John D. Robinson

The Drooper

‘Wow! I’m sorry, I mean,
it’s not you, it’s me!’ I said
pathetically, confused and
‘Look, don’t worry, it
happens, it’s the alcohol’
she said kindly:
‘I’ve been drunk for years
and I’ve been fucking for
years and this has never
happened!’ I was
embarrassed and in
‘Please, it’s nothing, lets
wait until morning then
see what happens’ she
at 7am I was fully restored
and by 8am we had sexually
exhausted one another and
lay satisfied as others were
making their way to the
offices, factories, buses,
trains, building sites, shops
I said ‘Would you like some
wine?, I’ve a bottle in the
‘Wine is the most important
drink of the day’ she
replied and I knew we
were making it good.

Anthony Dirk Ray

The Splash

late one night
outside a dingy bar
where my band played occasionally
and I was a bartender
part time

punk, metal, and
eclectic bands were featured
and vibes were usually laid-back

frat boys and trouble makers
would sometimes show up
to watch their friends play
get drunk and start shit

I stepped outside
a muggy summer breeze
making me instantly sticky

people were milling about as usual
laughing, talking, smoking, drinking
this bar was near the corner
of several gay bars so the gays
were milling about as well

one ignorant fuck in attire
more suited for a brunch date
starts talking loud about
“all these fags”
within earshot of a six foot four
black transvestite

the word ‘fag’
was not well received

the white boy was maced
blinded, pissed, embarrassed
his ego hurt more than his eyes

he attempted to fight
but to no avail
then chased and beaten
with six-inch stiletto heel

begging for mercy
but there was none to be had
just a bloody mess on Conti Street

he should have known better
because under that wig
that makeup, that dress,
there was still
a large black man
(fag or not)

an old-school hoopty
with windows rolled down
rode by playing
“More Than a Woman”



HSTQ: Summer 2019

Bobbi cover

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 2019, the curated collection from Horror, Sleaze and Trash!

Featuring poetry by Benjamin Blake, J.J. Campbell, Angelica Arsan, Brian Rihlmann, David Boski, Gary D. Morton, Stephanie M. Wytovich, Scott Manley Hadley, Omar Alexandre, Jonali Sorensen, Alan Catlin, Walter Ruhlmann, Thumper Devotchka, Casey Renee Kiser, Niklas Stephenson, Aqeel Parvez, Mela Blust, Anthony Graham, Mendes Biondo, and Johnny Scarlotti.

Kindly PayPal 5 USD to,
or download the FREE ebook instead!

Damion Hamilton

Strange Country

I was in a strange country
Hot and humid, it felt right,
like how it should be
instead of how it was

It was warm and sunny,
music like waterfalls undulating
And the women were warm and inviting
And I took my clothes off and felt things
in my crotch

No one made me feel ashamed for this,
I was just able to do it
And the ladies were nice and didn’t make
me feel ashamed or perverted at all

It was a strange country
with no clouds or chilly weather,
and prettiest girl kissed you on the cheek
She spoke in a language you would never know
in detail, but you understood every word

Afterwards, your body felt
as if had been floating
with the moon

You would have to find
the strange country more often

Somewhere on the other side
of main street

Somewhere way down the street
from here

John Kojak

Untitled (Of Course)

Modern poets are sissies,
limp quilled English majors
scratching flowers and
giving blowjobs to cats

Where is our Keats, our Eliot, our E.E.C.
Who’s minding the wheel?
Where’s Charles Fucking Bukowski
There aren’t five good lines anywhere

So cancel your subscriptions,
it’s all masturbation anyway
You want real? Get drunk,
crawl puking through an alley
Go fuck somebody—anybody!
But don’t read modern poetry

J.J. Campbell

the fewest amount of words possible

i had an old teacher
tell me to say what
needs to be said
with the fewest
amount of words

i have taken that
advice all my life

there’s no need for
flowery language

when a well timed
fuck off always
does the trick


Alan Catlin

The Dancing Girls of Death

She was fifteen going on
a Sex in the City age, three gold
rings in her right ear, a clown’s-
head charm bracelet around each
wrist, and a blue butterfly tattoo
on her butt, no one in her family
had seen nor, ever would, if she
had her way. “My stepdad would
freak if he knew. Especially, as he
paid for it.” She told one of her
boy toys who was so stoned all he
could manage was an obligatory,
“Bummer,” his reaction to all negatives
like his all purpose “Cool,” for all
the positive things in life. Like
beer blasts and pill parties, unprotected
sex in beachfront houses while parents
were away at orgies of their own,
though they called them something else.

All the like-minded she-witches in
her coven had matching tats on
their ass as a kind of blood kinship
thing that would forever unite them
in sisterhood until the next falling out,
next sex text one of them would send,
of one of their number, to like, everyone
on earth. Something sent as a kind of
joke, under the influence of alcohol
and E, barely remembered after, until
the message went, like viral, and the girl
in question thought razor blades
in the bath was the only solution
to an otherwise insoluble problem.
And it might have been, were it not
for the kid brother seeing the text,
and barging into that room no adult
would dare to go.

Accused of bullying, violating
sacred trusts, and child porn laws,
she stonewalls authorities, insists she is
above all this childish stuff and maybe
she was, in a way, if someone hadn’t
almost died.


Charles Rammelkamp

Full Disclosure

“The only brown hair on my body
is the hair on my head,”
the girl in line in front of me
at Chipotle told her two companions,
another girl and a boy,
all three college students,
her tone matter-of-fact,
nothing suggestive in her voice.
She might have been talking
about the literature exam
or the biology lab experiment.

“Thanks for sharing,”
the other girl’s sarcastic response,
but I couldn’t help thinking
of the hair elsewhere
on the brown-haired girl’s body.
Blonde? Black? Red?

I wasn’t sure if I’d tag that
with an LOL or a TMI,
but I remember my Facebook friend
Ramona posting last night:
“Anxious about the biopsy
performed on my left boob
this morning.”


J.J. Campbell

from the god they prayed to their entire lives

the fourth of july
has come and gone

no fireworks around

too many people still
dealing with the fallout
from the memorial day

souls still in shock
waiting for a check

from the insurance

from the government

from the god they
prayed to their
entire lives

each passing day
is another nail into
the coffin

of course, the local
news will find the
crazy woman who
has the same ceiling
that has collapsed twice

once from the tornado
and once from all the rain

she’ll smile into the camera
and tell everyone it’s going
to get better, we just need
to stay strong

i believe they call that
the definition of insanity