Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category


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.


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


 

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.

 

 

Tom Hatch

Posted: November 10, 2017 in Poetry, Uncategorized
Tags: ,

I gave up on women

 

free-shipping-street-art-banksy-decor-banksy-sexy-girl-with-teddy-bear-wall-stickerMarried a couch she
Changed 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

 

WILD MAN

I had worked there

a couple of months

when I was invited to a gig –

Peter & the Test Tube Babies

were playing in a local pub

and everyone was going.

I went along and had one

pint too many

let my hair down and

got a bit too lairy.

The shy and quiet persona

I had assumed in the office

was gone

and the mad punk drunkard

was loose.

I don’t recall the incident

but the story goes

that as we danced to the band

I punched a colleague

square in the tit

and was last seen

in the early hours

howling at the moon

like a wild man.

I missed work the next day

with a brutal hangover

and never lived the night down

for as long as I worked there.

She got her revenge weeks later

when she threw a pen

directly at my face

as I talked on the phone

to a customer –

I let out a yelping “Fuck!”

lost the sale

and had to terminate the call.

 

 

Devlin De La Chapa

Posted: May 9, 2017 in Musing, Poetry
Tags:

 

love with a Poet sucks

 

I read your poem

I liked your poem

it said everything

but conveyed

nothing worthy

of redeeming us

just a disclaimer

and a discretion

attached to a refund

of words

written just for me