I don’t exactly understand why, but
my new girlfriend won’t come indoors
after dark when she’s having her period.
When I ask her about it, she just murmurs
something about needing to live in harmony
with the phases of the moon. I’ve decided
to buy her a tent and good a sleeping bag
for her birthday, and an economy-sized box
of Stayfree Overnight Maxi Pads.
one lesbian in
pantyhose sniffs the
feet of another
your step-sister says
she won’t tell anybody
from your point of view
the girl instructs you
how to jack off and laughs at
your pathetic dick
a man spends an hour
groping a woman on a
bus while she acts calm
your ‘wife’ looks at you
while having sex with a real
man with a real cock
a woman touches
herself in her car in a
Walmart parking lot
this compilation
features twenty-one facials
in seven minutes
a ‘daughter’ brings her
boyfriend home to her ‘mother’
and guess what happens
do you relate to
the woman with the strap-on
or her girlfriend
a woman is caught
and ravished by tentacles—
only in Japan
a woman takes off
everything but her hijab
filmed by her husband
your mom has sex with
your bully so he’ll leave you
alone and you watch
a man in anger
management fucks the mouth of
his hot therapist
two full hours of girls
masturbating and reaching
orgasm—two full hours
there apparently
are amateur women who
like to give blowjobs
a black man makes a
white woman say the n word
while he slaps her
this sissy trainer
uses het porn clips to show
you that you are gay
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: Fall 2020, the curated collection from Horror, Sleaze and Trash!
Featuring poetry by William Taylor Jr., Michael D. Amitin, Casey Renee Kiser, Judge Santiago Burdon, David J. Thompson, J.J. Campbell, Johnny Scarlotti, David Boski, Kerney Bee, Daniel S. Irwin, Paul Tanner, James Diaz, Andy Seven, damion snow, Jeffrey Zable, Jeff Weddle, John Maurer, John Tustin, Donna Dallas, John D Robinson, Dave Cullern, and Matt Amott.
Kindly PayPal 5 USD to arthur.graham.pub@gmail.com, or get your FREE ebook here!
More of the lovely Miss Ginger HERE
she was stuffed
into a long skirt.
it was like clingfilm around her thighs
and hugged all the way down to her ankles:
she looked like an upside-down pear.
she could barely move in it.
and as she went past me
doing these little trots in heels,
I saw there was a hole
in the stitching at the side,
high up on her thigh:
this tiny peek of leg flesh,
like a diamond in the dark.
all I could think about
was running over
and licking it:
would it be stubbly?
would it be smooth?
would it taste of some lotion,
or just good ol’ sweat?
I wanted to lick that diamond
so bad
but I’m a good man
so I didn’t
and she trotted on
quite safe in her little stifled trots.
I wanted to lick that diamond
so bad
but wrote about it instead
and now you do too,
don’t you?
No one has even noticed my brain is outside of my skull
Sitting in my hand dripping out its serotonin and dopamine
The reuptake isn’t great when I’m spilling it out
Like my heart fell off my sleeve and onto the page
I’m still saying what they tell me not to
I have too much free agency for an agent in my early twenties
I say fuck because I’m fucking fucked
If I tell them to fuck off, they fuck on
Even if I don’t give a fuck, they will take a fuck
Like my poetry is a cheap whore, only meant for one night stand
They want to tell me where to put my line breaks
And for that, they will take…hmmm…nine eighths
Plenty more if they can and more if I’m desperate,
and I’m plenty desperate
I would take minimum wage for a page, but who would pay
To see auto-autopsy
To see half of a heart transplant
To see me write poetry until I have a nosebleed
The Barbed & the Beautiful,
By Marcel Herms & John D Robinson
John D Robinson presents this collaboration with artist Marcel Herms. Hand-sewn using high-quality paper, partly funded by the Dutch arts council and limited to just 75 copies.
When I drive back to the house
Three stories with
railroad rooms
still under foreclosure
my brother holed up
in the basement
sits on a toilet that doesn’t work
smokes meth for days
and trips
until his legs are purple
and swollen
from sitting in that same spot
my sister-in-law relies heavily
on Zani
she’s got a fucking gut like
Kuato is living under her shirt
from
the drink
from God knows what
I’ve watched the daisies
the African violets
bloom
under the weeping willow
year after year
I’ve tried to help them all
when I lived upstairs
and she would come up
black eyed and fucked up
or their kids would pound
on my door
scream bloody murder
because he beat her again
and again
The Weeping willow is dead now
looks like a
sinister twisted stump
lurks behind a busted up fish tank
a ratty chair and a crate with empty beer
bottles
in my old apartment now live
her sister
who escaped her ex
he became a Satan worshipper
she had to change her name just in case
he came for them
her, their daughter and son live there
along with the son’s girlfriend
this is how we live
it’s called white trash
it’s so obvious it’s a nationality
a branding
I still feel it
the trash
Mom would sit out the third floor
windowsill
smoke cigarette after cigarette
watched everyone and everything
except us
I didn’t need watching
I needed a mother who wasn’t
recovering
and didn’t bring a bible toting boyfriend home
from AA
who would help us all recover
together in the house
in the middle of the block
surrounded by other white-trashers
with their own set of problems
and maybe a worse
or a lighter load
than ours
Nihilistic but smiley
Reliably tired
I heard you’re absurd
Do you like to be choked?
I’ll drink your words like whiskey
And your cunt like coke
Where do I sign up
For the self-sabotage?
Take me to the ruins
Of a romantic mirage
I’m just a phase
I want to watch you jerk off
And runaway
Put me in your footnotes
Stick me in your seams
A volatile
Scattershot
Of humanity
And memes
I love you
Nevermind
Yes please
Unsubscribe
Ignite
Binge
Burn
Never learn
Drown
Me
In
Your
Curves
Grab my ass
You can slap me harder than that
Who am I
Who’s asking
Who is anyone
Who cares
Let’s eat cereal
And watch cartoons
Is it nap time yet?
it’s always some old song
that makes me think about
a lover from a quarter
century ago
something about those curves
and the way my tongue danced
around them that brings me
back to these empty pages
how those four-hour phone
calls would always end with
sticky fingers
and the rare evenings we got
to spend together, laughing,
talking in bed, us against
the world
at least for a few months
i was too immature and you
were never certain i would be
the right influence for your son
and for an immature fucker
i understood what you meant
i’m sure your life turned out
how you wanted it to
you found the one you didn’t
have to settle for
yes, i remember that painful
conversation and the ramifications
it had for me to this very day
i could say i’m still searching
or i could say the truth and
throw my hands in the air
and admit defeat
This chapbook is limited to a run of 50 copies, hand-numbered and signed by author. Only 21 copies left!
At a time when a nation is heavily divided by a bi-partisan political spectrum, The Manchurian Mandate acts as a call to action for the workers behind the scenes that keep the machine running. Joseph Fulkerson conjures the beat poets of past decades with this limited run manifesto which has a companion cassette tape homemade and recorded guerilla style. One long poem in a convenient paperback that can fit in your back pocket, The Manchurian Mandate urges the disenfranchised to remain patient for the right time for a revolution of thought. ‘I shudder at the consequence of my inaction,’ Fulkerson says midway through, remembering history’s harsh lessons with genocide and war, which are always a possibility for a society that has become complacent instead of vigilant. This is a piece that should be read and heard repeatedly and shared with others.
—Tim Heerdink, author of Razed Monuments and The Human Remains
This is not about politics.
Let me rephrase that: this isn’t about one side of the aisle or the other.
This isn’t about Democrat or Republican, liberal or conservative.
If you think it is, you are missing the point. You may even be part of the problem.
No, this is about not having enough of the right things and too much of the wrong things.
This is about having our priorities misaligned, or more aptly having our priorities aligned with those to whom our best interests are not their priority.
This is for all of those who work or have worked dead end jobs, minimum wage jobs, multiple jobs, to make ends meet.
Those who earn their keep with the sweat of their brows and at the expense of their families, dreams, and health.
Those on the frontlines, the back lines, and everywhere in between.
This was written for the workers whose jobs have been deemed essential, vital even, to the day to day lives of all of us.
We are Legion.
ACTIVATE THE MANCHURIAN!
The Manchurian Mandate in all it’s lo-fi glory! Performed and recorded onto cassette. Comes in a custom linocut slipcover.
