two women
posted pictures
showing their breasts
the first woman
was naked
her nipples just there
hanging out
like cow udders
the other woman
was talking about self help
but positioned the camera
right on her cleavage
I really shouldn’t be
seeing either of their breasts
I’m just scrolling through social media
but since I am
I can’t help but imagine
their breasts in a wrestling match
swatting at each other
until one woman’s tits
finally pins the other
with more likes
Fuckin’ pussy licker,
I said
as piss skipped
unwittingly
down the front
of my pants
as I was
taking a piss.
As a cockroach
skittered up
the wall
and into
the cupboard
before I could
obliterate him.
As the clock
struck 8
and I was late
to be somewhere.
As my head
throbbed
from a migraine
that sprang upon me
10 minutes earlier
like an unwelcomed
guest.
As it was
a week before
Christmas
and I realized
Christmas day
was going to be
80 and sunny
in Fullerton, California.
As my wife
snuck up
behind me,
bit my ear,
and squeezed
my lonjas
and said,
Lick my pussy,
bitch.
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 2023, the curated collection from Horror, Sleaze and Trash!
Featuring poetry by Scott Ferry, Eleanor Karinthy, John Tustin, John Gartland, PJ Grollet, C. Renee Kiser, Paige Johnson, Rob Plath, Joseph Farley, Damon Hubbs, Herman P. Triplegood, Jacklyn Henry, Kristin Garth, Ryan Quinn Flanagan, and Donna Dallas.
Get your FREE ebook here!
the spanish princess is
a vision in red
the gasoline to my desires
the energy propping up
this old soul for one last
run at greatness
suicide lovers racing against
time, against all the powers
that be
trying to prove love can still
find a light in a world of darkness
reaching for a sun that gives
more than just cancer
a sweet kiss on the edge
of the night
endless miles between us
hope a flailing mistress
in the wind
you live by the sword, you sadly
know how you are going to die
a field of black roses
a sunset on the western plain
you once had a dream that
your lover took you to the
mountains and made love
to you before the lions came
to eat you
welcome to a brand-new tomorrow
the perfect poem doesn’t exist
nor does the perfect blow job
the perfect cover band
or the perfect alibi
but so what
the blow job broke a long dry spell
the cover band flailed and screamed
the alibi held up for a while
and the poem appeared in a zine
edited by insane people
all during a week when chaos
battered the rich man’s stock market
and that’s kind of perfect
in a don’t give a fuck
kind of way
I’m writing this on a 24″ screen computer
that just made me US$1100+ poorer,
and such amount may not seem like much
to a European or North American reader,
but for a low-income neighborhood
third-world 25-year old poet
this is close to (if not) a financial suicide.
And to think I started writing on tiny pieces of paper.
Crazy. Crazy. Crazy. Crazy.
I’m also sitting next to 70oz of beer,
and I’m going to type the most expensive poems on earth
with the help of this bad boy.
Now, on to the next poem!
The beer is finite,
but the will
isn’t.
the instinct to procreate
hardwired into all domesticated primates
has led me to send you this
valentine card in a
facile,
shallow
attempt
to convince you that my biological imperative
actually represents something
ephemeral and profound like
“love,”
rather than being yet another
example in a long line of ritualistic
gestures intended to daze
and confuse you just long enough
for me to climb on top of you in yet another
fruitless attempt
to plant my
sperm
inside
your
cervix.
sincerely,
your honey bun
After I sat for years and years
in my own brain stew,
I could so easily absorb your energy-
forget myself, and hate you
I only care to thank you.
Your tongue-be-damned-smirks
Sinister hush-hush
Your psycho-circus alluring-quirks
Drama pit rush-rush
Carried on and on, truth be told;
You never made a lick of sense
A lost soul who doesn’t dare decide,
fucking ‘em all on the fence
You branded me DEAD and
vultures sure circled in my sky
But the sun burst me into flames
as my nightmare was clarified…
Just another plastic heart, sent
and fresh off the assembly line
Karma may be a bitch, but she cheers
for me as we drink elderberry wine
Bored with the shade of boy toys
I now want the tree with deep roots
After you highlighted my wings,
I could take off my heavy boots
I only want to thank you. Cheers.
(Blows kiss)
So, I accept your ‘Darkness’,
darling, and never my defeat
How could I ever hate The One
who lifted me up off my feet?
From the forthcoming indie chapbook, NOT YOUR KIND: The Gaslit Files
The first thing you see
is a masked man
wielding a long spear.
The next thing you see
is that weapon
pointed in your direction.
The next thing you see
is the sharp tip of that spear
penetrating your right eye.
The next thing you see
is the sharp tip of that spear
penetrating your left eye.
The next thing you see
is overwhelming darkness.
But is that really seeing?
Not the way I look at it.
She was young and drunk and trying to appear cultured
when she said it.
Do you like the music of Pete Cigar?
she asked.
A tiny burp exiting her mouth
stage right.
Most embarrassing when you are trying
to steer a fifty-foot yacht up your own
puckered ass.
I told her I did.
That his music had a heavy Cuban influence.
Oh, I love Cuba!
she threw her tiny confetti hands
in the air.
So did Castro,
I say.
I think we need more wine!
she smiled.
Garcon, Garcon!
she waved her glass
in the air.
I poured us both some wine.
Killed an ant on the way back
from the bathroom.
The only thing left to do now
was to discuss the many musical merits
of Wooden Guthrie.
Horror Sleaze Trash 