Posts Tagged ‘DevlinDLC’


A Wisp of Razor Wire (an encounter)
by Tom Hatch
She was a beauty and sharp with wit
Wisps of poly chromium razor wire
he was caught by her surprising glance
That became a stare long like a hillbilly’s
Worshipful looking at a Benz
Flowing red hair half smile becoming full
of trouble a dance that she wants
To lead but he does then she does
Off, off to another world her long arms
Rope burns undressing him hers already
An expressive empty face
Reaches for hands then his game of chess
He takes her knight she
Angling her bishop she stabs his queen
He does not spare hers either without perfect timing
Pawns are flying slaughtered
Rooks up turned on skin
Gazing at the board then she glares up
Across at him for a very long time
Her stare like the hillbilly at the Benz very slight
Movement of her head very slight, silent slightly
A gull’s glide moving her hand with remaining
Bishop without looking down at the board
Throws her head back sighing
Check mate she screams as his white king is
Toppled onto the floor with the other white pieces
The rooks, knights and bishops covering his dead queen
He looks up at her as the encounter took him
By surprise both shortened of breath
She stands then walks leaving the invited trespasser wisps
Of stained poly chromium razor wire
In her trail saying, shouting “do not ever follow me”

Checkmate!

previously published here by Devlin De La Chapa

 

“Shh, don’t speak” are the fractured

words, sadomasochistic still frames, segments

of a post-Elizabethan tragedy whispered

into my mouth; remnants of the thousands

lying dead in the fields.

 

The echo. . .ooh the echo. . .like

a serpents tongue slithering wet

pissing poison into the crevices

of my aching patois; no blood red

shimmering apple could compare.

 

I drift, and dream of Pontius Pilate,

commanding the placement of the

famed thorned crown on Jesus’s head

as he staked claim to his fate;

the world watches, cursed, as I am now.

 

The insanity of my eyes rage open to

the irony of past crucifixions before me,

plunging deep within the ill religious

creating an unsacrilegious temple

of my forbidden body.

 

The King kisses my lips, and augments me

from the dead of the reality that awaits me;

I ponder if Mary Magdalene could be the whore

weeping merciful at his feet, I could be forgiven

for my birth into this privileged life I know none other of.

 

“De-throned, de-boned, and deflowered lye cowards!”

 

Shouts the Knight of Shining Armor

as he plunders across the battlefields

to enslave the Queen from the King

overthrown from his indestructible castle.

 

And so begins the Rook and the Bishop

as they circle around me in silent steps;

I can’t see them. . .I can’t feel them. . .but

I can smell them. . .I can envision them. . .

 

And my bodice quivers, my thighs shiver

but my eyes weep when unbounded to

glimpse the Knight stripping me of power

of position of royalty; I raise my hands

in a last bout:

 

“Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war!”

 

“Don’t turn around. . .

turn around. . .turn around. . .

brace yourself as the Devil

stands behind you.”

 

I hold tight, and take a deep. . .

deep. . .disturbing breath

right as the cat-o’-nine-tails

breaks through the air-

 

“Checkmate!” they whisper.

 


Checkmate!

“Shh, don’t speak” are the fractured
words, sadomasochistic still frames, segments
of a post-Elizabethan tragedy whispered
into my mouth; remnants of the thousands
lying dead in the fields.

The echo. . .ooh the echo. . .like
a serpents tongue slithering wet
pissing poison into the crevices
of my aching patois; no blood red
shimmering apple could compare.

I drift, and dream of Pontius Pilate,
commanding the placement of the
famed thorned crown on Jesus’s head
as he staked claim to his fate;
the world watches, cursed, as I am now.

The insanity of my eyes rage open to
the irony of past crucifixions before me,
plunging deep within the ill religious
creating an unsacrilegious temple
of my forbidden body.

The King kisses my lips, and augments me
from the dead of the reality that awaits me;
I ponder if Mary Magdalene could be the whore
weeping merciful at his feet, I could be forgiven
for my birth into this privileged life I know none other of.

“De-throned, de-boned, and deflowered lye cowards!”

Shouts the Knight of Shining Armor
as he plunders across the battlefields
to enslave the Queen from the King
overthrown from his indestructible castle.

And so begins the Rook and the Bishop
as they circle around me in silent steps;
I can’t see them. . .I can’t feel them. . .but
I can smell them. . .I can envision them. . .

And my bodice quivers, my thighs shiver
but my eyes weep when unbounded to
glimpse the Knight stripping me of power
of position of royalty; I raise my hands
in a last bout:

“Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war!”

“Don’t turn around. . .
turn around. . .turn around. . .
brace yourself as the Devil
stands behind you.”

I hold tight, and take a deep. . .
deep. . .disturbing breath
right as the cat-o’-nine-tails
breaks through the air-

“Checkmate!” they whisper.


Musings of a Writer, Blocked

I’m not as intelligent as I used to be

somewhere, somehow, my brain
fell off the grid of post-independence,
now I’m influenced by the vast roaches
inhibiting my fortress of proverbial pain,
though they call to me, whisper my name
their shame becomes all of what I used to be;

the Marigolds no longer bloom on my plantation
they too have become all but a crying out sustenance,
not for water, but for company, companionship,
someone with the greenest thumb to stroke their
whimsical little petals now weltering beneath
the cosmic forces that bind us not as one but as three;

to re-seed another whole new life, I must twist the
dead Marigolds until their necks break, and when those
tiny seeds invisibly bleed out, I am reminded
that now would be a valid time to remember what I have forgotten-
in the soil I watch as those vast roaches clamber beneath me,
soiling those precious anthropoid seeds with their scum scavenger cum;

still, I’m not as intelligent as I used to be but I’m writing again

Zeppelin. . .and it makes me wonder

“There’s a feeling I get
when I look to the west. . .”

and all that remains in today’s present
is now but a stain in yesterday’s past
and it makes me wonder
what would become of Rock n’ Roll
after it’s been outdated and old
then sold to the golden of silence?
what would become of sex
when it is no longer casual
but sexist and protested?
what would become of drugs
when it’s been diluted and polluted
no longer useful or purposeful?
and it makes me wonder-makes me wonder
what would become of my stairway to heaven
if it all crumbled under?

Maybe if I look to the west
it will all come back to me

 


115 Degrees
Pushcart Prize Nomination

Beads of sweat
trickled down slow
between the perfumed citrus folds
of her beautiful round breasts
unbeknownst to the woman
innocently directing me to the nearest freeway
under a blazing sun of 115 degree weather;
and I almost envisioned myself on her
disguised as one of those perfect size atoms
of H2O evaporating into an open of a pore
uninvited, like rape after a date of kissing and no sex
only to proliferate in the end into a bead of virgin sweat.

“50 CENTS”
Originally published in CatFishGringoRiver

Bitch broke my heart
then she kicked me out,
said I couldn’t earn my keep.
I mean, how deep is that shit?
Or is shit supposed to be deep?

So I packed my things,
toothbrush and comb,
condoms and cigars,
my bike with the flat and
fitted them all into a backpack.

At a quarter passed nine

no money, no honey, no place to call my own,
I stood on the side of a curb,
flashed my abs and spat sloppy kisses to
the passing cars, trucks, SUV’s, black tinted limos
to steal a quick buck, but with no luck.

At a quarter passed one

I picked up a crusted payphone receiver,
a voice drawls a sleepy ‘Hello?’
‘Mama, Julie kicked me out.
I’m on the streets. I need a place
to crash, a place to eat.’

Mama then laughs
then the line clicks dead.
I stare at the receiver confused
but soon realize I accidentally blew
my last 50 cents on a wrong number.


Originally Published in CatFishGringoRiver

BIG CITY

The girl opened herself to bleed. The crystal ball had told her to. The madam charged her for it. Then the girl left. A man on the sidewalk was giving out free tattoos. She sat on the tattered stool. The sterile infected device pierced her skin. “Tainted” was forged in a Chinese scripture beneath her right shoulder. The girl got up and staggered away. A trail of blood followed her. Her periods were bad. They made her do stupid things. She swore rats were following her. She popped a green little pill in many of the alleys and chased it with a passed out drunk’s beer. Then the girl wandered to a nearby galleria and laughed at a painting depicting a girl lost in a big city.

 

FORTUNE COOKIE

The fortune cookie read:
‘If you screw it, they will come’
I shrugged my shoulders
and shoved the hard wafer
into my mouth and headed south

toward the bathroom
at the back of the dingy Chinese dive.
My watch beeped,
I heard sheep bah-bahing
from within the kitchen

I explored, peeping through
the tiny cracks in the doors.
She was pinned over
the stainless steel slab,
the butcher beating her to perfection

then I had a faint recollection
back in Bangkok two days
and ten years back
she talking a whole lotta smack
while men smacked her around

I frowned, and stepped away
from the door and into the stall.
I took a hard piss, zipped my fly,
the butcher casually walked in
to wash the thrashes from his hands.

He looked at me, I looked at him
the butcher grinned his toothless grin,
my skin pricked, his dick was sick
his food sucked undercooked stale
just like the fortunes in his cookies.

 

A MEXICAN STAND OFF

The boss. The drug lord. The drug dealer. The dope runner. The drug pusher. The bagman. The hit-man. The assassin. The fuck up. The innocent bystander. The lover. The mistress. The wife. The children. Guns drawn. A really big shoot out. Everyone dies. Silence. Blood is flowing. Flies buzz around. The bullet riddled piñata donkey hangs by a swinging limb. Candy is scattered everywhere. The Federales bullshit about the massacre and help themselves to cake and ice cream.

 


“AMONGST LITTLE THINGS”

He latched onto my nipple.

The way newborn sons latch onto nipples-only distant.  And the scenario takes me back to a place of pubescent butterflies and crimson donuts sprinkled in Christmas glitter gold.

I sigh, and run my fingers through his hair-short, refined, tousled.  The gold of the calico blond strands shimmer beneath the sunlight probing into our little secret affair.

From a midst’s his suckling, he glances up at me, my reflection stares back.  I look down at my white dress.  The eyelets on my dress are like the windows of my soul, missing threads.

I sweep an anxious eye across the nightstand.  Divorce papers unsigned, yet lay perfectly folded beside a pen tempting me to sign the mistake you’ve made.

My mind drifts back to that hot August afternoon.  A sticky note posted to you from me on our front door:  Dear John, Your girlfriend called.  I forgot to buy Kleenex at the store.  You moved out, and he was to move in, your best friend who didn’t know you had moved out prior to him knocking on what used to be “our” front door, on a late September morning.

He leaves me a sticky note on my front door:  X O, X O, empty boxes.

I am guilty to say we now share in this room, no longer sacred or abide by or united in our matrimony.  Not even my nipple knows no boundaries as my tears slip through the sand of decaying bones; your mother’s ring.  It no longer resides on my left hand.

My nipple grows raw, not with sensation, but with sentiment.

Because the open range echoes the sound of death’s love aging gracefully near.  I thank you for the memories of when my heart was broken next to my good China.

 


RATED X-MAS

Santa sits on the Simpson’s roof
cursing at little kids
naughty, nice, evil, sexy, ho. . .Ho. . .HOE
a big man
in a little red suit
imprisoned within a TV show
He’s cute, Marge says
He’s a waste of space, Homer says
Da Da, Maggie says
If you scramble the words to Santa they spell Satan, Bart says
Ha Ha, Ha Ha, Nelson mocks
somewhere Rudolf blows his red bulb
Mrs. Claus drowns in Peppermint Bourbon
the Reindeers suck on powdered monoxide and die
the elves escape happily to Munchkinland
and Millhouse, at long last, is fucking Lisa beneath the Mistletoe.

BLACK FRIDAY

@ 4:01 a.m. I awoke to the sound of the alarm,
my husband’s voice asking me for a divorce
I showered, and cried,
got dressed, and cried
jumped into my car, and cried,
drove through StarBucks, and cried

‘I can’t fake it anymore’ he said
‘I meant to ask you yesterday’ he said
‘But the Turkey looked so good’ he said
‘I figured I enjoy your cooking one last time’ he said

Dodging through empty traffic,
a lady slammed on her brakes
I spill Cappuccino all over my lap
the malted liquid burns through my jeans
the pain like Sugar Plums pounding in my head
I tossed the empty cup out the window nonchalantly
like tossing ten years of my life with my husband
I glanced through the rearview mirror
lights are blinking colors of Christmas

‘It’s a crime to litter, ma’am’ the cop says

‘Just give me the fucking ticket!’ I snapped

I then snatch the ticket, crumpled it
like crumpling my husband’s little big head
and toss it at the cop’s face
The stench of foul piss sweat on the cruisers back seat
reminded me of our honeymoon
in our dingy hotel room in Rio

I pled “Guilty” to a Disorderly Conduct

‘Because I have to go shopping’ I tell the Judge

Then I babble, babble, babble
Thanksgiving, Turkey, Divorce
I’m let go with a hefty fine.

@ 6:01 a.m. I fight my way through the Christmas rush of
screaming mothers, crying babies, depressed fathers
edgy girlfriends, reserved boyfriends, jealous singles
in search of that magical gift,
that quintessential gift,

that ‘please don’t divorce me’ gift

but I end up at the food court
downing more Cappuccinos than I could swallow
contemplating suicide on Santa’s lap
texting my mother, blaming my father,
swearing at my happily married sister
amidst all my chaos of becoming Mrs. Ex
I pull myself together
I think about the good, the bad, and
the extra-curricular of my marriage
now sitting beside me choking on a cancer stick

‘What did you expect?’ he says
‘He was going to find out sooner or later’ he says
‘You said that that’s what you wanted’ he says

I flick the stick from my lover’s lips
the butt end hits an elderly couple strolling by
they don’t feel the threat of burning death lingering
on their ultra chic vintage clothing
I hiss, then I sigh out, then I start to cry
wondering why my husband couldn’t have waited
till after Black Friday to divorce me?
My lover tries to comfort my tears
but they fall, fall, fall

‘It’s going to be alright’ he says

‘It’s not that’ I say

‘Then what is it?’ he says

‘Promise me you won’t ask for a divorce on Black Friday’ I say

I sound desperate like once slugging my way from the past
of shoppers once killing themselves silly over
Tickle Me Elmo’s and TalkBoy toys 
my lover then laughs and crosses his heart then uncrosses it
he takes my hand and we stroll through the mall,
dodging shoppers drowning in oversize shopping bags
weeping invisibly behind maxed out credit cards while
having to go home to their spouses to explain their infidelities
I rest my head against my lover’s shoulder
thankful that I’ve already explained mine


Star.

She lived her life through him, through his movies.  He was a movie star who could’ve been a superstar transcending into a megastar but because he was once a rock star he was just a star.

Unpretty.

She didn’t like her husband.  He was always brushing his teeth, drinking all the time while she walked behind him picking up tubes of toothpaste and empty beer cans.  Then, when it was time for bed, he expected sex from her.  Having sex with her husband, while once euphoric, now reminded her of a good time pick-up because the only time he actually found her appealing is when he drank kind of like the way men drank in bars, scoping out the pretty of unpretty women through dirty beer mugs and shot glasses.  She would often cry herself lonely after sex.   Not that her husband would notice considering he would already be drunk asleep and with clean teeth.

 

Portrait.

polka dots

feathers

bright lights

big weather

empty banks

dirty rivers

ugly face

she shivers