Arthur Graham’s Reviews > HSTQ: Summer 2026 > Status Update
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Arthur Graham
is on page 24 of 28
We hadn't been fucking
for very long that summer
before she asked if I could
help her out with something.
— Sep 21, 2026 12:30PM
for very long that summer
before she asked if I could
help her out with something.
Arthur Graham
is on page 22 of 28
“Do you realize what you
did? Do you remember?
Do you even care?”
— Sep 21, 2026 12:26PM
did? Do you remember?
Do you even care?”
Arthur Graham
is on page 16 of 28
After the first cut
I looked
at myself
in the mirror.
I looked
pretty much
the same—
minus
a bit of lip
and some nose.
I’d been
so scared
but now
something had changed.
I saw myself
for what I truly was:
ugly,
imperfect flesh,
stretched
over bone—
hiding
behind the illusion
of a soul.
— Sep 21, 2026 12:25PM
I looked
at myself
in the mirror.
I looked
pretty much
the same—
minus
a bit of lip
and some nose.
I’d been
so scared
but now
something had changed.
I saw myself
for what I truly was:
ugly,
imperfect flesh,
stretched
over bone—
hiding
behind the illusion
of a soul.
Arthur Graham
is on page 10 of 28
This city spills champion bartenders out from
the Lower Ninth to Pigeontown,
Gentilly, Algiers to Mid-city,
the Lower Garden District to Central City,
Seventh Ward, Treme’, Bywater
to the Irish Channel
and every corner in between.
— Sep 21, 2026 12:22PM
the Lower Ninth to Pigeontown,
Gentilly, Algiers to Mid-city,
the Lower Garden District to Central City,
Seventh Ward, Treme’, Bywater
to the Irish Channel
and every corner in between.
Arthur Graham
is on page 4 of 28
No one wants to read this sad sack poem
pouring out of me after two glasses
of white wine,
so I imagine myself a melancholy
charmingly self-effacing
country singer
with an old song about how
I wish I hadn’t done you wrong,
and how I miss you
like I’d miss the sun
— Sep 21, 2026 12:18PM
pouring out of me after two glasses
of white wine,
so I imagine myself a melancholy
charmingly self-effacing
country singer
with an old song about how
I wish I hadn’t done you wrong,
and how I miss you
like I’d miss the sun
in the letters from a Scrabble game
mix two ounces of Mrs. Butterworth
syrup with water in a spray bottle
Get your woman naked in the bathtub,
squirt her until she’s sticky all over, then
throw in all the letters and an ant farm,
write your poems before making love
Get a Bowie knife shove it into the earth,
put your ear on the handle, listen closely,
all the magazine names in the world will
be whispered to you at the same time
Write as if your sexual organs are in flames,
until your fingers cramp, until your eyes
bleed, until you use the bathroom in your
pants, set fire to all your words, throw them
out the window, now you’re ready, proceed.