Category: Fiction

Politics and Prostitution…rant & poem

On By Devlin De La ChapaIn Fiction, Musing, Poetry, Rant, UncategorizedLeave a comment

Well another day, and nothing really to say or add except for America is going to hell in a handbag!  The fiscal cliff keeps cliffing.  Political differences and issues are now threatning the FDA to go on furlough so the cost of meat, poultry, vegetables, eggs, milk, etc. etc. are all going to sky rocket in prices if nothing is resolved by March 1st, so stock up.  Government employees are facing potential pink slips.  Just the other day I saw a sign screaming “Depression Rates”.  And one of my kuzis (I think that’s the way you spell ‘Kuzi’?) once read:  “It’s a Recession when the other guy loses his job.  It’s a Depression when you lose yours.” 

You know the Mayans never predicted that the world was ever going to end (thank Hollywood for that) but merely predicted big changes were to come.  So are they here now?  Where is Nostradamus by the way, or Superman for that matter? 

Need to go back and see Phil Collins/Genesis videos.

In the meantime here’s another poem. . .this one dedicated to the Sexual Politics of America!  Enjoy!

 

**********

 

The Prostitute

 

Across the conferences she lays to bade foreign

nations wielding pens mightier than swords

bleed the predatorial beast beneath red-top masses;

 

the sovereign of exchanged currencies

exorcising their gluttonies within her are but

a mere promised farce, an anti-cleansing of impure hands-

 

she is the shameless populace of God’s right hand,

the echo of a prostituted nation

for at his feet, she weeps

“48 reasons NOT to work at a Home Depot” – flash fiction

On By Devlin De La ChapaIn Fiction, Flash, Musing3 Comments

 

 

He was a self-proclaimed (1)Do-It-Yourself killer.  He killed the mother.  Chopped up the father.  Hung the son.  Pissed on the dog.  Stepped on the cat.  Cut fresh (2)flowers from the (3)garden and arranged them in a vase in the living daughter’s (4)kitchen on top of the (5)island butcher’s block next to the brain mattered (6)stained machete.  The daughter squirmed beneath his firm grasp on her throat and pelvis.  She was the reason why he was there in this (7)dreadful place of (8)Home Depot memorabilia from previous Do-It-Yourself (9)Workshops.  He swore he saw (10)Homer running behind the (11)fridge after Barbie and Ken with (12)paint brushes and (13)utility knives because Homer caught them fornicating in his (14)orange apron pockets and beneath his (15)orange painters hat.  He could smell Ken’s (16)plastic melted cum sticking to his bald head as Barbie begged from somewhere within the (17)nuts and (18)bolts department to have her hard plastic breasts (19)buffed and (20)sanded and (21)sprayed by instant gold tanning (22)products real women would kill for in a Walgreens drug store if it promised a date with look-alike-Kens.  Barbie was lucky.  “Ken is a fag!” the killer once told his sister when he was a little boy dressed like GI Joe chasing little girls in pink (23)floral dresses chopping off pigtails while droplets of blood wept on those pretty blossoming flowers then shooting at boys who dared to steal his glory as the globe-trotting-pigtail-chopping-military-man.  The daughter squirmed a second time.  She had gold hair.  A ponytail instead of pigtails.  As he originally thought she had in the (24)makeshift park on the jungle Jim on the swings on the Rocket that went sky high from a kid’s eye.  “A kid’s eye” the killer thought slipping his (25)calloused hands over the daughter’s face.  (26)Mashing her skull he then thought of mashed potatoes at the Golden Corral on 75th Avenue where the majority of diners were illegals, aliens disguised as Americans sloughing over the endless buffet because they had green cards that permitted them to.  The killer thought “Since when did America succumb to these atrocities particularly (27)signs translated from English to Spanish?”  And he went on to ponder on why there wasn’t any signs translating on how to get back to the alien river mother-fucking-ships yet there were signs on how to eat at a buffet:  Please use a (28)clean plate when visiting the buffet.  Por favor a usar un limpio plato cuando visitando el bufete cada vez.  Mashed potatoes?  The killer’s stomach growled picking up the machete finishing off the daughter on the kitchen’s butcher block obviously (29)made by the (30)Homersapians of (31)Home Depot.  The head rolled and landed in the stepped on cat’s (32)litter box.  The dog whimpered.  One of the (33)roses wilted in the waterless vase.  Homer chased after Ken who chased after Barbie.  The killer was going insane with maddening hunger.  “This was supposed to be an easy fucking (34) job!”  The killer bitched.  He then spat on Homer as he rushed passed him.  “What?”  Homer sounded (35)orangey offended rubbing the slime smell of ingested (36)lead and tobacco (37)wood from his bald head  “This is your fucking fault!”  The killer rampaged. “Turning me into a fucking (38)carpenter.  A (39)gardener.  A baby-sitter!”  The killer scooped up Homer and Ken and Barbie and shoved them into his (40)tool bag and zipped the zipper shut.  There was muffling.  Barbie squealing.  Homer (41)screwing Ken in his ass as usual.  The killer grunted.  He detested killing on an empty stomach.  It fucked with his (42)lunch hour.  “So how’d it go. . .at the Johnson (43)residence with their newly (44)installed butcher’s block?” a freckled face albino toon in his late teens with gold bling on one front tooth probed.  The killer snuck-a-peek at manchild’s hands only to find they were grotesquely big and hairy (45)green, the obvious signs of good times raped and wasted on palm (46)Rosie and her five little (47)friends.  He made a mental note to take manchild up on his previous offer of (48)retiling his bedroom.  “Well, they were so ecstatic the woman just about had herself a heart attack.  The man just about fell to pieces.  Their son almost tripped over his shoelaces and just about hung himself.  And the daughter. . .well, she just about lost her head!  Those Do-It-Yourself projects can be a real killer, know what I mean?”

 

(pub2012 in MF)

Musings of a Writer, Blocked

On By Devlin De La ChapaIn Fiction, PoetryLeave a comment

 

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

When was the last time we kissed on the corner of a street?

On By Devlin De La ChapaIn Fiction, Poetry2 Comments

 

When was the last time we kissed on the corner of a street

when it mattered the most? You say

why is it that when we age

that drift of sensual exhibition seems to drift from us,

an exhibition that knows no boundaries except

to exploit what we once innocently felt,

like an impulse waiting to explode,

then implodes from the inside out.

that used to be us. . .young, wicked, dangerous, un-wise,

un-visceral, un-universal, genuine angst at its unpolluted

but somehow we have become polluted with the

do’s and don’ts, the acceptable and unacceptable,

the conventional and unconventional of age

so why should we live by those fucking rules?  You grab

my hand and pull me close to you, and far from them,

in my mind you are still sixteen, and your kiss still tastes

of Marlboro mint faintly washed by a bottle of domestic beer

just like the night I snuck out of my parents’ house

to make-out with you beneath a lighted pole on the corner of a street.