Posts Tagged ‘Poems by Devlin De La Chapa’

 

hard candy.

 

gorgeous

lonely

chiseled

rock hard

body

dick endowed erect

random acts of voyeurism

in a 24hr

XXX adult candy shop

masturbating

to a hard-core magazine

behind counter blues:

peach dildo

sour apple vibrator

cherry anal beads

kinky bondage grapes

strawberry nipple clamps

ben walla blueberry balls

some toys to replace big boys

when necessary;

she wants a sample

of every flavor

of his hard candy;

he obliges,

filling her bag

w/all his savored goodies

‘cept for a sample

of his bubble-gum

flavored cum;

 

that was strictly

for the boyfriend.

 

 

I’m not a love poem

 

a box of tissue

on my bed,

vibrator

in hand,

batteries

fucked out

dead ~

 

thunder storms

inside

my cravers cave

weep

in cum-misery ~

 

no more late night

w/ Jay Leno

replaced by

narcissistic Friends,

’cause you called it quits,

I want to

slit my wrists,

lights out

at ten ~

 

in the morning,

anti~valium in my head,

decaf wine in one hand,

texting you w/ the other:

 

‘I never said I was a love poem’

 

hit send ~

 

it’s sunny outside

w/ rain

wilting roses.

 

 

~ deep throat`ing under barbed wire fences

and your political anthems

are nothing new

to the debaucheries

of this hole in my face…

my mouth is already out there

propaganda pruned and distorted, parlaying

belligerence, deep throat`ing hard-core dick[s],

tonguing the Good, the Bad

and swallowing

the 21st century Filth

while others are disappointed

that I don’t speak

of simple pleasures, only

of dirty pleasures

that [un] American conventionality

and etiquette

have been replaced with

the unlike(s) of me;

it is under barbed wire fences

that I dream of sitting on Trump’s lap

as if he were Christmas in July…

eagle bound and crotch l e s s

as he whispered of political measures

in my deafened ears

while fondling the flags between my legs…

I can feel his wall building 10 feet higher

& climaxing ~

anything higher, and I think God

would be disappointed ’cause he wants to create

geno-immigration-cide in the name of cartels;

I also dream of Rubio, boyish and beautiful,

Boy~Fucking~Wonder bound

banging me with his Wham! and his Bam!

in the back seat of a super-pack limo

as I wondered if lying Ted’s tongue

was as prominent as Pinocchio’s nose?

I want to stand in line

& flash~vote Bernie Sanders

into a quadruple bypass

’cause my tits held more accuracy

than Hilary’s heavenly Benghazi hell;

I miss Monica Lewinsky

’cause she kept it real

& stained

on her pretty church going dress;

other than that,

the fence needs

another screw.

 

somewhere under the rainbow

 

my head

is dead

of poetry;

 

desert lips

parched from words

devil

and

dusted;

 

not a single succulent

to wrap my tongue around

 

just this lament

aching

for a storm

 

 

burdened

 

she floated, when found,

sea leveled in a bathtub

bound in toxins and gins

made of marble and

gash, wrists semi-thrashed

suicide blond,

gone, filthy girl, gone;

six brass plated slugs

tattooed against her breasts

but the one inked in her heart

was especially enslaved for him

when pressed, will bleed, sowing seeds

 

for she knew

how he fucking loved her

and how

he would carry her body

the way sinners

carried their sins ~

 

unconscious and

burdened

 

 

~ the trouble with Gummy Bears

 

she stuffed

all my

infidelities

in one

heartbroken box

 

except

for the red lone

of a gummy bear

 

a reminder          [to me]

that her

navel

was once the center

of my

fetished universe;

 

and I will miss

the insane

of her jealousy

 

something every woman

should at least possess

 

’cause it shows

just how in love

they really are

 

 

death by Poet(ry)

 

when you woke up this morning

the dust in the acidic

draft-less air

had already settled upon your face

thus ruining

those past-apocalypse seasons we spent together;

it is a reminiscent of these

when I find myself at a morality loss

rousing up in cheap motel rooms

where the continental breakfasts

don’t seem “continental” anymore.

why do we keep on running?

where do you think we are going?

why can’t we just stake our claim

on some little dingy foreign country (side) dive

and trade treason for reason?

instead of bathing today, you bathe in perfume

and sit upon my dormant cock

the heat within your woman’s womb

doesn’t placate me anymore

but it’s the slow wind of those acidic elements

that waft through your monotonous hair

that which stirs my black key stroke erections.

and each strand that rakes through my hand

reminds me of earth –

pigmen born of mud

air, where contagion spreads –

fire, hell-lelujah in the sky –

water, a grave integrity of baptisms –

you lay your naked face against my cottoned chest

feeling for my last breath, you whisper:

 

you don’t know this

 

but you have a black picket fence

staked around your heart

a grave marker

sitting on your soul

 

and, you’re wearing a suit.

 

no self-proclaimed poet wears suits,

anymore.

so-stop-pretending-to-be-dead.

 

 

Desperaturbia

 

Clipping toenails scatter

in the

sink

 

My anxiety

needs to

rethink

 

desperately of us

 

Your cigarette butt ashes

embed on my

tongue

 

And your black market

perfume reeks

of maggot

beauty

 

lovely day

 

it’s sunny outside

76+ degree weather

birds soar high

the rivers look serene

Bill Withers sings

 

i’ve packed

everything

in a tiny

little box;

 

i couldn’t have planned

a better day

to leave you

 

Tom Hardy you’re my Hero

your cream colored tattered flesh

my milky white tattooed breasts

you are as delusional

as you are prostitutional.

if I zip down your mancunt

and spread your iron ego lips wide

will that inglorious slit clit

squirt fortunes of cum juice?

will it tell me my future

and all the brutal things

that are yet to come, not cum

with you or in you?

Yes, I’m feeling peculiar.

Yes, I’m feeling inferior.

Yes, I’m feeling extra-curricular.

your “ooh” and “ah” and “yes” and “yum’s”

mangle me in the dark

pulling me to the bottom

of post-lesbianism-nymphomatic-barrel-psychosis

and I ask what do I do

with all this inhumane addiction?

I bet Tom Hardy

never had to go through this shit!

You hand me a current issue of Esquire

and tell me to shut the fuck up

and grow some balls!