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Gods of a Bonehead 4
I was born
into fire
rub my ashes on your forehead
in repentance
I feel I’ve lived so many times
it’s a crude joke—my soul
laugh about it and say remember when she was this ugly girl
or remember when she was that sad boy
and the dog years
she spent pining over her past deaths
longing for the middle ground of ‘lovers lane’ where suicides
entered the park at dusk
no sign of an evangelist to take down
the bodies hanging stiff and greyed on tree branches
faces black
and bloated by dawn
help me
help me not to think of the last one…..
I keep redoing the same redo
bored of statistics
and one in a millions
like that dumb ass who threw
himself over the Golden Gate
and survived
when asked while on the way down
did he feel regret……?
gunslingers and ropes didn’t kill me
pull out what lurks within me
that is already dead
let it ferment
to a fuzzy grey mass of afterbirth
I’ll deliver
myself
from evil you fools
Gods of a Bonehead 7
Let us start with my adversaries
from when I was five—you know who you are
when I became a third class citizen,
I stalled to make eye contact
even then feeling only half human
more doglike……the word slovenly pops in to mind
wrap around my finger like an invisible string
dead days
housed in my head
hooked into an absent life
buried under the code name of
Sad Joke
your end is in my laugh
keeper of atrocious nothings
I’m so close
to my own end
I feel my breath bounce off it
-A pit stop-
I see it
yet move silently around it
not ready
somewhere
there’s a serpent hissing
at my every move
Slow Bleed
When I saw the death I would float into
I realized it suited me
the bullet just a graze for this slow bleed
Said I do
said I’m dead
to you
I was
on the inside
fully petrified
rib and heart
pried myself open
to water the hole
give birth
to us
again
Now wondrous death has come
bleeds me like a sieve
heavy enough for skin and soul to part ways
softens the rot
so I can ooze myself
into this dead thing
Boo, Said Girl to Wolf
Save me, I’ve been a whoring
sway me with your thick pelt
spring me out of this shithole
any forest will do
just as any tree serves in a storm
I could fend for myself……but ahhh you, wolfie
no other contender as plush
your green orbs undress me
there’s a dark paradise within me love, come hither
Sharp fangs puncture me
I drip blood to feed you—it’s a two-way street my lover
forgive me for telling all, I’ve no secrets
I’ve this fur ball
a dirty gray scoundrel I feed for pleasure
I pleasure to feed
There’s a wanton in me
for that heavy hide
it’s the gray
the gloom
those eyes
when I become the moon and you poke holes into me
steal a pig to feed your hunger
I’ve been to the woods and back—I’ve been to hell and back
play your she-wolf
our grey pups yelp from my basket
I’ve got my wolfie
two holes in my neck
a full moon over our Dis
I’m ready to go a whoring again
since we’ve foraged all
defiled, fear you will eat me
I, the meat defrosted
your riding hood
ride us to our death
If There is Nothing Left to Beg For…
The lover in my head knocks twice to enter / three times
to exit shades my eyes while I sleep / whispers deadness
I feel connected / through a vein
yet I want him out
he’s so rooted I cannot detach get the scissors / get the knife
surgery can be ecstasy………………………if cutting when aroused
I’m so blinded by thumbs and so heavy from this body
ectoplasm oozes into me / somehow it’s erotic but my
lover is stagnant
it gets played—having him in my head
internally / externally
centuries born
into me he’s got the foothold that Achilles
needed to win
I walk around / ask over and over to my
lover what do I say to this person / how do I
respond to that how am I fairing
am I keeping up / am I smart enough???? can I have another please….
Donna Dallas studied creative writing and philosophy at NYU’s Gallatin School under William Packard, founder of the New York Quarterly. She resides on the North Shore of Long Island with her two husbands, seven children, and two dogs. She wanders the beaches endlessly searching for lost words. She has appeared in a plethora of journals, most recently Horror Sleaze Trash, Anti-Heroin Chic, The Opiate, Beatnik Cowboy, and Burning House Press. She is the author of Death Sisters, her first novel published by Alien Buddha Press. Donna serves on the editorial team of Red Fez and New York Quarterly.