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.
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.
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
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
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
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!”
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 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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He puked and he puked until he
thought now surely I must die, surely
there can be no more. He had brought
up the water, the coffee, the orange
juice, the whiskey, the wine, the
vodka, pasta, snails and love, but still
it kept coming. He was into the bodily
fluids now, and it would, later, scare
him. Now all he could do was watch.
And smell. Yellow, foul tasting stuff
that made him bite the back of his
tongue. Then green, then clear again.
Then brown. Then smudge, was all he
could call it, looking at the last grey
layer floating. Smudge. Yes. And
flat oil slicks, tiny fishes, nuts and
bolts, telephone lines, cardboard boxes,
file cabinets, tax forms, old photos,
death announcements. Then, eyes
bulging, bursting red, gasping like a
gored fish, he passed it, or, rather, it
passed itself, wiggling out into the sick
grease on top of it all only to grow
and grow and grow until it, in turn,
puked him out, after the water, the
coffee, the orange juice, the whiskey, the wine,
the vodka, pasta, snails and love,
but still it kept coming.
Horror Sleaze Trash 