another lazy afternoon
where the mind
wanders from endless
love to sudden suicides
yet another tragedy
on the highway
broken families litter
the countryside
half want to elect a king
the other half wants to
be free
there are ghosts in these
fields
you can hear them cry
when the wind blows
calmly at night
they wanted to be free
as well
you can almost hear
the heartland love songs
the other night, someone’s
baby daddy raced the devil
down route 28 and lost
his motorcycle bent into
an obelisk outside the supermarket
a monument to a moment
now eclipsed by sorrow
In places like this
the buffalo no longer roam
instead they circle the skies
as lingering white clouds
bringing rain down on the
brimmed hats of farmers
their children smoke marijuana
hunt for the cool glow
of urban rebellion, the distant
horns of longing fade in the foothills
In places like this
we dance along the gravel country roads
in the beds of pickup trucks
with the lights out so we can watch
the galaxy spin above our heads
watch the gods sway in celestial winds
cheap beer, our sacrament to nirvana
or whatever destination awaits us all
in the dark
In places like this
I am a ghost
When radio was invented
there was already a
smooth jazz station
but can you hear my
transmission?
from a Super 8 motel
parts unknown
to all the easy riders
on the Missing in Action Highway
and the Lonely Hearts Club
at the Green Door
can you hear me?
there’s Vaseline on the clock
time is slipping away
I’ve loved so very few
that have drifted through
the empty Kmart of my life
we all just pissed in the wind
and crossed streams
shared cigarettes to the filter
drove until there’s no gas
stole change from unlocked cars
so we could take the bus home
then there’s always a day
that the music died
and right now
the wind is blowing
the end is nigh
so meet me at
Friendship Park
on the swings
3am sharp
before my voice fades
the radio cracks
and it’s nothing
but smooth jazz
No one really knows
how they end up naked
in the bartender’s bed, but
I do remember we talked
about what happens after
we die.
Red solo cups in a studio
apartment. Cheap, familiar
gin. We settled on a sort
of agnosticism, something purple
and eternal that we’d never
truly know.
Then that inevitable shift
to on top and under. His hands
splay around my ribcage.
I’ll be the first to admit I bit
my lip too. I tell him, “use
a condom.” He tries to barter,
“just
the tip.” Then my feet on his chest
like pushing off from the edge
of a swimming pool. I beg
the sweetest “please.” He rolls
his eyes, spits that corner of foil.
Now I can smile when commanded,
“open
your legs.” Fucking hell.
Some of the best dick
I’ve ever gotten. Fireworks
in my lower back. Somehow,
it felt like mango tastes.
Then
hands fan like dove wings
above my hip bones and he says,
“I want you to have my babies”
and nails curl into my back and
“two of them” harder now I say,
“absolutely
fucking not” and his hand
reaches for the condom
that’s strangling him and I
start crying not for any
virtuous reason but because
I know
I have to push away when I
want it so bad. Could you just
stop talking, please? Maybe just
face fuck me so hard I can’t
think anymore. Just choke me
until
I feel purple and the last thing
I see is you throwing the condom
across the room. I have to be
ruined to enjoy this but I want
to enjoy it so badly
daddy
yes that’s what you want to be called daddy
turn on the fucking lights daddy
I’m going to cry while I put on my clothes daddy
no I’m not that beautiful daddy
no I don’t want to finish my drink daddy
I’ve never felt like such a good girl saying “no” to so many things daddy
I’m going to carry my sweater and jacket and belt and toque in my arms like a little baby as far away from you as possible daddy
this is the closest we will get to dying while still being alive daddy
I want you to know daddy
that I’m going to take an Uber home absolutely soaking my panties, go up to my apartment, put a condom on my bright pink dildo, and fuck myself with it while thinking about you and being really fucking confused about it daddy
but I’m also going to close my eyes and take the condom off in between thrusts and hope to god I feel the difference so no one else can ever do what you tried to do to me daddy
and I know I will cum and cum and hate that you have everything to do with it daddy
oh and daddy I hope that when you do really die it is completely and utterly
black
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.
Horror Sleaze Trash 