Vampire’s Kiss

All the color was
being leached out
of her skin in some
Unnatural way,
not the Michael
Jackson way but by
black magic rites
she once took part
in as a youth pre-
paring needles for
mojo mamas to
use on fetish dolls,
likenesses of enemies
real and imagined,
while her male
siblings played
dice for souls
of marked men,
the soon-to-be
totally bereaved,
drinking joy juice
made from pure
cane, the hearts
of rare plants,
domestic animals
& special herbs
slow cooked the old
fashioned way &
allowed to ferment
in dark caves, root
cellars on the out
skirts of villages
of the damned she
held a visa for
stamped in blood,
no one questioned
her proof of passage,
it was clear where
she was coming from
no one would want to go

You

Somedays are shrouded,
locked in rage.

Displaced anger
better off contained.

Reflect in soundwaves,
jaw fully extended
as if to consume              its tremendous—

Somedays, it hits the gullet
floor like a wet back wrestling
the reverberation.

Find its spine—its verbiage.
It’s relentless—this echo.
Somedays.

Today, I can hold it still / hold it still
long enough to read its
+++++++++++vertebrae
protruding up a marked hide
& I etch a fresh line:

“It’s just you again.”

It’s just you again.

tarot reading

She was sucking
on a red lollipop
quite loudly
and would constantly
take it out of her mouth
to stir her whiskey with it

She wore round sunglasses
a crimson bandanna
her hair in thin dreads
and all her shirts
were sleeveless

She took the lollipop out
one more time and
pointed it at him
across the table

“You want some?”
she asked

“Um, no thanks. I, uh,
stay away from sweets.”

She dipped the lollipop
back into the glass
and stirred a bit
then put it back
in her mouth

“Good for you.
I’m not too fond
of these either.
Just use ’em to help me
break the smoking habit.
It’s been working lately.”

She picked up the glass and took a sip
of the lollipop-flavored whiskey

“Anyway, like I said,
I brought you to my place
to read your tarot cards.”

She pulled the deck out
from under the table
and began shuffling
it intently

“If all’s good,
there’ll be a second date
and perhaps even more.
It all depends on you.”

Just then,
her dog barged into the room,
a fat pit bull wagging its stubby tail
and sniffing around the guest

It then ambled to her side
and she took the lollipop
and placed it between
the dog’s jaws

She shuffled some more
very focused on what
she was doing
and when all was ready
she took the lollipop
from the dog’s mouth
and resumed sucking on it
with loud slurping sounds

“So, you ready?”
she asked

He watched her,
gulped, and
scratched his head

“Um… yeah, totally.
This is, uh… like
poker, right?”

That Word

cunt
why does the word offend
when
we all seem to be fascinated by them
bound in lace and nylon
want to touch give pleasure lie to receive them
pay to hurt them
drop down on our knees
to worship
cunt

the vagina is an old grandma and fanny our aunt
twat our brother, muff our pet hamster
gerbil, rabbit
they live down south with Edith and Edna –
have an accent

but cunt
cunt is young and goes where she pleases
if she chooses to she will tease
draw you in
and spit you out
and if she wants to fuck
she will do so

and if she likes
she will take plenty of pictures
post online

she isn’t tied to the one person or
the one tradition

the shadow of slut and whore, her ugly sisters

cunt has an identity of her own.

 

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 2020, the curated collection from Horror, Sleaze and Trash!

Featuring poetry by Bogdan Dragos, John Gartland, A. Lynn Blumer, Dave Cullern, Jack Henry, John D Robinson, Peter Magliocco, Alan Catlin, Anthony Dirk Ray, Donna Dallas, Corey Mesler, Casey Renee Kiser, Jacob Ian DeCoursey, Mark J. Mitchell, Craig Podmore, Dennis Villelmi, Damion Hamilton, and Michael D. Amitin.

Kindly PayPal 5 USD to arthur.graham.pub@gmail.com for print copies,
or download the FREE ebook instead!

The Lifespan of a Successful Failure

More and more I feel like I’m hurtling towards
a vast expanse of nothingness.

Like I’m late for a date with no one or nothing
in particular, but late all the same.

I’m a hungover hangdog
a misfiring misfit,
grasping at signs of life
in one last ditch effort
to feel something real.

I’m a genuine wino
a whining fake
and a successful failure
of a human being.

Considered a success by society’s
standards, but a sellout to the man
and to compromise and cowardice.

I’m a burnt up burnout,
sleepwalking through life
with an understanding it may
all end with a whimper.

A husk of a man
with lofty goals, yes
but no drive left
at the end of the day.

One who’s spent all his time
and energy on the wrong people
at the wrong time.

I’ve used up all my youth
on the hustle
on chasing the dream,
whatever the fuck
that could be.

What’s left is a half-wit has-been
masquerading as a man with a plan.

A wife, two kids
and a pension that likely won’t
be there when I need it.

Every day is a lonely slog.

But when I sit down to write
the Muse is there
and she tells me things,
some things I know
and some I don’t
but I listen all the same.

Sometimes she says nothing at all,
so we just sit there together
as the jazz plays
and the whiskey goes down
smoother with every drink

and it’s good,
and I start to feel better about things,
like maybe it’s not all piss and shit after all.

 

Siren Song

I was pretty leery
Of her line of bullshit
Of how God was my friend.
Particularly as she kept
Rubbing her body
Against mine while she
Continued in her
Siren song attempt
At my conversion.
I could dig her
Handling my meat
And spreading her legs
In the name of the Lord.
But, way down deep,
I figured she and Jesus
Were just after my weed.

To Have Loved Mary

Today is Sunday and I’m going to the ocean
or maybe not. Definitely not doing the laundry
or maybe I will. Moss and even a small tree
grow in the rotten stubs of the pier pilings.
The city is Seattle and it has a macho airport.

Give me the comfort of a moose knowing its
water supply. The mosquito’s acceptance of its position
among a million mosquitoes. The pool of stagnant
water that remains one with the mothering ocean.
I drift on the air, less than a seed, a bacteria.

Or I am human, big dick, big brain containing
universal philosophic affidavit. Pleased by
the churning of my tongue, sexual enlightenment,
devout prayer, gourmet dining. I swear
it is best to be alive and to have loved Mary.

She and I / Light Breaks Through

Don’t bother me
when I’ve shovel in hand
Hot emotions are hard to control

She has got to go
+ the mirror said so +
Find a new place to rest her head

She lets people have their way
and drags me down
Today, I am taking charge

I let in a strange visitor
Fearless and free–
the merge was successful

She and those pills
are buried together
and I must show my new friend around

~ my mind

TMI

Five years ago I
took an ax to my
pecker.

Fact is I
was tired of the fucker.
It ruined the line
of my pants.

Could have
used a saw but figured
an ax was quicker.

Placed it on the block,
took a swing at it
(it looked like a picadillo,
fresh from the deli).

Then, Lordy, it piped
“Hey, Pete here, what
have I ever done
to offend you, man?”

“To start with,” I said,
“You don’t piss straight, then
you lie down when called
to get up

and get up
when discretion
would serve both our needs
better.”

But we made up.
He and I talk most
weeks, we do the
best we can.

Five years on
Pete’s a reformed
character, a model
of continence.