a thing of Hollywood
Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category
1 Poem – Devlin De La Chapa
Posted: February 10, 2020 in Poetry, Stuff, UncategorizedTags: BoySlut Magazine
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dizzying in her daylight
the girlfriend left me ’round noon
packed her tampons, her Sex Pistols
and her Jimmy Choos ’cause she couldn’t choose between
me & her narcissistic cat;
I was glad she was gone got tired of her hairballs
on to week 2 of being single and sexless in a city
populated by pussies & strays;
can’t hold a steady job
but I’m workin’ at a truck stop
binging on porn mags & 5¢ bubble gum
my subscription to YouTube is gettin’ ready to expire
met this lot lizard named something something
she said I was better than the scum prowling for prowl
said she wanted to become a nun
and start a coalition of ‘nuns with benefits’
for the priests the pope and the bishops
but she shunned on the idea when she realized
that she probably couldn’t wear lipstick
said she was a woman
who didn’t like working hard for her money
said that Donna Summer could kiss her ass
and wondered if she was still alive?
I thought the lizard lived in a trailer park
but she just wanted to swing by
and listen to the Gibbs with the squatters; she thought
Travolta was a Bee Gee & the dance floor an alien ship
she was such a fucking ditz, I was missing my ex
and her head trips
but she spun me dizzy, stuck a joint in my mouth
while she chewed birth control pills and spilled
every detail of her life on my lap – I had to tap out at 10
lights out at 12 but she started cleaning my house;
she was a trainwreck in a beehive hairdo
and I wondered if she was a product of a B52;
a love child from the love shack?
then we had sex, rug burn across the kitchen floor
her cunt felt like a good catch on a sunny day …
subscription renewed
1 Poem – Linda M. Crate
Posted: January 29, 2020 in Poetry, Prose, UncategorizedTags: BoySlut Magazine
because queens
i blamed myself
for your indiscretions for the longest time,
but i came to realize i was not
responsible
for your betrayal;
you were a devil pretending to be a saint—
just another snake
trying to steal away another eden,
but i am the queen here;
so i exiled you from the garden
and i am not sorry—
my entire life i have heard of adam and eve,
how it’s not adam and steve but perhaps
there’s something beyond your comprehension;
maybe it was lilith & eve because queens
tend to be stronger without kings
demanding their heads.
1 Poem – 21Diabla
Posted: January 20, 2020 in Musing, Poetry, Prose, UncategorizedTags: BoySlut Magazine
a momentary re`lapse of poetic insanity
I don’t ask for much
just a casual walk on these padded streets
in search of that
Great American Poem
at the bottom of a gutter
saturated with trash
that at one time used to be
someone else’s treasure
til they got evicted from their lives
you want to hold hands, you say
you said your palms
feel empty of weight and sweat
with those lifelines
posing like ulterior roads, and your soul
gridlocked on its highway –
I tell her to stop hitchhiking
I think my brain
is suffering from a 3rd degree burn
the lake looks unsavory
pleasant though as I contemplate suicide
with a drowning duck
but I’m too busy reading She Poems
wondering if I would find true love
at the end of a burning kitchen?
she wants to go home, and I don’t
care to walk her back – she gets up
from the bench and flips me the birdie
and I spit sunflower seeds at her hair
wondering if the sun will ever forgive me
for growing a garden on her head?
I feel an anxiety attack building
at the intersection of my conscience and poetry
because the pigeons have come by
for their tweakly visit
and just for a moment I actually contemplate on
tossing ’em crumbs of crystal rock
instead of my week old bread
because I, too, tend to forget that I’m starving
I mean, flying around the city
and splatting pigeon shit all over the place
isn’t exactly
creating masterpieces of art
worthy of someone’s hard earned bread
you still have to clean that crap up, and
I don’t see pigeons tossing me a crumb
for the effort
I starve the pigeons, take my bread home
and make me a bologna sandwich
I don`t
want to hear
excuses
about why
you forgot
my roses, how you
missed
that last exit
to placebo`ville
or how your hand
accidentally rode up
your therapists skirt
I just
want to
mesh my mouth
against yours, and hit
rock bottom
with your teeth
John D. Robinson
Posted: November 13, 2017 in Poetry, Stuff, UncategorizedTags: BoySlut Magazine, John D. Robinson
MAKING THINGS HAPPEN
‘I stabbed someone in the face
when I was 15 over a bad drug
deal: a few years in youth
custody then into the big-boys
prison and I don’t won’t to
go back to that hell, no sir,
I’m trying to make things
happen in a good way for me’
he said never making eye-
contact: he shifted nervously
on his feet and looked in
every direction:
‘Listen, I’ve got to go and
meet someone but it was
good to see you’ he said
and moved off into the
bust streets: I watched him
weave through the people,
hoping the man would be
there but he’d have a back-
up plan to score, he was an
old-hand and had his 19th
birthday last week.
I gave up on women
Married a couch sheChanged her name to Sofia
I read to her I know she listened
Very still I jacked off she did not say hardly a
Word but only “oh my” holding me in her cocoon
We watched TV any show was mine
To watch then she
Told me she was a sofa bed
Then the fun really began
We walked the avenues
With the help of a moving van
We ate at outdoor cafes lounging
Together at everyone’s envied sight
She became very expensive too
To walk down the street in the moving van
and all I have to tell you I love
Her in my study ever now
And then being the best as a bed
