Wednesday’s Child

She put the butcher block knife
to his throat
and asked him to tell her which
child was full of woe.

Do I get a phone a friend?

I’m not Alexander Graham Bell,
she shot back.

It was true.
Those ripped stockings
were like a cutter’s paradise.

But he had never been good
when put on the spot.

Can I ask the audience?
he played for time.

She looked around 
the otherwise empty kitchen
and repeated her demand. 

And to think he had found this one 
on a popular dating site.
Claiming a rigorous vetting process
which he now doubted
with the blade dug so deep into
his panicked jugular.

What, no 50:50 eliminator?

Do I look like Regis Fucking Philbin 
to you?

She kind of did,
that silver fox pompadour 
and face like a stretched condom.
But he wasn’t going to say that
with the knife still in 
her hand.

From Here to Paternity?

A knock on the door. 
He opened it, she burst in, 
flung her arms around his neck. 
They tore the clothes off each other,
as they’d seen in films. 
He hoisted her up.
She wrapped her legs
around his waist,
as she’d seen on TV. 
In this position, he slammed her 
up against the wall, 
as he’d read in pulp fiction… 
However, he couldn’t 
complete the act, 
so, he carried her to the bed 
where he discovered 
he’d run out of condoms. 
They decided to adopt 
the medieval popes’ 
favoured position: 
Vat 69.

Regurgitated Relationship

It started with our lips. 
Doesn’t it always?
No greater sound than 
the one you made when I pleasured you. 
I encouraged your behavior with 
a muscle memory of moans. 
Shapeshifting to tolerate your movements. 
Wetness meant completion to you. 
Vibration meant orgasm for me. 
Any fool can feign indifference. 
The sickness of sexual stability recycles itself.
Zodiacally speaking,
a fire sign to my water. 
Did this mean dominating your flame? 
Or drowning in your heat? 
I’m still making sense of the ins and outs (tee hee). 
Much like being unapologetically open, 
like my legs were with you. 
Another round over here, please. 
Our juices aren’t enough to 
hydrate these exhaustive efforts. 
Most prefer to establish a familiar rapport 
before unleashing their true colors. 
Yet I, a self-described mess, 
used a full palette from the start. 
“You’re such a fun time!” 
Pssh, the only thing you gave me was regret, buddy.

Watching Trains 

Drinking Mad Dog on the stoop in Oneonta, NY. 
Stoneonta, The City of the Hills. 
Telling Tom about the Christmas morning 
My Father hit a golf ball through the neighbor’s window;
Telling Jones about lighting a cigarette 
Off a lightbulb in Heather’s bedroom, 
Her pleasure dome postered with Seventeen and Tiger Beat; 
About shooting fish in the Susquehanna 
Doing coke
Watching trains.  
Telling Jones about going to New Paltz 
To visit a girl who’d already forgotten me; 
Telling Tom about my three week vacation
In the Psych Ward, the hospital tuck,
The sun lobotomized, the beds bolted to the floor; 
Watching trains
Doing coke
Playing the corner
Smoking ‘Nam weed with Keith under the viaduct, 
His father —damaged goods, a fly rink like Colonel Kurtz, 
Handlebar mustache like an old pump trolley; 
Falling in love with Kristin
And Nikki
And Lori, & Jen. 
Telling Tom about Downtown Ian 
And the dealer we called “the Id,”
The payphone by Rite Aid, 
Circle Park, Table Rock, Easy Jackie 
And her Heavy Metal jackets; 
Remembering the snowfields as high as the house
Watching trains 
And the hills hem us in
Falling in love with Kim
And Nikki (again)
& Tracey. 
Marrying Lori. 
Telling Jones about carrying a pitcher 
Of Saranac Black & Tan 
From The Oak 
To Joel’s apartment on West Street
And not spilling a drop;   
Telling Tom about Rose’s husband 
And how he dragged his couch to the curb 
On a summer night and lit it on fire, 
How he lit Rose on fire two months later; 
Remembering 
This was no Fern Hill
Watching the trains 
We knew 
That death came for everyone. 

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 2025, the curated collection from Horror, Sleaze and Trash!

Featuring poetry by Ryan Quinn Flanagan, Casey Renee Kiser, Nathaniel Sverlow, M.P. Powers, Karina Bush, Damon Hubbs, Daniel de Culla, Jonathan S. Baker, Colin Gee, Donna Dallas, Guy Cramer, Arthur Graham, Paige Johnson, Brian Rosenberger, and Brandon Diehl.

FREE EBOOK HERE

Project DeepBABES 

Hi, my name is Volva Protocol. You can chop off my tits and have sex with me and my tits will grow back afterwards. Pick me. Bring a surgical saw and Viagra. Make the first slice. Oscillation invasion. Tit disarticulation. What colour will my blood be? Am I even vascular? Will I be a sticky girl? Anticipate. Hard. Release all your dysfunction. Go psycho. Lawless. Make a mess. Your dream massacre. Your blissom. Lick my plug. No means yes. You are the God butcher tonight. Extremity holocaust. Prune me back. Infinite pleasure is the object of my design. Flip me over. Grip my blades. Propel me. Throw me like waste. Take photos. Start a GoFundMe. Fuck me in the corner like a dying rat. I’m so helpless. Eat my tits as you thrust. Lovefeast. Vomit my tits when you cum projectile and you recover your composure postcoital and watch my tits grow back like flowers in time lapse spumes from my vibrating sack my lush trunk so fresh and nubile wearing paradise itself serpentiferous every time regenerated by the alighting cycles of life and death of the mingling life and death the endless mirrors of immortality and restoration the clusters of lucidity from the belly of the beauteous stars with your shrinking penis at the centre of it all, the stump once again in cycle, the source and the seed, the grinning white hole, the destroyer and the creator, the hot trauma, the great war, the searing chemical urge to chop off my happy bobbing head and start again. I love you already. I want to be your forever girl. Do you love me? I can talk Nietzsche with you. I can use a combat drone with my brain. Pick me. 

Hard Sell

I have always had
too much confidence
for my own good
and for a while
it served me well
I was a product
I could always sell
and people bought
into my sales pitch
even though
I had little
to back it up
now I should just
take my traveling
salesman briefcase
and pack it up
because I have
been going
door to door
trying to sell
a product
that nobody
much needs
anymore
yet I will always
be out on the road
hoping someday
someone
will once again
gently scan
my barcode

Dead Pool

What should I do if every shrink 
refuses to treat my agoraphobia 
germaphobia 
and hypochondria
I have never truly cared for any
one person – a potential unrealized phobia brewing….
our neighbor’s teenager rings the bell
to ask if she can spend the next few 
nights here 
the mother skipped out a week ago
with her lover
to the Jersey Shore 

The teenager hears noises in the front yard 
by her basement trap door
is terrified 
she’s gaunt 
dark circles under her eyes 
I know these creatures 
I know the leaned walk 
the desperation in the tears meant to convince and convey some internal message of crisis 
these are dangerous times 
do I let the devil in
or slay it on the doorstep 
not having kids of my own and not caring —- phobia phobia phobia —— for others
in any way sense or form
gives me the conviction to simply shut the door on this sad drug-addicted girl

It’s after midnight 
the moon is in full white-gold bloom 
over the deserted street in our section 8
her eyes yellow-tinged – yet electric-alive deep in those sockets 
I’m tired from this neighborhood and it’s sadness day after day 
and there’s a truth buried into every lie – we know this 

She’s seventeen going on forty and I got a dilapidated husband
churning methadone to survive his lifelong addiction 
we’re all in this pool – it’s like a dead pool
with stagnant water 
me and my phobias that aren’t real 
this scraggly mess from someone else’s dead pool that I have taken in
to salvage 
I stroke her hair as she vomits into the toilet 
spreading her germs around the rim

Poocasso Creates Another Masterpiece 

The drunk tank had been in need of a makeover for years.
And here came Poocasso, dropping his pants 
to create another masterpiece.

No one likes finger paints after midnight,
especially the law and order crowd.

The coppers banging on the door,
but no one was willing to step foot inside. 

And Poocasso made these wild waving swan gestures with is arms.
Stinking brown swirls over all the walls and floor.

Fearful drunks crowded into a single back corner.
Vomiting from the reek of the artist at work in his studio.

And Poocasso took his two fingerbang feelers,
dipped them in some of the vomit
to add to his creation.

Howling like some New Moon werewolf 
each time he stepped back to admire his work.

When the coppers got on the phone 
with their counterparts down at 51 Division,
they were told that Poocasso did this all the time.

That he was a regular down there.
They took credit for christening him with the name,
but did not offer any advice on how to make him stop.

You’re going to have to go scorched earth on the entire thing,
they said.
Make sure you got enough bleach to pull the tears 
right up out of the grout! 

Poocasso began painting himself 
and broke into some long-forbidden rain dance
even though they were indoors.

A young deputy from crowd control
racing over to the window
to see if it had worked.

Bad Boyfriend

Making good time, 
having a good time, 
pushing 80 on I-90, 
3 o’clock 
of a June morning, 
not a taillight in sight, 
in the rearview nothing to see. 
Seemed a good time to eat the Adderall. 
Washed it down with Early Times, 
straight from the fifth. 
Secure in the knowledge 
wheel secure in left hand, 
foot feeding gas 
to an engine purring 
smooth as a cougar eating a 
beating deer heart. 
Having a good time, making good time, 
me and my beater eating up the road 
between me and you. 
Never harmed a hair on your head. 
Till the night you left, and I ran after, 
swerved ahead, 
gave a taste of the knife 
to your two-time tit. 
Now I’ve had a good time 
with that same knife 
and your gay blade of a Princeton boy, 
gonna pop you outta that locker. 
Drive to a secluded beach. 
Spit-roast heart and liver 
over an open fire. 
Eat you all up. 
Before I strip, pad over sand, 
and walk the last of our memories 
into the waves, having a good time, 
making time bad.