It’s four o’clock in Quebec
Which means nothing in
Any place in Oklahoma.
I’ve been to Oklahoma.
Never been to Quebec.
Oklahoma is said to be
Full of steers and queers.
I thought that was Texas.
Quebec ain’t got no steers.
Or was that Montreal?
Hell, I don’t know. I never
Go lookin’ for either one.
Steers or queers, that is.
Yeah, that don’t mean shit.
Just like this freaky poem.
Yup, it might be four o’clock
In Quebec. What do I know.
blind black jackie,
christmas diamond, christmas star
I’m drinking and sloshing molasses moonshine,
and there is no time left here
to go to hell or dream of me
both are the same, both remain quiet
for musings of my love
In the voids, in the people you discard.
but if you were like me,
maybe you could be more free,
as is divinity.
divinity is my pleasure,
divinity is my place of greed.
Am I divine? Or do my eyes deceive me?
Poisonously poised and awake to shine
with pretty fragile hearts
gashing in the idle heavens.
taking all of my lovers but seven.
all that you gave to me,
now withering away in an estate sale,
with sunshine blisters growing on your face,
waiting for the day you become old and unfuckable.
but i’ll stay here, full of fuck, full of rot,
in the snow deadlier as tomorrow
so visible, so alone
destroy me as i destroy you.
and i’m not a fucking HACK-HAG
I’m not old just yet
I’m not old enough for this
I’m only twenty one
and I bet she’s so grateful to belong to you,
with that ring on her dead molten finger.
Is she as pretty as the day you met her?
oh bitchless, I fall again
FORGET HER
just when we know we can’t take it anymore
just when we know that we need something
when we’re desperate for something to help us get by
something that isn’t a god
something that isn’t a superhero
something that isn’t a sales pitch or a political slogan
just when we despair because that kind of something doesn’t exist
a decrepit and obscure old poet limps down an alley
to watch the final sunrise of his life
and the rats scurry out of his way
and the feral cats of the night pause to stare at him
and the smell of rotten garbage hangs in the air
and the poet unzips and pours out his final piss into a filthy oil slick
and he coughs and he spits and he pukes and he pukes
and we all pause wherever we are as if we heard something
something like creation bending a note on a battered blues harp
the Mothers of Invention
got booked
on a jazz tour in 69
a promoter’s trick
to pump up ticket sales
in the land of greed
& we didn’t play
Top 40 Rock & Roll
This was my Absolutely
Free Freak Out Uncle Meat
version of my band
on the bill with
Rahsaan Roland Kirk
Gary Burton
& Duke Ellington
who I witnessed asking
the tour road manager
for a $10 advance one night
Edward Kennedy ELLINGTON
who wrote or collaborated
on over 1,000 compositions
who generously called
his music American Music
short changed in flimflam
ameriKKKa
& I started this tour off
taking $400 out
of my bank account
so my band could eat
I’m paying my musicians
out of my pocket
tour end I’m tapped out
$10,000 in debt
Eve said, “The fig leaf hides my fruit; hands off, you brute!”
But when Adam got a hard-on in that special Garden
and felt he had enough to fill Eve’s inviting muff,
it meant that he and Eve were told to leave.
“Why not have a ball if you know you’re gonna fall,”
the snake had hissed, which made old Yahweh pissed.
It was to be their fate to be thrown out of Eden’s gate
‘cos Adam dipped in Evie’s well and made her belly swell,
until, enduring dreadful pain, she gave birth to Cain.
A year or so later, Abel popped out on the kitchen table,
for Adam, despite his vice, only knocked his rib up thrice
at least until he was more mature and Eve retained her allure,
for number three was labelled Seth or so the Bible saith.
There once was man from Nantucket
who collected his cash in a bucket.
When he was asked why,
he said “I’m buying a Thai
and going to Thailand, to Phuket”.
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 2025, the curated collection from Horror, Sleaze and Trash!
Featuring poetry by Damon Hubbs, Puma Perl, Daniel de Culla, Donna Dallas, Nathan Bas, Ryan Quinn Flanagan, Jeff Weddle, Marty Shambles, Leah Mueller, Justin Karcher, Misti Rainwater-Lites, Willie Smith, Mark James Andrews, George Gad Economou, Catfish McDaris, and Karina Bush.
a million years ago
when mommy & daddy began
we’d go home to my studio apartment
on lunch break from T-Mobile
I’d stick a Tony’s pizza
in the oven
tell him
“okay, you’ve got 15 minutes to make me cum”
and I’d waltz back into the call center
glowing, giddy
reeking of Victoria’s Secret vanilla body wash
and on Friday nights
you bet your ass
we blessed the crowd at the best karaoke bar in town
with our renditions of “Whole Lotta Rosie”
and “Brand New Key”
but now we are dry and ancient
getting excited about xmas tree decorations
and the best deep dish pizza in Toledo
we don’t fuck
but we don’t hate each other
and for that
I am certain
we win some kind
of prize
I’m happy
eating pretzels
watching K-dramas
while out there
the sub-zeros
hurl their bodies from cunt to mouth to ass
never touching ground
distinct subconscious reactions to flightless dark ages
keeping their reptile brains busy
I love the am/pm mini mart
the foreign pours, hot & cold
the armpit grace of the feverish
gas-pumping proletariat
with no clue where fuel comes from
where cars come from
clothes, sunglasses
their toy pets their pet bambinos
their fucking hot dogs smothered in corn syrup sauces
it’s bankable how gullible the general census is
don’t bother to elaborate
because buying in is such a special privilege
leaving shock & outrage
to those with “-ists” ending their pronouns
outside
in a blizzard of sunshine
a desert leveled by moronic demographics
ocean chock fulla tunafish sandwiches
just me & supra-partial contents of a Maersk freight container
why would I bother
time-travel piloting a murderous locomotive weapon
I don’t need
to get to where I don’t want to go
faster
I was invited to the wedding of one of the daughters
Of a son-in-law of mine who pretended to be a doctor
At a private clinic.
She arrived at the altar dressed as a bride
Not knowing which priest was marrying her.
Beforehand, because the groom was taking so long
She went to confession with a priest
Whose face was hidden.
-Hail Mary, Father.
-Hail Mary, my daughter.
What sins do you have to confess?
-Father, I have a fever in my pussy
That pierces my heart.
Did you make love yesterday
And did your boyfriend rip your flower from its place?
-Yes, Father. But without my consent.
“We were going up the stairs of the house
And, like a lion, his penis got hard
Grabbing me from behind
Shoving it in
And I couldn’t do anything.
-Were you not wearing panties?
-Yes, Father.
-For God’s sake, my child.
Don’t provoke the men.
They only thinks about getting laid wherever he can
And they even kill the birds and rabbits
The ones they raise at home.
Say three Hail Marys and three Our Fathers
That God will forgive you.
But, daughter
Judging by the way your dress is flowing
It seems you’re already married.
-Yes, Father. Don’t tell my fiancé anything.
When she arrived at the altar
The groom was already waiting.
When the priest approached the bride and groom
In all his Mass vestments
To congratulate them on their marriage.
She was stunned
To see this priest who, when a child, baptized her
Sprinkling the holy oils on her pussy
And, when a girl, at her Confirmation
Sticked the aspergillum in her vagina
So that, when she grew up
She wouldn’t offer it to any son of a bitch.
Since she was little
And didn’t know what it was or what it was for
Other than just for peeing
She answered:
-Yes, put it in deeper, Father
Because it itches.
When the wedding was over
The father told them:
-Pepito, whenever you want to enjoy
Pepita’s beauty
It must always be
With her consent.
And your windows and balconies
Must not face the street or the square.
