Perplexed to prolapse the bargain of beast.
Haven coerced by gloom of grey spit.
Shadow the sheen veins of aroma to frighten.
The damsel underneath cold coal shivers.
qualm the gills of goading heresy.
Be it a boy to wander the passage of the passenger.
Anatomical wonder.
Bed wetting worry.
Just as the anthill billows; the
lips of love swallows.
Jab beauty hideously to
unravel diamonds.
and give birth to dead doves
in arson fields.
The Farthest Fields are all Flowers
56 pages, Sanctimonious Press
the ashes were blown
from his bones &
swept into the
trailing winds of a
passing 18 wheeler
yet he careened along
a continuous mass
overlaid onto the
slowly spreading
dreamscape of
maligned highways
& abandoned farmhouses
in the crowded room
waiting on the second
nerve pill to kick in
surrounded by
young and old
black and white
men and women
I don’t think the old black women
are here for a vasectomy
it is a gender fluid world now
so I could be wrong
maybe they have trouble peeing
what if their occupation
was that of a degrading dominatrix
specializing in water sports
the inability to pass urine
would be affecting their income
and livelihood
it could be a tax write off
… and I knew that.
“christ!”
so why did I climb into the ring with her?
“really?!”
and why is the bar always jumping
when you’re getting your ass whupped, gloves off,
“… the hell were you thinking?”
by the sexiest woman?
“don’t you ever think?”
not deeply enough…
“god damn you!”
that’s a righteous right hook…
“you are such a…”
and a stinging jab…
“I should cut your…”
below the belt, but the ref doesn’t call it,
just pours me another shot
“… can’t believe…”
that smells like guilt,
“… back of my truck – my truck… ”
and tastes like eighty-proof stupidity,
“… my own fucking sister??!”
(also known as my boss’s wife…)
my corner man slaps another beer on the bar,
trying to stanch those cuts, but
“ass-hole!”
the bell rings too soon,
“fucking pig!”
and the next punch
“mother-fucking liar!”
really connects.
god, she’s beautiful.
she telegraphs the next combination,
but I’m too proud to duck:
“fuck …
(full wind-up bitch-slap)
… you!!”
and the fight’s over –
I hit the floor,
she hits the door,
and the crowd goes wild.
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 2019, the curated collection from Horror, Sleaze and Trash!
Featuring poetry by Mendes Biondo, Ben Newell, Alan Catlin, David Boski, J.J. Campbell, Casey Renee Kiser, John D Robinson, Anthony Dirk Ray, Damion Hamilton, Johnny Scarlotti, Maté Jarai, Jacob Ian DeCoursey, Scott Manley Hadley, Bogdan Dragos, Jack Henry, A.Theist, Thumper Devotchka, and Garvan Giltinan
Kindly PayPal 5 USD to arthur.graham.pub@gmail.com,
or download the FREE ebook instead!
In pumpkin shades of streetlight
the vampires, the witches,
the double-stitched cloaks of aspiring wizards
swish through willowy, puddled alleys,
round the draughty tenement doors
and their gloomily-lit hallways.
Sacks of sugar-coated lollies
promise twilight turmoil, late-night frenzies
wrestling with demons and sibling rivalries.
Tangerine skins and monkey nut shells
will cling to shabby carpets
like departed souls that refuse to be expelled.
When the town sleeps, a pylon on the hill crumbles
like the burnt wick of a birthday candle.
The damp soil underfoot moulders and rots
until skinless fingers rake the sod,
hauling its entire frame to the surface
and we watch the shaded Mound of the Hostages
as it slowly lurches down towards us.
Driving
to my dishwashing job
when I see
a big-ass beer truck
parked outside Walgreen’s…
CORONA
FIND YOUR BEACH
The driver mops his brow
with a handkerchief
then hoists another
backbreaking case.
He hasn’t found his
and something tells me
he likely never will—
As for me
the only water on the horizon
is mixed with
commercial-grade detergent
and sanitizer.
But I’ll keep getting shit-faced
and dreaming
of hot sand beneath my feet
as topless French women
beg for my autograph.
The love of the rack and the cat:
torture seemed easier
than another day in the family home –
that’s why she said “I do” –
the road to severe pain
began with a long white dress –
she was through with boredom,
thought maybe she’d scream and bleed
for a while,
even fight back
like she never could with malaise –
a knife plunged deep into this stranger’s chest
sure beats a kiss on the cheek before bedtime.
Go figure doll.
Watch that figure doll.
Figure it all out.
On Fridays,
mirror figures will take my life.
Go figure doll.
Drop the sugar rules.
Be a darling,
my sweetened schoolgirl.
Be a darling,
know what you’re good for.
And don’t let them stain
your skin with fingertips.
Don’t let them stay long enough
to backhand, or leave handprints.
On Fridays,
mirror figures will lie more.
The camera will add ten times
the amount that I asked for.
My fun costs
whatever you got soldier,
and no I’m not
from around here.
Ask me next year
when I’ve grown older
and more desperate.
Like men who ask dolls
what fun costs.
I’ll pull out
and cum on her, keep cumming,
keep cumming until she is trapped in white.
In time, the white will harden, then crack.
And she will emerge a moth,
flutter out the door
toward clouds bruised
by the weight
of a black anvil night.
If there’s a rainbow around the moon,
I’ll watch her go,
but only if.
Forgive me, but I’ll need the distraction,
some color to look away towards
and pretend is significant.
But tonight, she lies naked in my bed,
legs wrapped around my waist, and asks,
Why haven’t you written a poem about me?
I stop and tell her,
Because I’m not miserable,
and because you’re here.
Horror Sleaze Trash 