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 2024, the curated collection from Horror, Sleaze and Trash!
Featuring poetry by Taryn Allan, Ryan Quinn Flanagan, M.P. Powers, Jason Melvin, Tempest Miller, Michael Ashley, Alan Catlin, Jade Palmer, Damon Hubbs, Brooks Lindberg, Johnny Scarlotti, Casey Renee Kiser, Karl Koweski, and Noel Negele.
“what is it?” I asked.
she gave me a slight, unsure smile.
“what?”
“I’m just trying to figure out
how kinky you are,” she said.
she could really get off with her vibrator, she told me.
it was a dildo with a little stem
on the bottom.
she held it like a gun when she showed it to me.
“I’ve actually never used that end,” she said
as the phallic cannon bobbed in the air.
I held it against her and turned it on.
she leaned back and started to moan.
she clenched the sheets
and arched her back up.
I kissed her.
I kissed her neck.
I put my mouth on her breasts,
licked, nibbled and sucked.
she cried out as she bent herself upward.
she grabbed and pulled my hair.
“I should have put a towel down,” she said
as she came back down.
there was a big wet spot on the bed.
“I squirt when I use my vibrator,” she told me.
we had a laugh. we changed the sheets.
we watched a movie.
I went home.
all I had to do was kiss her back,
she said.
and look what happened.
It’s not love
it’s something more simple,
less demanding.
She has a small room
in a bad neighborhood
with a small kitchen and a pleasant bathroom
and the washing machines are in the basement
and the air conditioning
is included in the rent
so we keep it on
all night and all day long.
She only has one chair to sit on
so she drags it next to the bed
and sits on it
and I lie in bed
and I keep the ashtray on my stomach
and we talk and talk and talk
and we laugh and laugh and laugh
and we remain silent
as much as we talk and laugh.
(The TV is broken so there’s not much else to do.)
We drank all five wine bottles
she had bought with her money
(she works, I don’t)
washing down 6 xanax pills each
and smoking camel cigarettes
until 6 or 7 in the morning
at which point she lay beside me
and we had a wonderful time
fucking for a while,
and then we fell asleep,
as the shutters where down
and no day light
intruded the fine darkness of the room.
Nothing can harm us
as long as
we are kind to each other.
I woke up at 16:00 in the noon
and she had already been up from 12
and gone down to grab coffee for us
and she was listening to her music on the balcony naked,
sitting on the only chair-
her beautiful legs over the railing
and on the nightstand
my not so cold coffee anymore awaited.
I got up from bed
heavy from the alcohol
and the anti-depressants
and went to take a piss
and when I returned
I lied on the bed again
and she lied beside me
calling me lazy
and she kissed me
and I rubbed her clit
and she said: “No, not like that. Like this.”
and holding my hand lightly
she guided my fingers over that wonderful pussy of hers,
and taught me how to make her cum with my fingers
which took some time, and when she did
I put my cock inside that wonderfully wet cunt
and I fucked her for some time
and at the end
my dick got soft and tired
and she put it in her mouth
and gave me the best blowjob,
the kindest one I’ve had,
and she swallowed my cum
and she said:” Let’s take a bath together.”
Her bathtub was small and we had to stand
and we began washing each other standing
“It’s going to take a hell of a lot of shampoo to wash all this hair” I said
“You have to collect it.” she said
and I washed her head
as she washed my cock
which was still a little hard
and we kissed
and I washed her back
watching the lather
slowly travel from her neck to her beautiful ass
and she washed my chest
and I washed her thighs
and she washed my face and my ears
and I washed her cunt
and she washed my hair
and I wrapped a towel around my waist
and she wrapped a towel around her breasts
and we brushed our teeth
with her toothbrush.
She said her toilet leaked when she flushed it
so I said I’d fix it
and I opened the cistern
and I plugged the hole
from which a plastic button was detached
with a tampon
I took from her purse
and as she cooked spaghetti with squid
I yelled at her from the bathroom
the problem and how I had fixed it
and she yelled back happily that I am a genius
and I felt proud
and returned and smoked and drank one of the three
beers she had bought that morning
and I said those pills really were something
and said too bad she didn’t have any more
and she brought the plate and put it on the chair
and dragged the chair in front of the bed
and then lied next to me.
“Aren’t you going to eat?” I asked.
” I’m not hungry,” she responded
and I ate while she watched smiling and smoking and drinking
“Is it good?” she asked behind her crossed thighs
”It’s very good.” I responded
looking at the curves of her lips
while she smiled
It was very good
everything was very good
and the world itself was on hold
and waiting to close in
and death trembled each time we laughed
and I felt three centuries younger
and we both knew
we would lose the magnificence
when we’d separate
but we were too brave to whine about it
and at 21:00 in the night
I got dressed and opened the door
and turned and kissed her
and her eyes were knowing and understanding
and clever and clear
and she said: ”Goodbye.”
and I said: ”Goodbye,” and I left
I left
I left
all the brightness that life had for me that day.
I’m waiting for the poem to come.
I meet Paul for a sandwich in Poughkeepsie
and try to dash it off on the train like one of those poets
who can write about strawberries in Mexico
when they’re on the way to the bank
at 14th Street and First Avenue
but it’s no use. It just sort of bangs
around like Nagel’s bat
and I don’t know what it’s like
for a bat to be a bat.
I haven’t seen Paul in a while.
He looks like a Borgia
and is off his face
about some girl he’s nicknamed Dark Odessa,
asks me if I saw the news story
about the kayaker upstate who faked his own drowning
so he could abandon his family
and flee to Europe with his girlfriend
Paul has a gleam in his eye that people don’t have
when they eat a sandwich in Poughkeepsie.
These are urgent times, I say
and the bats in their barrettes and tunics of silk
are like fifty honest prostitutes
clutching chestnuts between their legs.
After finishing my night porter’s job
At the Lancrese Bay Hotel, in Guernsey, Channel Island
In the English Archipelago
I went to the beach of the same name
At about half past twelve in the afternoon
With the idea of bathing and hunting a female.
Yes, I bathed and hunted Dominique
A salty little whore, daughter of some innkeepers
Who had their hostel not far from
The Victor Hugo’s house museum
At 38 Hauteville in St. Peter Port
Hauteville House, when he was in exile
With whom I bathed, very close
Putting my cool mackerel close to her clam
Which she shook all over me in circles
Going down to her hairy clam
Where I tasted that salt that tasted like the sea
Which had nothing to do
With the taste of the clams I tasted
In the Red Light District of Amsterdam
Where prostitutes show themselves to the passers-by
In their illuminated shop windows
With clams that taste like expensive perfumes as Blanche
Reine de Nuit, Yves Saint Laurent, Fleur du Desert
And much less with the clams of the whores of the Rastro
Or the Retiro from old Madrid
That taste like Patchouli
Guess Seductive, Titto Bluni, Miravia Mujer, Jimmy Choo.
The two of us linked together.
When we finished
The sea took her orgasm and my ferocious ejaculation
Towards Saint Helier on the coast of the island of Jersey.
As she had to return home before two
She said goodbye to me with a “see you tomorrow!”
Walking along the beach
To see if another female would give me a cordial kiss.
In the distance, very close to the promenade
Next to some rocks
I saw a beautiful young woman in the sand
From the waist down
With two beautiful naked breasts on her chest
Whose name was Ordovica.
Dazzled, I approached her, stole a kiss, and said to her:
-What a beautiful day we’ve had.
How come you’re buried from the waist down?
She, happy and very pleased, answered me:
-I have numbness in my legs and feet
Multiple sclerosis, wow!
-And sex, and all the parts above?
-More alive than ever since you kissed me.
-Well, I’m going to dig in the sand stealthily
To reach that clam you have
To then go up to your chest
And reach your lips to give you a kiss of sin.
-Did you love me as soon as you saw me?
-Without a doubt, precious girl friend.
With the fingers of both hands
I began to dig on my knees
To see if I could reach her clam.
Singing: “I’ll dig, I’ll dig; I’ll get to your clam”
I realized that I already had her in my right hand
Because some rigid spines stuck in my fingers
Discovering her aboral face next to the anus.
-It’s a red sea urchin! I exclaimed.
-The good one! she answered; continuing:
As you well know, my new boy friend
The black sea urchin is poisonous like the widow’s.
Immediately, I took the sea urchin out of my swimsuit
Not without first giving it a French kiss
Not caring about the pain, stinging, erythema
That I felt in my hand
With which I guided the sea urchin towards the five tongues
In the shape of a star of her clam
That did not look anything like the natural female clam
With its large lips, small lips and clitoris.
We did not manage to copulate
Bbecause her caretakers were approaching
To pick her up and take her to their residence.
Perhaps, because of the total arousal I had
I saw that her four caretakers
With their erect member out
Picked her up and placed her on top of them
Taking her in the air towards an ambulance
Which was waiting for them on the seafront.
We couldn’t even say goodbye
Only I began to recite, nervous and excited:
-Girl, she’s leaving
The beautiful girl from the sand.
Girl, she’s leaving
The paramedics are taking her away.
the air in the room reeked of stale tobacco and cheap gin.
only the absolute necessities in it: a double bed with a metallic skeleton and
a thin mattress, two nightstands whereon boxes brimful with condoms stood,
a small refrigerator in the corner, and next to it a small cabinet.
two shelves contained bedsheets and towels,
the third a lovely collection of booze.
“how about some music?” Yvonne asked, and took out her iPhone.
“God, I love this song,” she said as she swayed to Jimmy Hendrix’s Voodoo Child.
“yeah. so, this is where you live? or where you just work?”
“both,” she replied, her voice coming off somber despite her dancing.
“uh-hum. so, a drink?”
“of course. I’ll have a gin on the rocks.”
I mixed two; the moment we sat on the mattress,
it creaked and budged under our weight.
“I’ve often meant to get a new bed. but this one’s sturdy, and does its job.”
we clinked glasses and drank. “I imagine you need a sturdy bed, right?”
“part of the job requirements. does it bother you? what I do for a living?”
“why should it? does it bother you I’m a broke drunkard writer?”
“nope.”
we drank some more, then our bodies amalgamated
into a single bouncing body making the mattress squeak
and the bed drag against the floor. didn’t even think
of the number of men that’d been in my position;
I did have a dirty past, too, I just never got paid for my troubles.
once the deed was done, and she cleaned herself up with some tissues,
we lay in bed, taking pulls of gin out of the bottle.
“you better leave. I have to take a shower and get dressed.
in about an hour, we open for business.”
“okay, fine. see you in two days?”
“maybe, I’ll come by the bar tomorrow.”
we didn’t kiss goodbye. I left the small two-story house with
the seven bedrooms and shambled down to the bar by the port.
“the usual?” the bartender asked, I nodded.
large draft beer and triple Jim Beam on the rocks arrived on the dirty wooden counter.
“hey, George,” Jeanette greeted me with a long peck on the cheek.
“how about buying a tequila for a girl enjoying her day off?”
“sure.”
she hunkered down on the neighboring stool.
she bought the next round; I bought the one after. and so on.
until the bar had to close and we went to the apartment she shared
with three other young women selling their bodies to make ends meet.
The writer owns an original Goya painting.
The writer enjoys eating red pears.
The writer is wanted in four states.
The writer is current on his debt obligations.
The writer cooks with tarragon.
The writer is endowed.
The writer is not endowed.
The writer is a wombat.
The writer has fangs.
The writer is his alter-ego.
The writer is a mud-fish.
The writer is writing.
The writer is not writing.
The writer leaps from oblivion to oblivion.
The writer writes.
Mom said she liked my new poem
the link posted on Facebook
she scanned the room
then her smile disappeared
I need to talk to you
said in a pained whisper
her head nods toward the empty kitchen
away from the rest of the family
She pulls in close and whispers
almost a cry
I scrolled down and clicked on something
Did you know?
a dramatic pause
she’s searching for the bravery
to say the vile word
P O R N!!!!!!!!!!!!
just saying it weakens her knees
I can’t help it I laugh
This was the wrong reaction
Her: (In her best whisper-yell)
I’m serious!
Me:
I don’t know you must’ve clicked
on something you shouldn’t have
I think of the poem she’s talking about
a little slice of life moment
published on a respectable site
not like the trash I’ve published at HST
my nonchalance has her concerned
You don’t understand
I saw their vaginas
their butts were in the air!
I don’t how she expects me to react
with anything other than knee buckling laughter
What if your kids saw it?!
my youngest being 16
I have to assume
they’ve seen some porn by now
as my mom storms off
huffing as she goes
I ask
So, where exactly were their butts?
Once, you bought some rope
and tied a 22 year old beauty
from Bulgaria to your bed—
butt naked and flushed
and showed her perversions
she will never shake off
or find somewhere else
now, your red eyes
search the ceiling
for a place to hook
that same rope
and tie it around
your scrawny neck
now, midday, drunk and desperate
you visit an AA meeting at a church
and everybody looks so clean
and content and absolved
and they’re so nice to you
it almost embarrasses you
in its unfamiliarity
some in suits even—
so well shaved and pure faced—
there’s an envious relief in their faces
as they tell stories of old
painfully familiar to your present
decades of sobriety
in display
if my mother could see me now
you think to yourself
with a broken right hand
and a bruised up face
and a toe broken too
from when you kicked
a barstool at someone’s face
as if it was a soccer ball
now, at the cigarette break
of the AA meeting
you wonder off outside
and far from the group
feeling like you’re going to
burst into a weeping fit
because of the kindness
of these once broken souls
offering you coffee and cookies
with a soft tone to their voice
as if talking to a mad man—
voices like the Indian flutes
calming down the cobras—
offering you a chair amongst
the circle of them
now, if my mother could see me now
with my busted wing
and my plastered up face
nourishing scars that will remain
for the rest of my life
but it’s always about that higher power
that’s helped them
which makes you feel lonely
because you don’t believe in God—
you don’t believe in people either
you are tethered by nothing
to nothing
you can barely wait
for the meeting to end
so that you can limp away
from them, chasing that drink
the imposter, the liar
the bad son, the bad brother
the bad friend and the even
worse lover
now, you drink at the pub
betting your rent money
at a football match—
watching the game at a screen
as it all goes downhill
as your loss is as impending
as a liver failure
sitting now at a barstool
waiting for that next beer
a fella next to you
looking at you
waiting for the same thing
You look like you been to war
he says to you
some battles
you respond
but the war is still ongoing
he laughs
You don’t happen
to have any jobs for me
do you
you ask
he glances at your casted hand—
I was about to ask you
the same thing
he says
and we both laugh
a hollow laugh.
Nobody’s really laughing here,
we’re just waiting for the add-on
to the pause, we’re just waiting on
the reprieve
from the mounting bills
the grief of spouses
the increasing silent desperation
so quiet in our need of help
too cowardly to give love
a third chance
I decline romantic offers—
last one took me by the hand
like a child
and led me to a ketamine hole
and a well of alcohol
swimming from one addiction
to the next
and truly wondering
how come you don’t
drown yet
a steep decline
steepening by the day
to a free fall
some people have to hit
rock bottom to bounce back
and others
and most
expire there in that lonesome darkness
all eyes glued to the screen
gamblers with downwards faces
in a dour looking dive bar
Lord almighty
and all the angels above
you think
standing up to leave
if only our mothers
could see us now.
The first day of Fall always makes me think of John Milton
baking cupcakes in Baphomet stilettos, real cockroach killers
from the school of entomology. Black lace like naughty place settings
poisoning the well with a contortionist’s deceptive haste. Dipping Sauce
is a terrible name for a porn star, don’t you think? Even if such appellations
are anatomically correct. And the Live, Laugh, Love crowd is a dunk tank full of piss
and piranhas. I watch them get torn apart in reverse collage while the
giant Ikea clock on the wall fakes another end times orgasm with pumpkin
spice napalm over everything. Amish house skeletons growing erect
in fields along the highway. Tailgaters and sodomites rushing up from behind.
Looking to pass on the double line with power steering and unsavoury gestures.
I throw on my indicator to intimate a great turning to nowhere. Robert Johnson’s
cigarette breath while the devil plays all his records backwards looking
for command-and-control centers with “missiles like sausages.”
A straight carnivore in vegetarian times, as the swipe right Clantons
get cleaned out faster than a bank vault full of expired hand sanitizer.
Horror Sleaze Trash 