuff

I hate myself for it,
but despite their lifestyle
of the decadent idle rich, 
I’ve fallen deep in love
with the Kardashian sisters.
I see them every afternoon
for a fantasy hour as I ride
a stationary bike at the gym.
I try to pretend I’m watching CNN
or ESPN, but on the big TV on the wall, 
those Kardashian smiles are brighter,
their hair shinier, breasts larger,
and kissable lips even fuller.

Even at my age, I can’t stop
thinking about them, especially
when I go to bed at night.
Visions in the dark of Kim,
Kourtney, and Khloé send my hands
under the covers and shortly 
I fall into a familiar dream –
the whup-whup sound
of helicopters in the sky,
fires burning in the distance.
The Kardashians are lined up
against a burnt out building.
A bearded guy wearing a red beret 
and jungle fatigues hands me
a pistol. Execute these bourgeois
enemies of the revolution, he commands.
I take the gun, and as I pull the trigger,
I wake up with a long moan, then
relax for a moment there in the dark 
to catch my breath. I fight the urge 
for a cigarette, and smile when I realize 
it’s only a dream, and all that sticky stuff 
I feel, thank God, is not their blood on my hands.

Moribund

poetry is moribund
lil peep wrote better than us
meat computer writes better than us
poetry is a lame ass art form
too worn out
rimbaud would be doing something
different today i promise you

i wish i made fashion
8th art
or video games
9th art
even better
90’s video games
or hypermodern trap
or post anti folk
but u r stuck with me for a bit
if u still want to be that is
i am stuck with me, being me,
for ever and ever and ever ever ever.

how to be cool after van gogh, basquiat, modigliani,
rimbe, nick drake, césar aira, duchamp, alfred jarry,
manuel antonio, kafka, pessoa,
rosalía de castro, cervantes…
and the sky
and the sea
and the deeply rooted trees.