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.

Will You Buy Me? (I Come With a Warranty)

Catharsis on knife-edge,
The hungering perversion
Resides underneath the dust
Of suburban decay.

The nude body,
Salaciously splayed deliciously
Upon a busy market,
Men and women and children
Bite their lips like anorexic cannibals.

They scratch their skin
As their own existence becomes an irritant.
Morgue cock, funereal cunt
Like a monolith, heralded before the people
Has them in awe.

Screens exhibit operations;
Dissection of the penis and the vulva,
Sleazy and sexily so,
Promoters vocally advertise
The infinite usage of women
That they have mounted
Upon dirty obstetrical chairs;

Men inspect the vaginas,
Asking the sellers about the measurements
And tightness of their holes
And whether the subject could
Have anal sex or not.
The anus is spread before them
And proceed to analyse the potential gaping
For rough anal sex.

Each subject is a different model
Customised for certain sexual needs and deviancies.
For those who desire a subject
For such extreme fetishes
Are taken into a nearby dome where more subjects
Are exhibited for interest.

Women tease the male models
And humiliate them regarding their size.
For girth and length inspection,
The sellers are more than happy for them to
Apply some stimulus to the male organs
To see if their product facilitates their needs.

Beyond the markets,
The homes are infested with the dead.
Subjects tossed to the side,
Next to their bins,
Awaiting for collection
So that they can be disposed of.
The streets smell of decaying flesh,
Rats scuttle amidst the bodies
Of fetid decomposition.

For those who do not have such commodities,
Rummage the alleyways for the dead.
These less fortunate individuals
That can’t afford such desired subjects
Go on to fuck the remains.
Some of them take the bodies home
And make use of their innards –
“Waste not, want not” they mutter…

The buyers keep their warranties
Should their subjects die,
However, if murdered by their owners,
The warranty is exempt and will not be able to redeem it.
Some owners have their subjects for a lifetime
But the markets try to deter the owners from doing that
As flesh needs to be capitalised,
The cycle of flesh must be constantly
Purchased, subjects are always advertised
To lure in potential customers.

“Keep your receipts and returns can be valid.”

Some owners make their subjects
Into messiahs;
They dress them up and make them godlike
And then go on to proclaim
That their subject is a deity
Willing to suffer for their desires.
Their sins consumed by the flesh of subjects,
Plasticised like cheap crucifixes from a bargain basket.

The consumption of goods eroticised for the good of man
And the future of the economy in safe hands.
Sometimes we forget,
We are also the goods that makes the greedy hands
Rub the coins erratically in their inhuman pock