Sun and Coffee

Jeannie was plain but pretty
and by way of an ex-partner,
she owned a fucking big house.
We met whilst working in an illegal
fake ivory products factory.
I became homeless
and she offered me a room.
The factory boss disappeared
and the placed closed-up
and we spent our days drinking
and smoking and listening to music.
Then she found God and my habits
became unacceptable and again,
I became without a roof.
She moved town and married
and we lost touch but there
were times back then,
when she walked into my room
in a see-through night-gown
and she would pull back the curtains
and the sun would torch the room
and she would stand there
greeting me a good morning
as I sat up and gazed at the thick
mound of hair between her legs
and at her hard nipples
punching through the cloth.
I’d look knowing that I’d be
drinking coffee with her soon.

Afternoon Zenith 

Turned on the TV, 
and the TV turned on me. 
A dog on the screen appeared. I 
sneered at how stupid the dog appeared. 
Barked, “Jump, Rover – jump!” 
And the dog did, jumped clear out of the TV; 
turned on me, how Sodom turned on God; 
and you know Sodom turned God on, 
all that bored-out butt getting stuffed. 
Enough to turn God’s Rod into a sly snake. 
The mutt onto my Levi cuff glommed, 
the day turning into a circus. 
With a fist I cuffed the beast. 
Grabbed a stick and beat the dog off. 
Let him lick up the mess. Chased him 
back inside the tube. Where he turned 
out to be the locomotive for an ad for 
Gravy Train. Turned the TV off, 
and the TV turned off all three rings of me – left  
on the floor, in the den, bored to death; shot 
to hell one more doggone godawful afternoon.  

Joe’s Anus

For The Reader’s Digest

Hi, I’m Joe’s anus.
I like to talk, but Joe doesn’t very often let me.
My idea of a good sandwich
is liverwurst on white bread
with a side order of onion rings.
I turn my nose up at vegetarians.
I only have one eye and I
constantly concentrate on keeping
it trained on my inner self.
I don’t know anything about art,
but I do like Norman Rockwell.

If I had one wish
I would be Treasurer of the United States,
or maybe Bert Parks.
My favorite sport is baseball.
I thrill to the crack of the bat
and the towering blast exploded over
the centerfield wall
and into the mezzanine
where old drunks get their pockets picked
by truant schoolboys.

Like that of the housewife, my work
is never done. I have never slept a wink
in my entire life, and yet,
I am certain I have a firm grip
on what dreams are. 

us swellers

she had a beer belly like a man.
it was fascinating. 
she had the hips and the tits,
but then there was this dome of a belly 
and it wasn’t hard and shiny like a pregnant stomach,
it was soft with folds at the sides like a man’s beer gut
and even more amazing was that she wasn’t ashamed,
she’d sit on the couch in shorts and an open shirt,
those long strong legs out and crossed,
one firm slab of thigh on top of the other, 
her breasts that got bigger towards the bottom 
perfectly bunched up within the balcony of her bra
… but with this big old wobbly gut between them
and maybe it was the media shaming bellies have got,
but this somehow seemed even more intimate 
than if she’d shown some nips or lips
and it drove me mad,
the hot slut
sitting there 
with that big round thing that processed all her food and turned it into shit
just hanging out for all to see like that
and when I went down on her
I always had my hands on her belly,
stroking it
and she let me,
the shameless whore let me stroke 
the skin surface of the very balloon that all her intestines were coiled up in, 
how intimate is that? 
and she would look down
nodding
as she reached for
another beer.

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.