Donna Dallas
Ride Sally Ride
Phase 1: The Babe
Pink sequin halter
tits bulging out the sides
like huge watermelons
she wants a man
her pudgy thighs
squish to the jukebox
she’s got that Budweiser
bottle
deep throats a sip
picks a few songs
smacks her fist against the box
yells play me some music
that I can dance to!!
Phase 2: The Bliss
Ahhh what a barbeque
what a scorcher
she had her red, white and blue
bikini with the stars across her little patch
and stripes riding her boobs
she mooned the group
Stevie laughed
lit up
blew it in her face
they fucked on his flatbed
it was everything
she ever wanted
for herself
six months later
he’s using the needle
Phase 3: Ferocious Grind
Back at it
back to music
blowing the bottle
lifts her skirt
boys whistle
holler
she rides the crowd
hopes there’s another one for her
she dances like a bucking horse
music loud and she claps
Ride Sally Ride!
she’s open
the breasts
the box
it’s there for the taker
she goes home
with her spirit flat in the glass
sleeps in her bed
wet and wanting
Phase 4: Empty
Whips the dance floor
in search of a soul
one who doesn’t shoot
one who has any sorry ass job
at least money flows
one who wants to buy her
a drink
and suck away
at her tears
Found You at the Bar Most Nights
Foolishly tried to bitch boss you
into a role model
there’s no friending a wasps nest
stinger words
led to the many needle holes
along my pockmarked skin
You once said morning is the monster
that pushes us into silence
and that silence grew into a swarm
while time became our empty house
marbles rolled
along
the column of my spine
twenty-six vertebrae
a chain link that bobs
up and down
over cord and neurons
you’ve never touched……
I
dry and vacant
still
would sponge any
residue you leak
fully aware
that I swallow poison
I tell you anything – anything
from you
to fill my empty bucket – is so much more
than the latter
Bent spine
hunched over
to hear you whisper a word
or two
I barely make out your voice
over the stream of bar chatter
smell Johnny Walker
know all too well this queen wasp
will be taken over by your swarm
what to do
when it’s an end in itself
what to do when
there is nothing to do
but be stung
by your own
Donna Dallas studied creative writing and philosophy at NYU’s Gallatin School and was lucky enough to write under William Packard, founder of the New York Quarterly. She has appeared in a plethora of journals, most recently The Opiate, Beatnik Cowboy, Pink Plastic House, Black Petals, Red Fez, Bindweed Magazine and Fevers of the Mind. She is the author of Death Sisters, her first novel published by Alien Buddha Press. Donna serves on the editorial team of New York Quarterly.
@DonnaDallas15