Posts Tagged ‘BoySlut Magazine’

the anarchist divine

Posted: November 2, 2020 in Uncategorized

from the cats
outside his
bedroom window
he bitched
about his poetry,
the pollution
of cigarette butts,
hookers raising
prices on their goods
and how my body
felt like
in his coffee;
`I love you,` I said

-poem by Devlin De La Chapa


Posted: October 27, 2020 in Uncategorized

beautiful chapbooks
sit in my bathroom
like a rainbow of skittles;
they bring me comfort
in knowing
that someone
does give a damn
about my periods
and that pads with wings
won`t actually make me fly

-poem by Devlin De La Chapa

. . .and these s(t)ick fucks don`t have nothing to do with it!


Happy Belated Birthday BoySlut!




a guy`s weakness

is a tough girl,

she said,

tuning her iPod

to sex type thing,

she is kryptonite

to his soul,

cupid`s arrow

to his heart,

las vegas

to his sins,


when he is stripped

of all that

he gets



cry`baby poetry,

jacks off


speaks through a voice

that tortures

the ocean





I came too, sat upright,

and vomited over my

legs: I was shocked,

like the four other

people in the room:

‘Wow!’ I said, raising

myself and gingerly

waddled to the

bathroom as silence

shrouded me,

giving me the will

to carry on with it

all and then reappear

minutes later,

minus my jeans

and a lust

for wine.


6 feet from sobriety

perhaps, bitches

when the sun

has risen

6 feet

from our

sobriety &the




has been emptied


the “essential“

of norm …


like i said,


until then,

where the fuck

is my mask?


a man and his pizza


you visit again

6 feet apart

from my balcony

to yours

bitching again

about the pandemic

about how you need

genuine and emotional

physical contact,


to pick up women in,


to take road trips

and head trips with,


to lounge, drink coffee

and plug`in to

and how

you`re liable

to cut off your own arm

just to hear

yourself scream;

your cell pings

dominos pizza is sitting

outside your door

you light up

with giddiness

‘cause even you realized

that things

weren’t really that bad

so long as

no one fucks

with pizza

Choosing Nicknames


My name’s Nicholas Romanov. I give myself the nickname, “tsar.” I print it on cards for my piano school. Nicholas “Tsar” Romanov, Instructor.


     Pupils question me. Who gave you that right? Nicknames are earned, they proclaim with righteousness. Nicknames are predicated on allergies. Tics. Quirks.


     I tell them people ought to assign their own nicknames. It’s demeaning to have others label on an arbitrary basis. They used to nickname me freak and nerd because I preferred Tchaikovsky over pogs.


     I print up more cards, TSAR emblazoned in largest letters.


     I lose business, stand firm. I dispense more cards.


     I’m a tsar.

river Lily



whiskey drinking

is handless,

he said

ripping my panties


my hips,


it`s like a river

that doesn`t



one death at a time


i have

onion breath


a scar

that says

`wake the dead`.

no more

street vending

hot dogs,

or parkour`ing

around the world

in search of laughter,

in search of love,

when i see my world   


every hour,

one death at a time.

tell me  

how do i tell

my unborn child

that i`m not ready

to die