the piss of the blues

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

Frank Zappa Says

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

The Fall

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.

Holiday Abroad

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.

FREE EBOOK HERE

Dinosaur Story

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

Happiness

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

A Painful Wedding

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.

Breakup Number Forget  

I go alone to pick a bone with the lady 
gives me the strength to 
tear myself apart. 
In her eyes lies the art 
to give and to take. 
But make no mistake, 
she gives one, she takes five. 
Broke with her last week. 
Tonight we meet 
like sea lions 
to seal the deal. 
She says the only seal be with a kiss. 
And I learn what is obvious 
to anyone not in love with hell: 
walk away once, 
come back to make sure, 
is twice as ever 
hooked on the bait of kiss the witch. 
And when you taste the tongue, 
you know it’s done. 
Oh, my dear god in hell – 
can you not just cut me 
one break? 

Magic Fingers

Iowa City’s massage parlors
catered to forsaken gentlemen
of all vocations—truckers, day laborers,
shift workers, nervous students who
didn’t have time for girlfriends. 

I perched on a couch between two other women
and waited for patrons to make their pick.

Some guys liked blondes, others, brunettes.
Each chose a masseuse as casually
as he might select a six-pack.
A one-girl back rub with extras cost the same, 

no matter who supplied it. I started with 
shoulders, running my fingers 
along stringy muscles, squeezing flesh 
like overripe fruit, eventually working my way

downwards. The men liked to pretend 
I was an innocent conquest, perhaps 
sipping beer at an off-campus haunt
on an awkward first date.

“Are you a student?” 
“What is your major?”
“What do you do when you’re not working?”

They finally emitted milky streams
of pleasure, grunted a couple of times,
and wiped themselves off with a hand towel.

Afterwards, I joined the other women
on the well-worn lobby couch, and we
watched Rockford Files reruns until it grew so late

that Iowa City’s cache of lonely guys
had all gone to sleep: solo in a single bed
or curled beside their unsuspecting wives,
but alone either way.