11 a.m.
he said
he awoke
with phlegm
in his throat
and
a dirty brunette
fucking with
the sid vicious`ness
of his mind
1 Poem – Devlin De La Chapa
Posted: March 22, 2020 in Musing, Poetry, Uncategorized, UpdateTags: BoySlutMagazine
0
the kingdom, denied
in these sepia-toned rooms of
memory i relive
25 years of drowning
in the season of ascension
we eat only dust
and i have these pictures and i
have these poems and i am
not sorry for being thin
enough to fade from view
i have no use for your
anger and none for your pain
we were there at the table
when the bullet
caught christ in the throat
i was fucking your
sister on the afternoon my
grandfather took his
own life and
listen –
confession isn’t art
the starving know enough
to view your god as nothing
more than so much meat
all magic is contained w/in
the moment of revelation
and then all that’s
left is dust
a long way from home, and bleeding
everything revealed,
but not until we’re all dead,
and this is just the way it works
i love you
but it’s not enough
i hate my life,
and how ordinary is that?
was there ever anything to do, really,
but fuck and get high?
listen
the trick is to forget the past and
close your eyes against the future
the trick is to never stop moving
we kill what we fear,
we become what we hate and
maybe this finally explains my father
maybe a mouthful of broken glass
is all any of us really need
nothing ever feels as good as
the pain
we can share with others
*read John Sweet`s bio here
Hangnail
i WILL write you
this poem even if it takes
whiskey, leonard cohen &
biting your fucking fingernails
to finish it!
1 Poem – Devlin De La Chapa
Posted: February 24, 2020 in Musing, Poetry, Stuff, UncategorizedTags: BoySlut Magazine
misses Saturday night
she closed the gap
on their
relationship
at the bottom of a bourbon glass
with a 6 pack of
blue ribbon Pabst
and
a toothbrush
once belonging
to johnny cash
1 Poem – Devlin De La Chapa
Posted: February 21, 2020 in Musing, Poetry, UncategorizedTags: BoySlutMagazine
Lipstick
this is
a
down
on
my luck
poem
it doesn`t want
your sympathy
or pity
it just wants you
to believe
that it`s
fucking
happy
that its
got
its shit
together
that it
still
can afford
to pay
for lipstick
1 Poem – Devlin De La Chapa
Posted: February 10, 2020 in Poetry, Stuff, UncategorizedTags: BoySlut Magazine
a thing of Hollywood
i stopped wearing
deodorant.
stopped
shaving my pits,
my crotch,
my legs.
hoping to fall
on brad pitt`s lap.
a free
& unconventional
thing
of macabre
beauty.
1 Poem – Devlin De La Chapa
Posted: January 30, 2020 in Musing, Poetry, UncategorizedTags: BoySlut Magazine
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 Flash – Randall Rogers
Posted: January 30, 2020 in Fiction, Flash, Musing, UncategorizedTags: BoySlut Magazine
Postscript
It was Marty McBride. However, this was no ordinary Marty. This was non-representational, abstract Marty and he began with his expressionism. He turned blue and, as Yves Klein, dove upon Akimbo. Akimbo, flustered, admired the monochrome; he was a fan of Klein.
“Pity he died so young!” Akimbo yelled as he dropped the ax. Akimbo threw the blue imitation Klein-creature off. Marty as Klein and blue was getting his chance. He’d stop the big murderous opinionated poseur bastard Akimbo. He’d do it to save the combination color scheme challenged and color-blind in the Culvert of Altaloona. No longer would Akimbo and his compatriots those minions of the Artistic Standards Board wreak havoc on artistic invention. Let freedom ring!
Creature Marty Klein morphed. Marty remained determined to stop Akimbo but now he wore a Jimi Hendrix face. What’s more, from somewhere, somehow, he’d acquired a large potato and was using it as his body. He was propelling this potato body with uncooked spaghetti stick legs stuck into manzanilla pimiento stuffed “feet.” Indeed, this Marty potato spaghetti leg olive foot creature wore a golden silver dollar pancake head. Emblazoned and mugging upon one side of this golden pancake was the animated likeness of Jimi Hendrix!
Akimbo, seeing Jimi Hendrix’ pancake head, clutched his chest. He tried to grab the frisky potato and came away with potato Marty’s Hendrix pancake head! Immediately, Akimbo stuffed Marty’s Hendrix head into his mouth and swallowed. Marty was trapped. His head was gone. He was a potato with hard Durham egg spaghetti legs and green red pimiento stuffed olive feet. Cooked he’d be a tasty. But raw he was nothing. Headlessness made matters worse.
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 – Devlin De La Chapa
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
