Lady Breezy

Show some respect for the late Lady Breezy
Despite intimations she lived her life sleazy
And men forever fantasised her easy-
That they could do whatever they please-y.

Born into circumstance utterly glum,
Deserted by father, disowned by her mum,
Thoroughly alone, she refused to succumb,
Determined to prove that she was not scum.

Not yet adult but more woman than child,
Needing boundaries but from society exiled,
An elegant gentleman with a kind smile—
Breezy was beguiled and soon after defiled.

Now awakened by adolescent stain,
Aware of the power in her body and brain,
Sensing no limits to what she could attain,
She began to plot her lifelong campaign.

First, for a rich man in age very senior
She took work as a cook and a cleaner.
As in Pygmalion, he refined her demeanour
Assuming in bed the right to demean her.

Next came the case of the portly barrister
Who ostensibly courted but clearly harassed her.
In return for caressing her skin alabaster,
He wrote a letter to the uni headmaster.

To study law then specialise in divorce
Was completely logical given her life’s course.
In court she proved an unstoppable force,
To cheating husbands she showed no remorse.

Fame and fortune arrived Godspeed
Providing the means for pursuing her creed:
Brandishing sword on galloping steed,
Protectress of women and children in need.

Serving her gender was not about charity,
Having herself suffered barbarity.
Men cringed at her ruthless temerity:
A woman with power- a frightening rarity.

Still she yearned for a man she could trust
With humility, intelligence, and feelings robust,
Guided by more than a soulless lust,
Delving beyond her legs and her bust.

Finally she met that special someone,
Her long crusade apparently won.
Once again her world came undone
When he fathered a bastard son.

At this point, certainly no surprise,
She vowed vengeance on masculine lies.
Seductively flirting and flashing her thighs,
Breezy lured men to painful demise.

No longer rational, mentally sick,
She contrived a technique both crafty and quick:
Puckering her lips and feigning to lick,
Meanwhile her handgun blasted his prick.

Fourteen crimes left an easy trail-
Breezy was sentenced to lifetime in jail.
Defeated and shattered with no chance to prevail,
She died in two months, thus ending her tale.

So pay your respects to the late Lady Breezy.
Being a woman has never been easy.
Men, if her tale has rendered you queasy,
Learn to show respect, never act sleazy.

Sweetie

If you’re cold in your bath move the toaster closer.
The clock is ticking, are you coming or going?
When you cum in the bath you aim for your mouth
opening then closing the circle. Close it then.
Make it permanent.
Make haste.
What fool thing lingers between is and is not?
I will gladly clean up. I will eat your secrets
with a kiss. Your blueish lips will stop their chatter.
The clock is ticking. Heat up the water.

Walls

The house is playing games with us. 
It hides and we seek, digging into soft secret places
the rituals of concealment
a barrow of yellow clay and oyster shells

it hides and we seek, digging into soft secret places 
behind air vents and electrical outlets 
a barrow of yellow clay and oyster shells
sealing up shoes, a candy G-string, play wand and flesh loop 

behind air vents and electrical outlets 
the house breathes with squeaky squamous lungs 
sealing up shoes, a candy G-string, play wand and flesh loop
old newsprint yellowed as a jar of urine and nail-clippings

the house breathes with squeaky squamous lungs 
and croaks a blackbird out of its fireplace;
newsprint yellowed as a jar of urine and nail-clippings
bottles, more shoes, and a note scribbled on a sales notice: 

this house has sunk six feet since it was built. 

The house is playing games with us. 

The Unicorn the Morning After

you sat alone
in the breakfast nook

as my wife
served grapefruit
topped with sugar

while I
put out
spoons 

and you
became invisible
in the domesticity

Y’all Were Just the Pregame 

Some say life is like a river
& we’re floating from the womb
to our caskets & you always try to hold on
but we all drift away from each other
so it’s best to sit on your hands &
watch the world pass you by-
watch the breeze greet grasses
you’ll never step on; watch the gulls
dance in cryptic seafoam winds

& some say life is like a race car
& nirvana can only be found with 
the wind on your face, with a stampede
beneath your sternum, gulps of breath
are milestones to completion
life can end in a second & any second
without the thunder of release is too long
that the devil will get his due 
once we get our hands on ours

but some say life is what you make of it,
that men should build monuments
out of their bones, to stack boulders
on their shoulders until they break the heavens
another obelisk smited by our limitations
& we all fall short & we all die 
just a little more alone 

I want the last taste on my tongue
to be the bitter lightning of adrenaline
to have the hair on my arms marching
to the drum of my screaming heart 
to feel the wind beat these hollow bones
like it was the chorus of cherub angels 

You’ll know y’all were just the pregame
& that life can end in any second 
& when that second takes me 
just know that I fucking deserved it 

ex

is said
with such ease
such nonchalance

when what’s meant
is the once beloved
the once esteemed
once revered

before the universe
decided to test
the bonds and
the bonds failed

before the tear
the rip
sometimes terse,
often sustained

regardless,
ex,
a two-letter word
packed tight
like a small, thick scar
long after the slash

supermodel in the neon meat locker

she wasn’t much to look at—short, 
wiry and shrill. a supermodel with 
curly brown hair who thought 
she was the hottest thing on the planet. 

during the shoots, the director posed her
into increasingly ridiculous scenes to which
she responded with glee. 

the first shoot was the library. 

a giant, mechanical, hairy arm extended from 
the ceiling; it went up, down and into 
the aisles and she was ordered to run around it
like a scene out of King Kong. 

the next photo shoot was the neon meat locker. 

the model wore mirrored aviator sunglasses, a 
sequined mini dress and a white fur coat. 

she posed pretty before the fresh slabs 
of meat as the photographer shot 
the photos and his assistant 
doused her with buckets of blood. 

they mercilessly mocked her (and
she still didn’t get it). 

the director of the shoot then ordered her to 
growl like an animal. 

“whelp like a whipped dog!” he said.  

boastingly, the model replied, “oh, I can 
do that! I did the same thing for the 
movie I was in last year!” 

they splashed her with another bucket of blood 
and then the director said, 
“what if I said your dad was 
in hell so you could have your 
modeling career?” 

“oh, come on!” she said, “that’s not fair!” 

Behind Their Eyes

Only one hole of her hides in a tuft 
of the black leather daybed.  Still the right
auricle echoes the gentle and rough
that is said.  Led by educated insights 
into disturbed college girls, he knows 
she believes this is free will —  striptease 
of cardigan, pearls, surname and fore. Bow 
bestowed from a drawer of his desk, knees 
familiar with floor like any good Christian 
girl redressed in humility.  It is not 
the first time someone made her question 
if she is who she should be.  Needless thoughts,
she is taught, dissipate — clouds to serene skies.
Good girls are only empty behind their eyes. 

Juan de Guano

Juan de Guano is the man.
He’s more macho than his Harley.
Juan speaks three languages that
No-one can ever understand.
Juan mumbles even when sober.
Everyone say “What?” & “Que?”
Only the priest knows what he say.
Juan’s Latin is excellent though slurred.
When down South, Immigration
On both sides of the border
Locks him up not knowing what he is.
His woman kicks his ass on a regular basis.
She never knows what he say to other women.
Other women wonder, too, what he say.
So he flirt with the eyes…sometimes 
Two black eyes.  I said he had a woman.
Life is hard for Juan de Guano but
He’s more macho than his Harley.
That’s all that counts.
Harley people understand.

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: Summer 2022, the curated collection from Horror, Sleaze and Trash!

Featuring poetry by Daniel S. Irwin, John D Robinson, Jay Maria Simpson, John Tustin, John Yohe, Nadja Moore, Laszlo Aranyi, Andy Seven, Omar Alexandre, Willow Croft, Gene Goldfarb, Brice Fisher, Brian Rosenberger, Vivian Pollak, Matt Dennison, James Diaz, Jodie Baeyens, Jonathan Baker, and Dan Flore III.

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