even the trees look tired
the sad brown grass about to combust
the Low Rider Oldies are singing smoothly for the cool of dusk
It’s tempting to start the drink now
but with the sun this high
I’d be laid out with the dogs
panting
a gin and tonic sweating a glass with lime
reminds me of last night
how the boy was lapping me
how he grinds into me
my hips a bowl of oatmeal
butter melting the middle
how he always finds a deeper spot
then my phone rings
and I need to go home
make up stories
explain the stoned look
in my eye.
#
Cassandra Dallett occupies Oakland, CA. Cassandra writes of a counter culture childhood in Vermont and her ongoing adolescence in San Francisco Bay Area. She has published in Slip Stream, Sparkle and Blink, Out Of Our, Up The River, Hip Mama, and The Criminal Class Review, among many others. A full-length book of poetry Wet Reckless will be released from Manic D Press in the spring of 2014.
Showing posts with label cassandra dallett. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cassandra dallett. Show all posts
24 March 2014
18 February 2014
GUNS ARE EVEN BETTER THAN BIG HARD DICKS by Cassandra Dallett
ask Zimmerman
ask George you can kill your neighbors,
threaten your wife, punch your father in-law in the face
step closer step closer
got my hand on the trigger don’t come too close
you can kill children if you say they scare you
with their brown skin, their covered head
the hoodie defense
kinda like a twinkie
for the soft lie inside
they let you go George
and you
are going to make them look so bad
so much more blood to come
and you sleep in a bed of it
it's drowning you, you are drunk on it
wilding out in gun factories
speeding down highways
a cowboy dead or alive
not white but whiter
always reminding us
of your vigilante heroism
It was self defense George right?
at least it was
the first time…
right…
ask George you can kill your neighbors,
threaten your wife, punch your father in-law in the face
step closer step closer
got my hand on the trigger don’t come too close
you can kill children if you say they scare you
with their brown skin, their covered head
the hoodie defense
kinda like a twinkie
for the soft lie inside
they let you go George
and you
are going to make them look so bad
so much more blood to come
and you sleep in a bed of it
it's drowning you, you are drunk on it
wilding out in gun factories
speeding down highways
a cowboy dead or alive
not white but whiter
always reminding us
of your vigilante heroism
It was self defense George right?
at least it was
the first time…
right…
#
Cassandra Dallett occupies Oakland, CA. Cassandra writes of a counter culture childhood in Vermont and her ongoing adolescence in San Francisco Bay Area. She has published in Slip Stream, Sparkle and Blink, Out Of Our, Up The River, Hip Mama, and The Criminal Class Review, among many others. A full-length book of poetry Wet Reckless will be released from Manic D Press in the spring of 2014.
Cassandra Dallett occupies Oakland, CA. Cassandra writes of a counter culture childhood in Vermont and her ongoing adolescence in San Francisco Bay Area. She has published in Slip Stream, Sparkle and Blink, Out Of Our, Up The River, Hip Mama, and The Criminal Class Review, among many others. A full-length book of poetry Wet Reckless will be released from Manic D Press in the spring of 2014.
22 January 2014
DO NOT APOLOGIZE FOR YOUR POEM by Cassandra Dallett
Or your love of porn
We need both
words and pussy on demand
neither is always tight or pink
still they’re yours
your Picasso, your money shot
oh straight ass you need some pussy too, loosen up
No really, the point I’m getting at is this
do not preface a poem with a disclaimer
Its like this guy, telling me he didn’t want to fuck
he was afraid I’d be disappointed
I still wanted to fuck him
would even have listened to bad poetry
to get in his pants
Just to see,
to say that it wasn’t sooooo bad!
or to feel superior when I give him the ride of his life
dropping words on him like clit orgasms and deep throat
Don’t get me wrong
he needs to be fed Viagra/Ecstasy cocktails
like most guys our age
it’s over too quick
but he wasn’t entirely bad
and nobody wants to be told
how to feel.
We need both
words and pussy on demand
neither is always tight or pink
still they’re yours
your Picasso, your money shot
oh straight ass you need some pussy too, loosen up
No really, the point I’m getting at is this
do not preface a poem with a disclaimer
Its like this guy, telling me he didn’t want to fuck
he was afraid I’d be disappointed
I still wanted to fuck him
would even have listened to bad poetry
to get in his pants
Just to see,
to say that it wasn’t sooooo bad!
or to feel superior when I give him the ride of his life
dropping words on him like clit orgasms and deep throat
Don’t get me wrong
he needs to be fed Viagra/Ecstasy cocktails
like most guys our age
it’s over too quick
but he wasn’t entirely bad
and nobody wants to be told
how to feel.
#
Cassandra Dallett occupies Oakland, CA. Cassandra writes of a counter culture childhood in Vermont and her ongoing adolescence in San Francisco Bay Area. She has published in Slip Stream, Sparkle and Blink, Out Of Our, Up The River, Hip Mama, and The Criminal Class Review, among many others. A full-length book of poetry Wet Reckless will be released from Manic D Press in the spring of 2014.
21 January 2014
DOG SHIT AND POTHOLES IN MY LAWN by Cassandra Dallett
I’m puzzled by funerals
and malls
a writer with no ink pen
a cracked computer screen
the internet is down
and cable won't fix it
the paycheck went through the dryer
got thrown out with the lint
they’re not giving out diplomas
or raises here
out of bed at 6 a.m.
the hurt of it
is hurled around the house
on unsuspecting kids
threats of ass kicking
end in the tears of a loony mother
regret leaves a bad taste in my mouth
and coffee is a hell of a high
when I wind down the house is clean
and the anger is small again
but the crying never stops
I am soft
as the rotten pears on the table
a finger tip
will peel my skin away.
and malls
a writer with no ink pen
a cracked computer screen
the internet is down
and cable won't fix it
the paycheck went through the dryer
got thrown out with the lint
they’re not giving out diplomas
or raises here
out of bed at 6 a.m.
the hurt of it
is hurled around the house
on unsuspecting kids
threats of ass kicking
end in the tears of a loony mother
regret leaves a bad taste in my mouth
and coffee is a hell of a high
when I wind down the house is clean
and the anger is small again
but the crying never stops
I am soft
as the rotten pears on the table
a finger tip
will peel my skin away.
#
Cassandra Dallett occupies Oakland, CA. Cassandra writes of a counter culture childhood in Vermont and her ongoing adolescence in San Francisco Bay Area. She has published in Slip Stream, Sparkle and Blink, Out Of Our, Up The River, Hip Mama, and The Criminal Class Review, among many others. A full-length book of poetry Wet Reckless will be released from Manic D Press in the spring of 2014.
12 December 2013
SCARS ARE SEXY, ASK ANYBODY by Cassandra Dallett
I always liked guys with bullets under their skin and shot off legs
guys like Mac 10 and Marcus Law
these guys had war stories
and knew how to look a girl in the eye
like they would leave you with some
of your own.
Here is a partial list of my scars
the ones you can see
the ones you can’t are far more incapacitating,
believe me.
When I was one,
a Newfoundland named Oaf almost killed me
I pulled her ear while she was eating
my face disappeared between her jaws
my mother’s scream her beautiful baby deformed
but somehow I was left with only a hair-thin-line across my nose
and the dog remained my friend like her super cool hippie chick owner
who wore cut off jeans so short you could see her pubic hair
and always took time to play with us kids.
I pedaled my first bike, a blue and white Pony down hill fast as I could
hit a rut full of gravel and went down
grating my knee like hamburger with sharp stones
limped home to show mom a gaping hole in my jeans
and the ugly brown stain I still carry.
Got my first stitches cleaning a kerosene lamp chimney
spinning in soapy water the glass bit into the meat of my hand.
We lived like that, only flame to light our way.
On my forearm a small oval
from a German Shepard’s tooth
a guard dog at the carnival brought me to my knees
left me with a lifetime fear.
At fifteen I drank enough to leave my large body
woke up in dried blood
piecing together my face-walking way home
the night before.
At twenty five I left a boyfriend for his friend
he threw my cordless phone
split my forehead with a neat pop
blood hot down my chest left a trail in the snow
in his other hand he’d held a buck knife
And how could we know
two years later another boyfriend,
on another coast
would re-open my head with the same phone
to free himself
from my jealous teeth.
#
Cassandra Dallett occupies Oakland, CA. Cassandra writes of a counter culture childhood in Vermont and her ongoing adolescence in San Francisco Bay Area. She has published in Slip Stream, Sparkle and Blink, Out Of Our, Up The River, Hip Mama, and The Criminal Class Review, among many others. A full-length book of poetry Wet Reckless will be released from Manic D Press in the spring of 2014.
guys like Mac 10 and Marcus Law
these guys had war stories
and knew how to look a girl in the eye
like they would leave you with some
of your own.
Here is a partial list of my scars
the ones you can see
the ones you can’t are far more incapacitating,
believe me.
When I was one,
a Newfoundland named Oaf almost killed me
I pulled her ear while she was eating
my face disappeared between her jaws
my mother’s scream her beautiful baby deformed
but somehow I was left with only a hair-thin-line across my nose
and the dog remained my friend like her super cool hippie chick owner
who wore cut off jeans so short you could see her pubic hair
and always took time to play with us kids.
I pedaled my first bike, a blue and white Pony down hill fast as I could
hit a rut full of gravel and went down
grating my knee like hamburger with sharp stones
limped home to show mom a gaping hole in my jeans
and the ugly brown stain I still carry.
Got my first stitches cleaning a kerosene lamp chimney
spinning in soapy water the glass bit into the meat of my hand.
We lived like that, only flame to light our way.
On my forearm a small oval
from a German Shepard’s tooth
a guard dog at the carnival brought me to my knees
left me with a lifetime fear.
At fifteen I drank enough to leave my large body
woke up in dried blood
piecing together my face-walking way home
the night before.
At twenty five I left a boyfriend for his friend
he threw my cordless phone
split my forehead with a neat pop
blood hot down my chest left a trail in the snow
in his other hand he’d held a buck knife
And how could we know
two years later another boyfriend,
on another coast
would re-open my head with the same phone
to free himself
from my jealous teeth.
#
Cassandra Dallett occupies Oakland, CA. Cassandra writes of a counter culture childhood in Vermont and her ongoing adolescence in San Francisco Bay Area. She has published in Slip Stream, Sparkle and Blink, Out Of Our, Up The River, Hip Mama, and The Criminal Class Review, among many others. A full-length book of poetry Wet Reckless will be released from Manic D Press in the spring of 2014.
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