if i was a wiser man

i remember the shower
and you coming in right
as i was washing my balls

you looked me right in 
the eyes and asked may i

if i was a wiser man
i would have married 
you right there

but that kind of shit
didn’t exist in me at 
the age of 21

but the images stuck 
in my brain from that 
shower still persist a 
quarter century later

i’m pretty sure you 
and your family are 
comfortable living 
out west

i still laugh when 
you said i’d be the
perfect one to have 
an affair with since 
i was living on the 
other side of the 
country

well, here i am on 
the other side of the 
country

patiently waiting

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: Winter 2024, the curated collection from Horror, Sleaze and Trash!

Featuring poetry by Alan Catlin, Chris Butler, Johnny Scarlotti, Arthur Graham, A. Lynn Blumer, Judge Santiago Burdon, William Taylor Jr., Damian Rucci, Adam Hazell, Brenton Booth, Karl Koweski, Damon Hubbs, Casey Renee Kiser, Mike Zone, Harry Whitewolf, Daniel S. Irwin, J.J. Campbell, Jonathan S Baker, Andrew Vuono, and Donna Dallas.

FREE EBOOK HERE

Slow Pussy Finger

All the lifetimes
I will live from this point on
slaying single and weightless-
yeah, not so pointless
anymore
Get that slow pussy finger outta my face;
Take me off your speed dial for head
case-trickery and favorite warm space
Put that dick away, not even a trace
I said, this bitch back on homebase!
Can’t touch this    and bet
I’ll remain single 
all the lifetimes
if no man steps up and says keen
what the fuck he means
’cause only winners on this team
and so far,

it’s just me

I Want My Thanatron!

Fuck your Western wires!
Fuck your hypocritical oath!
“Life passes us like a spring jasmine,”
the lapsed guru, he quoth!

Paging Doctor Kevorkian,
in trying times such as these.
“Barbarian”, they called him
with serpents’ voices in the toxic breeze.

But, you don’t know Jack!

Black Angel of Mercy with
snowflake strands ready to
revolutionize bliss with this device he provides.
The art of dying requires no last word.
So, salvage me from an agonizing life of pain.
Give me the gateway keys to assisted suicide.

I want my Thanatron!
I want my peaceful death!
I never want to worry about
sacrificing my immortal breath!

Fuck your so-called humanist rights!
You were never human at all!
Fuck your tentacle clutches,
for your sentence will be eaten before the fall!

The American way of avarice
is the pathway to physical hell.
They want to keep us above the soil
so our blood finances can ring the bastardized bell.

But, you don’t know Jack!

Darkest Angel of Death
with a scythe of comfort words,
ready to guide weakened souls through the out door.
I can almost taste the shades of afterlife green.
End these agonizing days of torment!
Put me under the saline spell of this miracle machine!

I want my Thanatron!
I want to die with elated grace!
I never want to worry about
leaving my mark on the world without an ambiguous trace!

Big Bad Terry

Back in my days
selling toilet paper
and television sets,
I would spend over an hour
at the end of the night
sitting out front smoking
not going home
watching the other people walk 
out to their cars loading their stuff
I would wait 
for something to happen

and then Big Bad Terry
who traded his Harley 
for a floor scrubber,
whose thick mustache 
framed his mouth
like mounted bull horns 
would take his break,
sit next to me,
and begin to say 
the most beautifully awful things 
about women.

Burning a cigarette
staring off across the parking lot
at the end of shift nurses 
and the waitresses in uniform
the mothers buying gift wrap.

“I would lick her turd cutter clean”
“I would eat her asshole pink”
“I would wear her like a diving helmet”

I would blush
He was such a sweetheart.

That Guy

He’s not a movie star, a marquee athlete, 
A male model, or social media sensation.
He’s not a doctor, a lawyer, or the offspring of a wealthy family.
His last name is Shufflebottom. Scottish. He lacks the accent.
He doesn’t drive a fancy sports car or dress in designer suits.
He drives a used Honda and works in Finance. He’s an accountant.
He’s honest, has a sense of humor, always respectful,
Shows compassion for his fellow man and co-workers. 
Good at his job. He holds the elevator as needed.
That type of guy.
The reason why he’s so popular is also a curse.
A nickname that has haunted him from high school 
To college to the working world, maybe social media too. 
Cockzilla.
Yeah. I work with him, like him, and bear witness
To his adoring subjects.
Jealous? Who wouldn’t be.
Cockzilla.
Fuck that guy.

Purse Full of Mouthwash

Purse full of mouthwash,
I saw you strolling the avenues 
last week.

Black fishnets
pulled up high in the front.

That electric blue wig
past steaming steel grates.

Leaning into cars
with that ass that could launch
 a thousand ships.

Drive a man to tuck
his wedding band down into his sock.

War paint of a Carthaginian general.

Bobbing for apples 
well into adulthood.

Skull-fucked into oblivion.
With that crass Bacardi mouth.

Johnny Has A Hog

Say what you will, he enters
a room with presence, if not 
aplomb, his faint smile all-knowing. 

Rumor circulates like bad air in small 
spaces, reaching all nostrils, perhaps
not at once, but inevitably. 

All eyes thus flicker belt-wise and downward,
tight faded denim darkened where
the big boy, angled just so, reposes.

Johnny, how goes—your eyes,
that I do not know the color of
them tells me something.

Ask them all, Johnny, ask
all the people to name that
color and they would be as if blind.

Not blind to the bulge, brother.
The eyes do not flee from it or only
briefly do, magnetized, hypnotized.

Johnny, Johnny, are you fully
aware of how we simultaneously fear 
and loathe and envy and respect it?

Yes, you are aware. Your persistent
winking lets everyone know what
you know and where you stand.

More absolute than money or status, 
more mesmerizing than magic
or voodoo or quantum physics—

all the nodding and handshaking,
all the banal back and forth 
and back-clapping, tiptoe around it.   

But women, men and everyone else— 
cannot ignore its ominous presence,
and cannot but imagine it aroused. 

all part of the plan

burning the candle at both ends again

those that don’t know me are worried

they don’t understand how the madness
the chaos, the apparent disorder is all 
part of the plan

how the wax from the candle burns 
the chest and that smell is called 
desire

how the voices create a symphony
all i have to do is put the words 
on the page

battling arthritis

depression

endless amounts of pain

a failing liver

and a liquor cabinet that doesn’t
pay for itself

i know this isn’t the lifestyle of 
someone who wants to live forever

i never set my sights that far

week by week has been most 
of my adult life

never had the money to think 
about two or three years ahead

and trust me

scribbling down words at three 
in the morning is proof that isn’t 
going to change anytime soon

A warmer, wetter, sicker world 

I shouldn’t have let you down the hole first;
Too late to do anything but watch this
sleek crocodilian love
turn purse 
Rocks crudely sharpened,       
            placed to look like teeth
Only a few months into this island retreat and we’re arguing cannibalism as
New World Belief
Dragged to the fire 
of a warmer,
wetter, sicker, world 
all of it held in the bead
of blood pearled 
at the base of my neck 
           (the spot you would always bite)
and it never not felt good like
being the wicker man always should
Pagan gods performing fist bumps 
The smell of burning flesh
           and wood