The Dogs Are Hungry

You’ve beaten me, ripped my flesh to the bone,
and you’ve burnt me in your holy fires

But what’s left of this mortal coil
still hangs precariously on the threads of vengeance,
and an insatiable blood lust

I’ll return one day
My tomahawk brighter, freshly sharpened,
casting long shadows as it darkens with crimson

Many more will follow

These hills echo with the news of the fallen and oppressed
Your antiquated fables of eternal damnation
are beginning to fall on educated, enlightened ears

Like a monstrous black storm that passes by
dropping only a few subtle tears of rain

Send your men; they will die
Barricade your institutions; they will be brought down
Run; and I’ll find you

The dogs are always hungry in the twilight 

Recovery In Pieces

“Addiction is a tunnel that wakes you up in the middle of the night.
Everything else happens out here in the light.” -Cheryl Strayed

The kid says he’s tired
of this way of life
and I’m hoping he means it

but we’ve been here before
knocking and then running 
back out the door

sleeping on motel floors 
while his mother-love 
cradles her johns 
in a bed wide enough 
for all of the pain in the world 

on this last run 
he lost all his clothes
returns home 
in a pair of women’s jeans
talkin about getting clean
it lasts a day

what can I say
I know well the way 
that wheel turns 
and turns
inside our damaged 
little heads

but this morning 
he asks for the number to rehab
and I give it and give it and give it
we’ve been here before 
and the spirit is poor
the body weary 

the kid says he’s tired
I’m tired too
but what can I do
except offer up what little I know
how you got to surrender to win
how you can’t go home again

feels like it’s written on the wall
the kid’s aiming for hope
but prepped for the fall

all I know is you gotta answer the call
give em that number again and again
just in case 
this is the bottom 
they’re calling you from.

Rich girls 

Rich girls are clueless. 
Rarely the working class 
see them in captivity— 
Nighttime actions are their elixirs. 

Hidden in their big, fancy cars, 
their next-to-nothing miniskirts 
have rode up again, but before 
another crystal-studded snatch  
is almost revealed, 
champagne corks pop in unison 

as the paparazzi gather outside  
the club, hoping to gain a side- 
boob shot on their reel.  

These girls won’t disappoint them,  
being dressed to the nines, 
& they party until 2 or 3  
with 2 or 3. 

What is that like? 

I work for my Uber & PB&J lunch, 
& the traffic is heavy today, 
so we crawl towards Queens 
while the rich girls 
are still sleeping. 

Blood and Passion

Shall I compare these to a smoking gun?
You are more loaded and twice as dangerous.

You should not drink and wave knives,
not while the children are home, even if asleep.

My death you desire at this moment,
and maybe your own,

But tomorrow, if we both survive,
you will beg me to never leave you.

It will be too late then.
I’ll already be packing my bags

in my mind if not the hallway.

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

Featuring poetry by Arthur Graham, John Tustin, Donna Dallas, Ben Newell, Paul Tanner, Daniel S. Irwin, James Reitter, William Taylor Jr., Leah Mueller, Alan Catlin, John Grochalski, John Sweet, David J. Thompson, John D Robinson, Noel Negele, Casey Renee Kiser, and Mather Schneider.

Get your FREE ebook here!

Cover Model: Vivid Vivka

Life Lesson

When I was little, I wanted a puppy.
Our dog had puppies, one was mine.
I kept him with me most of the time.
Out in the country, we didn’t have
Many people around.  On one occasion,
My cousins came for the day.  When
They left, I waved. “Bye, Uncle George.
Bye, bye, Aunt Mildred. Bye, bye, Eddie,
Charlie, Mary.  Bye, bye, puppy.”  Puppy?
They had given away my dog.  I was sad.
Sad, until the next batch of puppies.
And I had another dog all my own.
We did everything together.  My dog.
One morning, I awoke to a loud noise.
Mama said Daddy had shot my dog.
He shot my dog ‘cause he was chasin’
Chickens.  That had a deep affect on me.
From that day forward, I never chased
Another chicken.
Years later, I was known for chasin’
Women, but I was good at duckin’
Bullets by then.

Afterward (Then and Now)

Sometimes,
Afterward,
When we would lie in bed
And talk in the dark as we recovered
She would tell me about 
What an absolute prick
Her husband was.
How he lied and how he cheated on her
And how he turned the kids against her.

The conversation often turned to dear old Jason.

She went back to him eventually
And I imagine now,
Afterward,
When they are lying in bed together
She never brings me up
At all

And I don’t know whether
To be offended
Or flattered.

Luanda

In a war torn
Luanda
Where water
Was scarce
A projectionist
And custodian
Of a battered
Old cinema
Would screen
Repeatedly 
The same film
Sylvia Kristel
And her amorous
And saucy
Adventures
In Bangkok
As Emmanuelle
Free entry always
And the soldiers
And the old ones
And the children
Would cheer excitedly
Whenever nudity
Was on view
Frequently paused
Frozen to be viewed
Like Titian’s painting
Of Diana and Actaeon
Fast forward to
The here and now
And I haven’t seen
A film in weeks
With a lack
Of enthusiasm
For flesh
In person
Or in celluloid
Christ!
I wouldn’t even
Be able to find
Luanda on a map!

one roof

it was the dead of night,
it was the death of a lot of things

and I was walking to the kitchen 
for water or wine, whatever that christ cunt had left us,
when I passed her son’s bedroom:

I heard a slap and a moan.
then the creaking and panting started …

there was a crack in the door. 
you know damn well I had a peek:

there he was 
fucking his girlfriend doggy on the bed. 
and damn if he didn’t look like his mum:
same full lips and big grey eyes
framed around a dirty blonde bob.  
it was like a flat-chested version of her 
going at some chick’s rump with a strap-on. 

no, you dirty bastards
I didn’t invite myself in.
I didn’t even stay to watch. 

I simply went back to bed 
and slipped it in his mum:

oof, she woke up. what’s got into you?
happy families, I told her.

and I hear she has a daughter somewhere, too.

Good Shooting

Shot my big fat mouth off. 
Shot myself in the foot. 
Hobbled into the kitchen. 
Fixed a shot; broke out 
the saltines; gobbled a few. 
Took a potshot at the cracker 
squatting in the backyard. 
Shot up the toaster, the micro, 
the blender, the food processor. 
Limped down the hall, 
removing clothing till nude. 
Entered the bedroom. 
Eyeballed the mirror; 
shot both balls off, shattering 
my image wholly to shit. 
Picked my way over shards 
back out up to the den, 
where sci-fi insects crawled from the computer; 
displayed pooters; promptly had sex; died. But 
not before the ladies shot their eggs through a port 
into the central processor. I kicked aside a cicada 
the size of a vacuum. 
Made it out to the livingroom. 
Picked off the cocktail table the phone. 
Shot my big fat mouth off to the cops. 
Invited the pigs for barbecue, plus a friendly shootout. 
Tossed the cell like a skeet. Shot 
the peripheral midair dead center; 
hoped the cops heard; segued, outta ammo, into a syncope – 
failed to know where I was, am, or would be. Found myself 
up on Whidbey shooting a Western, 
about to wrap it up. When they found me, I was pee-
ing on the rug, blood flooding the throat, foot half gone. 
But no pain. Because, from babyhood, 
I’ve boasted a bullet-head. So, 
when zero to shoot happens, I go zen 
as a Win Dixie turkey leg deep frozen.