New content every morning!

I Write So Much

Yesterday
the neighbor
with her sagging tits
how she stood gaping
near my gate

The black sedan
parked at the edge of the cul-de-sac
with a couple sitting in the dark
talking
from 10pm to midnight
I write this as I peer out
into something other than what I am in

Outside my picture window
a snowy owl swoops in for its prey
spreads its massive white wingspan
I desire to feel its velvety softness
or be surprised at the stiff coarseness
I have no idea – yet I long for this

I lay in the dark
listen to the heat hiss through the pipes
wring some more words from my tethered soul
some chicken scratch
about the horizon
which closes in on itself
over the bay at dusk
and a melon colored moon creeps in
blinds me with its beauty

No one’s really interested in this kind of stuff any more
the stuff a heart is cut from

Porto Dreams

I just want to go under
and stay dark for a few centuries

I get overwhelmed with these car rides
over mountains
through ancient towns
endless trees
to find a hidden gem
in some factory
or through someone that knows someone
so I can haul it back to the mother ship
the product that everyone will want to buy
that will put us back on the map

Instead of this dying star
of consumer boredom
overstock
ridiculous inflation
which perplexes me always
how does anyone
buy anything
anymore

Here I am
a desperate sorcerer
looking for the ‘it’ thing
again
and again
miles and miles of vendors
products I carry back like a beaten mule
seen every town
no one is beautiful anymore
their faces all one and the same

There’s a dog by the side of the road
exhausted and aged
I feel it’s symbolic soul
I feel every turn and stop
because it’s moving me closer
to my very own apocalypse
that will shatter me into pieces
and scatter along this lonely road of martyrdom

Is This How It Goes

Fat buddha belly squeezed into your convertible
fit into it like a narrow bathtub

you chug Macallan supposed to sip it
savor it don’t slug it back

like you’re in a desert
and it’s your mirage

I’m your oasis soft skin ivory and supple
long legs still muscle

still running
like the fire still chases

I’ll be damned if the sun comes up
yet again another scorcher

the mosquitoes suck away
at whatever they can latch to

sit here listening to every sound
layer itself into the morning

that creaks up then blasts through
like you

with your 1970 Daytona-yellow Corvette
new toy

I mockingly ask what’s she like?
knowing full well

she ain’t your car

Abundance

Tell me again
why are there mountains of discarded clothing
in Chile?
polyester seeps into the ground
and some things cannot be destroyed
disintegrated
or even burned

Tell me why
I have three closets
overflowing with garments
some pieces still with the tags
covered in plastic
cedar wood hangs to keep everything safe
from moths

Tell me where
all this came from
the waste of a want
it becomes obsession
and careless malaise

I sit in my dressing room
a confused look – abundance
but the pressing of ruin
sits with me
looms above the satin hangers
the venetian blinds
perfection of pretty
while the slum of waste looms
just a continent away

ABOUT THE ARTIST

Donna Dallas has appeared in a plethora of journals, most recently Beatnik Cowboy, Quail Bell Magazine, Blood Moon Rising and Fevers of the Mind. She is the author of Death Sisters, her legacy novel, published by Alien Buddha Press. Her first chapbook, Smoke and Mirrors, launched in 2022 with New York Quarterly. Her second chapbook, Megalodon, launched in 2023 with The Opiate. Donna has served on the editorial team of Red Fez and NYQ.

donnaanndallas@gmail.com
@DonnaDallas15