After the initial exchange of names,
if she liked the way you looked,
she’d put her other hand, not shaking
yours, on your thigh, stare into
your eyes, move closer as she held
a look that suggested you could be
more intimate with her than anyone
else ever could, ever had been, might
move in closer still, briefly lick your
lips then step back and wait for your
next move; no matter what happened
next, it was going to be your fault.
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 2023, the curated collection from Horror, Sleaze and Trash!
Featuring poetry by M.P. Powers, Willie Smith, John Alejandro King, Carrie Magness Radna, Johnny Scarlotti, J.J. Campbell, Ken Kakareka, Judge Santiago Burdon, Paige Johnson, Mather Schneider, Karl Koweski, Robert Beveridge, Charles J. March, Andy Seven, Casey Renee Kiser, Dan Cuddy, and Ryan Quinn Flanagan
turn the music up so i don’t have to listen to her annoying moans
i don’t mean to be rude but her face is really turning me off
i close my eyes…
slow down to catch my breath
but she’s saying don’t don’t don’t
so i continue pounding it
poundin her
smashin her
take her to fucking pOund tOwn
then my vision focuses on what’s in front of me:
she’s been beaten into a pulp
i pull out and jump away in shock
i can’t bear to look at her like this!
i rearrange the jizz to give her a nose, eyes, and a smiling mouth again
make her look alive & human again
grab my orange juice
take a big gulp bc i’m exhausted and dehydrated
feels like i just had a UFC fight lol
what was i doing ?
oh yeah
omfg !
grab my baseball bat,
run out of the room,
looking for the monster who did this
The girl behind the counter
of the Texaco station
is already dressed up for the night.
She’s wearing a tight
black dress, high heels, her massive
boobs spilling out
of her top.
The door to the garage
suddenly opens.
It’s the mechanic. A short, unassuming
alcoholic
with grease-stains all over
his navy shirt and
trousers, his unshaven
face
full of crosshatchings
and pockmarks.
He hands her something
in an oily red rag.
She puts it on the counter
without thinking about
it. “I wanna go
dancing tonight,” she says. “Do you
like to dance?”
He shrugs. He’s eye-level
with her breasts. “I bet you’d make a good
dancer,” she says, swaying
a bit.
He blushes some,
exits.
“How can I help you,” she asks
the customer in front
of me.
“$40 on pump twelve.” She takes
the money, gives
him his change.
“I just wanna go dance,”
she sighs. “I love dancing.”
He nods,
heads for the door.
Meanwhile, in the case beside
her, three Jamaican
beef patties sit under the heat lamp,
glowering.
Gravel bouncing off the megaphone
Of some sidewalk grifter’s pity party,
Asking anti-Capitalists to hit up his Ca$htag,
Passing out pre-landfill leaflets on eco-terrorism.
These days,
I prefer the candor and clamor
of Black Israelites.
At least they mean it
and they’re not self-hating
when they scream,
No parody of privilege
shrugging off a pedigree
to sell grinders to shakers.
These nights,
I prefer to walk the cratered streets
with the moon the only curse-worthy whiteness,
my solo passenger, as I skip another class on existentialism,
sick of the professor with a ratty bob
proclaiming the end of the world
like a cardboard-toting Jesus freak,
claiming we’ll all be choking
on seaweed before grad school.
The South Beach bars
have been under water
since they opened,
but then again,
Liquor has never led to sound planning
or shied away from an insurance scam.
It’s where you go to take
on a Tuesday bloat
even in the best of times.
Drown me in a river
rimmed with salt
and orange-peel garnish
And I’ll die a DeSoto saint,
conservative when I come to,
But it’s all relative to the
loser olympics on campus.
Revived on counterfeit
big pharma Flintstones
I found on the floor,
I sink into the cement again,
absorbing the graffiti gang signs,
seeing construction cones as buoys
and liking them that way.
I fall in lockstep with the other
Wavy-walking, smudge-eye grrls,
Envying their salty exteriors
that come off more strategic
Than breeze-begotten,
weather-eroded,
or college-bought.
They wear headphones in the club,
more content off their own mix
And whichever hides in their purses,
canceling the noise
Of dick jockeys, static MCs,
and other slack-jaw jivers.
Hip-checking and chin-swaying,
they laugh off the come-ons
Of CHUD hucksters and
creepy Che-shirters, asking,
“Doesn’t anyone want to
enjoy themselves anymore?”
The morgue was filled with bodies
that were no longer in movie theatres.
Riddled with bullets and much confusion.
Looks like this one was triggered!
laughed Richmond.
Yeah, about a 147 times by my last count,
said the coroner.
Has enough lead now that he could
probably be Made in China.
Richmond couldn’t remember the last
time he made anything.
Probably his third child, but his wife
did all the work.
Send all the jackets off to ballistics
when you get a moment, Chief!
said Averella.
Richmond was just back from
the evidence locker and hopped up
on many of the latest finds.
Averella looked over and saw Richmond
standing halfway between the hall
and the morgue, propping the door open
with his fat wiggling ass.
Don’t mind him!
Averella smiled to the coroner.
Any decent investigator will begin
investigating the mysteries of a
swinging door before too long.
I’ll have what he’s having!
the bullet-riddled body on the slab
sat up and said.
The coroner jumped back,
remembered where he kept his
own stash which may be waning
according to the evidence.
You alright doc?
Averella smiled.
An small invasion force of his teeth
setting out to conquer
distant lands.
The coroner said nothing.
Made sure he was triple gloved
so no one got pregnant.
Richmond leaning obtusely
over in the far corner,
hitting on a pair of calipers
while this latest cause of death
refused to play hard to get.
I can’t quantify my hatred
for the Cub Scouts,
but it is always there,
seething,
just below the surface.
those brightly colored merit badges
and bullshit ribbons,
pseudo survivalist camping trips,
pinewood derby races
rewarding the children
possessing the most industrious fathers.
the cub scouts,
a militaristic outreach program
with the sole aim
of selling Orville Reddenbacher popcorn
to the clueless masses.
so reminiscent of that other
haven for pedophiles,
the Klu Klux Klan
charging $200 to join
another $250 for the fancy robes
then, every year they change the
design of the hem forcing you
to buy new robes if you wish
to remain au currant with your jackass
buddies, only to finally discover
you still have to do a bake sale
and sell rebel flag bumper stickers
just so your klavern can afford
to attend the hate rally
sponsored by the local Chik-Fil-A
down in Pawntatawk, Mississippi.
everything is a racket.
An aging surfer dressed like he’s still fourteen,
shouting in his cellphone. I can hear him through the ficus
hedges and coconut palms: “I told you I’d have yer
money on Friday, bro. FRIDAY!
That’s when the eagle
shits.”
He clops through the sand in his flip-flops,
passes a voluptuous young beauty
in a black bikini. She struts past me, shaking softly
her three silver bracelets
as the music pours out of the bar across the street.
She moves in perfect rhythm with it,
and will stay in perfect rhythm, just like that, for years,
through love affairs, the changing of seasons, styles,
empires, epochs,
drifting along,
the music brushing lightly
against her hips and shoulders, her silky skin, touching her ears,
becoming her thoughts and words and then…
Well, and then,
going slowly out of time,
like everything that lives long enough. The music attaching
to someone else.
It’s all part of the process,
and when it happens, it just happens, and you have to know
it’s happened and accept and adapt.
I watch as she takes the crosswalk, glides along
the other side of the street.
A few minutes later, she is gone, and the aging surfer is back,
still on his cellphone. A tired old song
from a bygone era.
“Dude, why you gotta
bust my chops?
I told you my situation!
Work with me, bro. Work with me!”
In bed and at the gym: You can’t even do one?
In bed and in elementary school: Aren’t you a little old for this?
In bed and in elementary school: What do the instructions say?
In bed and at a gas station: Meet me at the pump.
In bed and on a hike: This isn’t as enjoyable as I thought.
In bed and at the hairstylist: Boy, now there’s a close shave.
In bed and at a gas station: Now I’m supposed to pay extra for that?!
In bed and at a religious service: Is that the body of Christ?
In bed and during a Supreme Court session: Go easy on me.
In bed and at the gym: Let me slip into something more comfortable.
In bed and to the Jan. 6 committee: That one guy was like an animal!
In bed and on a hike: Is that a rash?
In bed and on a hike: Did you bring all the supplies?
In bed and to a telemarketer: What can you offer?
In bed and to a telemarketer: Please don’t ever ask that again.
In bed and during a Supreme Court session: I object!
In bed and at the gym: You need a shower.
In bed and to the Jan. 6 committee: They weren’t supposed to go in there!
In bed and at the hairstylist: Just get everything out of my eyes.
In bed and in elementary school: Draw what you want.
In bed and in elementary school: Nice lunchbox.
In bed and at a religious service: Take off your cassocks.
In bed and at a religious service: Pray this works.
In bed and at the hairstylist: Please stop talking.
In bed and at a gas station: I think I need some air.
the spanish princess and i trade
horror stories about chronic pain
she mentions that she has recently
started to think about suicide
i told her the first time i thought
of suicide i was eight years old
couldn’t tie a good enough knot
had the rope, the ladder, the tree
in the backyard
damn small fingers
i dream of us slipping away one
summer evening off to the pacific
ocean
where i will take the spanish
princess into my arms, make love,
drink the wine and may we die
dancing in each other’s arms
who am i kidding
she lives thousands of miles away
and i don’t think my twenty year
old vehicle is going to make it
there
but i do know a few tall bridges
and exactly how gravity works
Horror Sleaze Trash 