Donna Dallas studied Creative Writing and Philosophy at NYU’s Gallatin School and was lucky enough to study under William Packard, founder and editor of the New York Quarterly. Her work has most recently appeared in The Opiate, Anti Heroin Chic, Beatnik Cowboy and Horror Zine among many other publications. She has just published a novel, Death Sisters, with Alien Buddha Press.She currently serves on the editorial team for Red Fez.





Donna Dallas









Girls of Holly Hill





There are four houses

ones’ got a bathtub in front

with couch cushions piled inside

you can sit and sink into

Momma comes out with faded pink rollers

a cigarette dangles

she watches the other three houses

like the Manhattan skyline

a group of kids run

to the house with the pool

above ground

wood planks scaffolding

the sides in place

they step carefully over mounds and mounds

of dog shit

climb up that rickety rusted ladder

to jump into the green algae water

Later those little holly-ettes

head to a gritty couch to dry off

fumble over each other

with chlorine hands

and stubby thumbs

feverishly explore slitted caverns

within each other’s bodies

Jill from the Hill

got the black eye

from last night’s shift

the three legged dog rolls around in the dirt

Sady wears long sleeves every day

even when it’s roasting

to hide her tracks

Bubbles lost her nose from the cocaine

no cartilage left to hold its shape

smashed flat like a cartoon character

every day she walks four miles

to the nursing home to pick up Gramps

wheels him to the casino

leaves Gramps in the corner drooling

while she plays the penny slots

heads back at sunset

hits it up with Sady

Momma’s got the Pap’s Blue and the cigs

Jill dances

along the side of the highway

until dawn









Paco Please





Paco reads the Bible with us

his gaze a ravenous Dr. Oberheuser

will Paco skin me

or molest me?

Perhaps he jacks off to pics

of little girls in ruffled panties

I shower with the lights off

Paco peers into windows

never fixed that torn shade

Paco praises the lord

for these gifts of bounty

Does Paco bury his victims deep within

the dead underbrush of this land

or does Paco secretly love me?

Damn Paco

when my red satin bra and panties

went missing

my heart shaped sunglasses

the sequin and bauble necklace from mother’s cruise to Cozumel

four lipsticks from Wet & Wild

Paco’s smug as a bug nested at the window

with a kimono

and a cigarette

rainbow eyes

lips raging sinister red

under a burgundy embellished outline

I longingly peer

at his smooth

hairless legs

from the side window









While in Ordinary Time





I had to choose from six different types of sugar this morning in the coffee shop while the weird

man who looked like Rambo-Santa was watching me I thought he was a pedo I just realized I’m

in the game duh like when was I not I turned quick and got a crick in my neck and tried looking

for an acupuncturist ones with pink hair know what they are doing this is completely untrue but I

tell myself this because she has pink hair and is working on my neck like a demon while four

ambulances and several fire engines stream by in urgent panic the siren noise grilling and

deepening and the world may be ending of course while I have twelve needles in my neck what

better time for Armageddon what better time to pull up on a street corner and thirty task force

combat police I don’t know what the fuck get out and cover the four corners – I think this is it –

really as Magenta the acupuncturist is now intently needling a map down my upper spine I say

Magenta is it the end? Is this the apocalypse? The world war???!!.....as my stomach drops

because I have $68 left in my wallet Magenta strokes my back inserts another needle and replies

the world ended December 22 nd , 2012 baby none of this is real……









Better Days





I creep at dawn onto the train lowly

and slowly ride through those

tunnels of doom I follow a woman too close

on purpose I study

her hair

her damaged

split ends slightly brassy

home colored I compare

to my own mess of a head I wonder why I

care about her hair less anything to salvage

the disarray that has

come full circle

to complete my very visible

dark roots









Acts of self-realization





The thing about regret the thing about this

veil

these invisible walls -- climb over

the first one and there it is again back at ya

the thing is

it never ends -- this thing / these walls this terrible myth

hangs on every

edge of your

every thought every glance you see her -- of course it’s a ‘she’

regret comes in soft

flowers blooming with lilac and rose scents the petals drift

into your palm

pierce as the thorn would -- she is no thorn back

at ya the thing about her -- about regret

about it all

fuck it that’s what

they say but the fog of her keeps you at bay keeps you right at the

foot of something so great so eager

you hang on a hair

over a chasm

over a thought a life -- an unfortunate event

back at ya she comes full force

she / her / us / we go nowhere together









Casino diaries





#1

Joey C. self-made tree cutter

wanna win baby win

Just cut a tree down today

Huge oak fell

across the road

made 4 grand

(Nice!)

momma gonna make me a star today

Joey C. just dropped it all in this here black jack machine

What about your wife and kids Joey?

What about the money you need to take care of them?

Fuck it

I go home and tell my wife I had no business today

I’ll cut another tree tomorrow

#2

Where my bitches at

Says the pimp at the bar

They all on call says the bartender

Makin dat money

Dats what I thought





#3

The dishwasher-drug-dealer-room-renter

Rents an apartment

Then rents out rooms within his apartment

To the new jacks

Who come in

Off the books

To clean the bathrooms

The dishwasher-drug-dealer-room-renter sells some marijuana and crack

You want coke

He can get it

On his break

Right after his shift he walks the floor

There’s always a last minute fiend open and waiting

To buy more

Of whatever the dishwasher-drug-dealer-room-renter has

Could be shit

Doesn’t matter if he got pills that were stuffed up someone’s ass

#4

Druggies shoot the needle

Gamblers shoot the dice









Editors note: So, it's been almost a year since I posted anything new at Zombie Logic Review. It has been a trying and arduous year for me due to health concerns. I feel much better now and am ready to do what I love best: publish the best poetry I can find from the bravest, most audacious and talented poets, wherever I find them, and regardless of what school they belong to, or don't belong to. Please spread the word. Zombie Logic is back and looking to shake it up again. I'll be posting these poems also at