He Who Loves Grape Juice

no poem today 
why? 
pickled, fried 
last night 
one of those 
never empty wine glasses 
great dinner 
great talk 
but who can remember? 
oh, once or twice a year 
Bacchus reigns 
converses about the past 
the characters that are shadows 
so many dead 
diabetes 
drugs 
cancer 
oh just a list of common afflictions 
but the characters 
that saw sunrises, midnight moons 
Paris 
the mirror in the Charles Village Pub 
the interior of a deep philosophic mind 
making illegible notes to itself 
the poet whose best work 
was published after her death 
we toasted them all 
again and again 
luckily my wife drove home 
traffic patterns were askew 
for me 
and so this morning 
unsympathetic for sure 
few tolerate overindulgence 
though the wines of the world flowed 
from Spain to New Zealand 
we helped diverse economies 
with our indulgence 
but this morning 
who really wants to type words 
the sound of typing magnified 
in the pickled raw mind 
the typing arm attached 
to the arm of another arm 
and that to that of a hammer 
and so this morning 
feels like a vampire 
that didn’t escape the sun 
or the stake 
how shriveled raisins are 
and the reasons 
for overindulgence

Rain Don’t Break Bones

We invented poetry because
some of us 
don’t know 
how to masturbate.

Rain don’t break bones 
I tell the woman
beside me in bed.

She flicks my head
and says let’s fuck instead.

Funny we both know
the what instead of.

All the while
rain’s been falling outside.

Abigail’s Party

At Abigail’s party
Farrah says she’s one hundred percent 
committed to romance. 
I had a crush on a French bartender 
who never read Houellebecq, god 
we were bored to tears. Do you remember
newspapers, she says. I mutter something 
about wearing my best shirt to the Prado 
to see Goya’s Black Paintings
and she lifts her glass 
and lists the number of ways 
the world is a mystery

                                  take Abigail’s party 

For instance —we’re in a hallway 
pink as a vulva, and Joan 
saw a UFO over the Unadilla drive-in 
on Friday. Laura is dead. The dog sleeps 
at Paul’s feet. John and Lise fight 
with cudgels, then apologize to Chloe 
for not having a car. Henry joined the circus 
says Bret. There’s a fair young man in the kitchen
clumsily lipsticked. Has anyone seen Abigail?
Albert no longer has the sparkle 
in his eye. Nothing happened 
particularly, and the nightcap crowd 
can’t be cut from the wall. You’re wearing 
your best shirt again, and that’s enough.

God Is A Place

God is a place with no scope—a room with no space, walls of no height, imaginary windows, illusionary doors. It cannot be gleaned from out here or in there, nor in thought or dream. It is a place where nothing exists—a place in name only; oblivion, death.

It always was, it is, and it forever will be – yet never were, and can never become. In this paradox lives the illusion of scale and creation, growth from motion and emotion, free will and meaning; a place that is not God.

Perforce, you exist and life is part of something rather than nothing. Perforce, you feel there are choices you make. Of course, these are the illusions. You can attempt to believe, seek solace– distraction as well—in the stories we tell to avoid the truth, looming: You are a prisoner of Eternity until you return to the place that is God—a place you never left. 

It is a beautiful and horrifying thing.

***

Previously published in Lothlorien Poetry Journal

Right Here

Not far from where you sit, right now,
just a mile or two away,
there is a house
you never really notice.
It has white, vinyl siding,
a small porch, a basement.
A single rose bush decorates the front yard.
Not far from you there is a man
sitting in a chair and savoring
the weight of a gun in his hands.
It might be a new gun
or something he’s had forever.
Maybe it was his inheritance
from a careless father
or he bought it from the back of a van
or at a gun show.
Depending on where you are,
the man might be holding
a semi-automatic rifle
or a .22 caliber pistol
or maybe a .357 Magnum.
Not far from you, a woman,
or child, or man stands, oblivious,
in a kitchen, maybe chopping onions, 
or on a sidewalk,
or is maybe entering a school or movie theater.
A commonplace horror
will happen very soon.
It will happen so close to where you are,
right this second,
that a stray bullet
could come through your window
or even a wall
and take you the fuck out.
Or it might take out your child,
your wife, your dog.
You have always
held that “Guns don’t kill people.
People kill people.”
What about when your own baby
has been shredded
by high caliber bullets?
What about when you don’t even know
you are screaming
until someone puts a needle in your arm?
But you still have a little time
before it all goes down, so relax.
Drink your coffee and don’t think
about your neighbors.
Look out your window at America.

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.

FREE EBOOK HERE

look what happened

“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. 

Write a Poem About Us She Said

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.

Poughkeepsie

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. 

Girl Half Woman, Half Sand

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.