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Sad Nymph
Withered sponge
dried up
no fire left in those once gibbous thighs
there’s a cackle
almost maniacal
at the thought of a lover
engaging in your flesh
droopy skin hangs loosely under straps
chin sags from years of tobacco
and yes, smoking does ruin your skin
see the yellow plaque grit
under that glittery bar smile
there’s a want so intense
from years of sad bones
pray
you can lure a victim
to share in the lonely communion
of your room
at the Tide Motor Inn
where you can walk down
to the Mexican restaurant
laugh with Jose the bartender
search the room for someone
just as lonely
just as decrepit
to fill your vacuum
roll in gritty sheets
even for a short time
while the ocean roars
and you remember what it was like
when you rode a wave so powerful
it sucked the water from every living thing
including you
Every Creeping Thing
Because I crept out / I oozed / I dripped
I came (from nothing) out of a pin hole—it opened
I pushed
slithered down the sides
I felt around in the dark with nubs
I tried to find a hinge or a doorway (a floor perhaps)
nothing
centuries almost to a crawl as my underbelly grew sores
and festered blisters from the long
long trip
what bled eventually grew into hands/talons
I could attach myself to things—grip on for dear life because that’s
what I was a
dear life—I pushed forward into
nothingness to make it something
crawled and crept like a cave rat
I felt for an opening/a path
some way to release the thing that was me
ashamed of my form/shape
but not sure what I looked like
just aware of me/this creepy existence
I’ve crept through Eden/through Damascus/Jericho
alongside Socrates near the Hill of Muses
through the plague over corpses (I thought I was one)
into the pyramids I yearned
for something outside of the thing that was me
I heard I was a human/a person
by then I made sounds out of a mouth (that had formed)
my eyes opened
I flexed my toes/stood (slightly hunched)/then desired
I surrender always to
the leech/the creepy thing born from that well
(of souls) I squeezed myself
out
from
On Man and Divinity
I’ve reworked this several times
retracted
replaced
my confession
in order to give you
the spotlight
the mic
while they laughed
swooned
I sat
patient as a plant
I clapped with them you know
I truly did
I wanted your stardom
wanted your endless man
that’s a powerful need
the ask was too much
I hoped they would let me tag along
to pass the time
endless time
I lit the lantern that paved your way
stumbled ahead of you
so you could walk the road unscathed
kerosene splashed
scorched my skin
charred the path
see what happens
when we play with fire
we burn the world to ash
Miss Melinda
You turn red like apple when your lover walk into room
Tutu whispers into my ear as she rubs my shoulders/my neck…I lay glistening
she places the hot towel onto my forehead
you know what that mean right? Red like apple?
I smile, mind glazed over thinking of that very moment
balanced on a beam straight through my center
stuck deep into my body like a rod of
lightning between my legs
where I want to be touched
by a lover/who’s lover/this lover
this red apple I want
to bite into it
juices flowing
I want it all
they give you massagy next door you can pay 28 renminbi for pretty young girl and 18 renminbi for older more—experienced lady…
Whichyouwant?
Waxing and Waning
you thought it was the moon
but it wasn’t you thought it was a dream
but it wasn’t
they think it’s always me—my fault
like I invited the wasp to sting me
I asked the rapist—to rape me
put out my hand to be stung opened my legs…
venomous minds think alike
we are all poison—sting in order to be stung
I wanted the moon also…
but it was just a light looming over the tallest building
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.