Sex Games 

You could be younger
and getting wet thinking about
dancing for me,
aiming to please;
shaking that phat azz at the edge of my bed
while I get all worked up
over that mesmerizing shimmering flesh

or you could be getting old like me,
wanting the attention someone else
has made you feel like you don’t deserve,
finally emerging from that pit and into my arms,
wanting to be pawed all over.

I’ve played these sex games for decades
with women I’ve met –
at work
on social media
between the stacks of library books –
but it’s rarely worked out
and when it has,
it hasn’t been for long.
Now I’ve stopped looking
but I oddly haven’t given up hope.

If you think every whisper in the ear
must be I Love You
or if you think some words are never nice
and your gender studies professor 
or psychotherapist belongs in bed with us,
then maybe we should both look elsewhere:

and if you think rough sex just means
a man thrusting as quickly as he can
and if you think that being submissive
in bed 
just means letting him thrust like that
then it was nice meeting you
but let’s not waste each other’s time
any further:

I can’t thrust that hard anymore.

flop flip

she says, “this smokin’ hot japanese girl at the vegetarian  
restaurant down the street 
has been flirting with me every day.  she keeps asking 
to see all my tattoos, just to make me lift up my 
shirt and stuff—you know that ploy.  I think you used 
it on me, didn’t you?  she came all the way into fingerprint’s
just to give me some free coffee.  she used to 
have a multi-colored mohawk, but now she’s 
growing it out.  her tats are as hot as her tight body.  oh, 
man, I don’t know if I can take it anymore.  would you 
mind if I fucked this cunt in front of you and get it 
out of the way before I go ahead and cheat on you with
this little bitch?”

I say, “jesus!  why the fuck not?  how soon can we 
get this to happen?”

she says, “oh my god, I can’t believe it.  you would do 
that?  you think so little of our relationship that you’d 
let some chick you’ve never even met before fuck me
right in front of you?  how could you even stand to watch 
that happen?  how?  how?”

I whisper, “but… I… thought… you wanted that to 
happen.”

she says, “it doesn’t matter what i want.  what are your
priorities?  what matters most to you?  that’s what’s
important here.  is nothing sacred to you?  what’s wrong
with you?”

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

Featuring poetry by Ken Kakareka, Devlin De La Chapa, David Estringel, Kristin Garth, Jeff Weddle, William Taylor Jr., C. Renee Kiser, Jessica Heron, Dustin King, Damon Hubbs, John Yohe, Ryan Quinn Flanagan, Walt Shulits, Alexander Poster, John Tustin, and Damian Rucci.

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Czech casting video

I watched the video with  
Marbela (4078) and they did

the “just the tip” thing and I
almost lost my mind and they

say those that can’t write the 
poem write the short story and

those that can’t do that write
the novel and by the end of the

video she said, “shove it all the
way in,” and wow what a show. 

Roll Over

You sit and just tilt the head and think:
Damn, this shit’s fucked up.
Whatever happened to life’s rewards that
The teachers said you would get for hard work?
The ethereal bliss the preachers promised
For leading a gospel life?
You gotta steal the chicken to put in your pot.
The world’s too busy helpin’ themselves
To worry about you.  So you got lied to.
Ain’t nothin’ new, been goin’ on even
Before politicians made it legal.
Take your licks and like it.
Roll over, baby, more’s comin’.
When you get tired of it, kick some ass.

Creep Feed

I am a crusty curmudgeon, a cranky,
cantankerous old fool; dead and bitter.
Short on temper, long on drivel and drool—
a Creep.

Feed me your lies, stoke my bitterness…
with collard greens and canker sores,
cram into my face your hatred, your vehemence—
feed me.

I am past zero, divided by nothing, emptied;
curled upon a couch floating in sewage,
legs expanded, bloated, flesh melting painfully—
a Creep.

There is nothing wanted more, hated more
than warm bowls of acrimony, battery acid,
served with cold cream of revenge and anger—
feed me.

I am a disaster, desolation and death,
destroyed, depleted, drunk on pain;
Pain of knowing others have pleasure—
a Creep.

Feed my gluttonous, distended stomach
Imbibe of me; deep within, without—render and pull,
I’m a skulking, creeping, crippled heathen, hater of fun—
feed me.

Creep.

Kidchella

the bounce house smells like piss
they’re pissing themselves 
now, the kids 

hopping around 
after mainlining 
hot sunflat coke

snot helicoptering 
like the oversized greenery 
hung like vegetable chandeliers 
from the rent-a-tent

‘a bunny-theme,’ eyes roll
& members of the Rainforest Alliance 
tisk tisk the Mylar balloons
‘End up in the ocean.’

Cries, two teeth 
asphalted & blood, lots of it
cheese pizza vomit clogs 
the pool drain 

more kids, more piss
the bounce house wheezes 
like Baby Jane huffing menthols

after cake 
dads wheel out
Tundras packed w IPA

jackhammer moms 
Yeti butt like sorority girls 
& a game of pin-the-tail 
is underway

Pandora awaits

bald rubber
frays on all four wheels
black smoke pours
from the tail pipe
and rusted out fenders flap
with the ruts in the road
but you jam
the old half ton ford
in granny low
and let her crawl up the road
while you hop out
unzip your jeans
and piss

what’s the point of living
if you can’t freak out the neighbors 

they built that big house
up on the hill and watch over everything
they call the sheriff
every time somebody sneezes
they host lavish parties
for the connected and the pompous
and they’re scheming to buy 
the property you rent

finish your pee
hop back in
shift to second
spin the tires
and pepper their mailbox
with gravel and mud

what were you put here to do
if not get under the skin of the pious

but it’s lunch time
enough with the petty subversions
Pandora O’Jesus awaits
in her usual booth by the juke box
and she’s already ordered 
your double cheeseburger and cold draft beer

Porn Site Poem

I’m not an ordinary mom,
I’m a cool mom

I heard you like mature,
single and experienced women
Then contact me
Not wearing bra makes me happy 
I’m not an ordinary mom,
I’m a cool and strong mom in bed
Contact mom here

I’m an Amazing Mature Woman
I’m a different girl from other girls
I like to do something hot
Being braless makes me very happy

enjoyment beyond what your wife gives
I’m bored alone 
I love dirty talk and role play

I really like not wearing panties
just a fan

I am willing to be the pleasure
and extasis that you need
contact me immediately 

Amsterdam

the potato eaters is on loan
peeled & disrobed 
from the museum wall

& then the mushrooms
the magic ones, not the trip truffles 
which are magic-lite & 

the little printed card from the hotel lobby 
cheerfully suggests the bad feeling will pass
coca-cola can help, fruit juice, a walk

dredging thought-shards the next day
like drowned bikes from the canal
we bench it, drink Heineken tallboys

could be worse
(dead after jumping from a bridge near IJ-tunnel—)
(Frenchman stabs his own dog after eating hallucino—) 
could be. But

bereft, we wonder if Amsterdam is bust 
until the girl in the lobby of the Anne Frank House 
asks if we want to party 

the poor taste 
of animal shamelessness 
fumbling at a moral-zipper

twenty years on
I still feel bad saying yes 
but the bad feeling will pass, 
always does