Posts Tagged ‘Devlin De La Chapa’


slasher sluts from hell

 

slash!

slice!

mash!

dice!

rip!

cut!

slit!

slut:

 

“a Scorn ~ Wrath production”

 

and this was                                                [by far]

my boyfriend’s lousy attempt

at a dinner & a movie seduction

especially from those

coldblooded machete toting bitches

as they tended to slither sensually,

rather than walk swiftly,               across

the hi-def plasma screen

in my boyfriend’s apt:

 

‘but I wanted to fuck your brains out

all over your leathered couch’, I w[h]ined

to my boyfriend,

 

‘baby, please!’, he bitched, ‘I don’t have

any cheese,’

 

‘prick!’

 

t’was the season

for all those Jason’s,

those Michael’s and

those Freddie’s

fulfilling every serial killer’s fantasy

chasing them ditzes, firecrotches

and Tanya Roberts look alikes

[before Tanya dyed her hair blond ~ post-Tourist Trap]

in re-runs & marathons

on some unknown TV channel

that didn’t end nor begin w/a C;

 

& my boyfriend wants to know why

I’m not one of them

high maintenance

movie slasher sluts

in porn metal gear,

virgin lace &

biker chic leather

[‘no pleather’, he says, ‘these sluts know better

than to offend’]

~ he grins ~

’cause he says he wants to see my double d’s

dragging desperately across

some bloody terrain of

gore, guts & brains

as if I’m being chased w/a machete

by a man called Machete,

while only wearing a rope for a thong

so his balls can cliffhang off my ass

after he’s bombed Hitler

out of my nazi shaven cunt;

 

but my

“would be”

B flick noir slut snatch

reeks of peachy fuzz

rolled in a day old blunt

I smoked the night before,

I admit, I’m a ‘blunt whore slut’

something I figured my boyfriend

would be happy with?

don’t I feel like the fucking ditz!;

 

I accidentally pop my boyfriend

an erected nipple

from my scarlet corset ~

my lousy attempt of an Elvira

impersonation ~

but he just pops

another slasher slut flick into the DVD player

and continues eating

his 7-layered [bean] dip;

it’s to bad

that my boyfriend wasn’t dead

’cause this would be the time

I’d spit on his grave;

 

& I think Leatherface

would have been disgraced

that my boyfriend didn’t suggest

a chainsaw slut flick

’cause I could’ve been crooning:

 

’50 ways to chop up your lover!’

 

leaving my boyfriend swooning

& I’d be getting laid right about now

but instead I’m watching part II of:

 

‘Slasher Sluts From Hell!’

 

I suck on a blunt

& finger the dip;

’cause it was obvious

that this

was going to be

the only slut action

I’d be having tonight.

 

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ベトナムの芸者

 

scent is flagrant, pungent of an opium…

poppy`s, they bleed in seeds disrupt;

in her sleazy district of show long

butterflies weep

`neath the cocooned hues

like painted ladies

on red gossamer doors

blistering in dragon`s breath ~

mildew is a flower…

quaint and gold, rings on an absent finger

white paddies, they are vast

and evasive upon her mekong pu`bis

black as the center it folds, blossoms

bloom and scent of cherries papier mache

where blasphemous lover`s kiss in orals;

this is her celestial, sainted and fornicated

her face, damaged, her soul, feathered

and drifting in the bastard winds,

her body moans through her necessary bones;

in the afternoon teas and turtle baths of longevity

he who bids holds fast in the moments of forever;

 

 

this is the old way,

you will not see this again

 

 


 

 

black Whiskey in a dixie cup

 

and I`ve had my troubles

I tell you what

laid uncle jesse on the copper line

played 13 roulette

with my talkin` clit

loaded her with guns

and emptying clips, my slugs

have all become saviors `n saints

brass-trash silver-bullet and fuck me-blue

smothered in a lynch man`s residue

only coonhounds have a nose to follow…

and I swallows, nothin` hollow

this side of the Mississippi, Misses-hit-me;

I feel tipsy throttle sexy

when he sexts me

down that hangman`s cry me a riv`a

`specially when he trails my trail

legs ta limbs an` breaks my hymns

like cock`s in a bitch-hens den

I can feel them eggs startin` to soil

an` if I can`ts reach my sweet georgia peach

then I`m sure he`ll preach

with his paddles an` swats,

breakin` me in, churnin` me out

with his bibles an` ridin` crops

right `fore he sends me back to daddy

to water his cummunal roses,

I grabs his pew and spew

‘our father’s` hellelujah an` all men ~

but there`s a tyranny

in his biscuits and eyes, and gravy blues

they`s don`t lie but rather try

to smoke pipe the tails

of old tymers and christian folk

just ‘fore they hung that bitch

by her purty throat, her bodily

a squabblin`, lookin’ for hope

towards the heaven`s sky,

an `all she saw, he say,

was the devil dealin` appalachian moonshine,

an` her mama`s bluesy cries,

an` homemade cherry pie coolin`

on a window sill near her black whiskey

in a dixie cup

 

 


~ redemption has no CA value

 

acetones

in every blind melancholy

finds retribution;

but it’s in the rain…

where thirst quenches

those visceral

of pores

aching for salvation;

sadly,

there is no redemption here,

just an ocean

of rain

falling off my tulips;

my pussy needs

an umbrella

& a cigarette…

 

 

I unloved

that we

 

 

fu ~

 

 


Trainwreck

 

Black tie-dye canaries stall the
hands of time cradling infants
still umbilicalled in the
hanging garden’s euphemism
Cataclysms and Catholism
may be the answer to a self-imposed
self-apocalyptic junk-alcoholic veering
down the tracks @ a 125 miles per hour
but I can’t see the moon trying to eclipse
the sky for it is fucked as I am fucked
LA must be a logical place harboring
my body as an epileptic earthquake
the Richter scale reads: 10+10+10, and
I wished my superficial girlfriend would stop
reading me bedtime stories gauged with
animalstic fairy tales of skid row; I feel
barbaric and I want to conquer Germania
just to fuck with the demon dogs in her head
but she constricts and I have flash backs of
birth of contractions of gestation of copulation,
and I can see my mother poetically broken by what took
an eternity to create merely took seconds to destroy-
and the roses smell pretty, still

 

 


blue ball

 

he tee’d-off

inside my 18th hole,

his 9 iron

casting divots

upon my wet hot sands ~

and while he focused

a hole in one on my par 4

419 yards

from downswinging me

a pivotal orgasm,

his backswing dis-aligned

when he felt my tempo

shift inside my tee box;

and there

his little white ball choked,

turning blue,

sinking, slinking

toward the bottom

of a chokeholds pond

never to be played

where it lays

 

 


Why we never make it to Bukowski’s grave

 

Black Lilly’s hang in the garden

of Sir Edgar and Sire Alan and Sir Poe

Longfellow wants me to stroke his fellow

and Emily Dickenson likes to pick the crud off

perverse unpoetic poetries as it offends her, HER,

yeah fucking right, I tell my lover, the kill author who

suggests dinner with Bukowski on his grave, he says we

can hang patio lights and plant plants around his headstone

talk poetry and bullshit and more poetry and less bullshit and

then get down to the real bullshit of why authors had to evolutionize

in less than 50 fucking years, and why typewriters are now for roaches

and paper and pens are for third world countries, third world babies, third

world generation X’s and this is rather depressing conversation as I pour me

another glass of cheap champagne wondering why in the fuck my author lover and

I never make it to Bukowski’s grave much less to the liquor store for some real booze?