Cassandra Dallett

by Horror Sleaze Trash on July 13, 2013


Cassandra Dallett occupies Oakland, CA. Cassandra writes of a counter culture childhood in Vermont and her ongoing adolescence in the San Francisco Bay Area. She has published in Slip Stream, Sparkle and Blink, Hip Mama, Bleed Me A River, Criminal Class Review, Enizagam among many others. Look for links and chapbooks on




All night I think I’m super fly

I’m off a pill, heels sky high like my head

imagine my waist small enough to be circled by his big brown mitts

I’m just too cute to be 43

hair waved just right short bangs  hand cut in the bathroom

bleach job brings back youth

I feel so fucking beautiful in the car singing old school jams

seat tilted back freeway’s concrete walls wizz by

the driver is as high as I

the romance of San Francisco’s city lights give way

to ghetto

then mall land

ratcheting by freeway construction faded white lines

and he’s too close to the wall

but I can’t die now and If I do at least I’ll be feeling this good.


At Motel 6

me and him, we’ve been here before

Samoans are fighting in the parking lot

and I clack on by in my ridiculous stilettos

hooker boots I bought off

they had to come out of the closet sometime

in the Motel mirror

my red eyes stare back

hair gone to frizz

cellulite and veins released from too tight pants

skin breaking out red and glaring in the harsh light

my meat released from a girdle looks like a scene from the butchers

no video vixen no slim seductress

Oh Motel 6 get some softer lights some bigger towels

my fat feet and the ecstasy are wearing down

but sleep don’t come we’ve soaked the bed in baby oil and Hennessy

the smoke detector lays disconnected by the bed

weed smoke thick and sweet

and I have to work in the morning

will tip toe wide eyed

past your door.



His dick is church.


I didn’t grow up with religion

have only been to church

for work and funerals

Having never been much,

it’s awkward, I stand not knowing the hymns

stare at the glowing cross

ponder the millions I move through

who adorn themselves with this simple symbol

back lit and menacing it gives us something to hang on

Just for a minute, I understand the warmth of the thing

something opens up in me, the need;

for ritual, and belief, for community.

and the pastor makes us laugh, like we belong

Still, I think his love is conditional

we must love Jesus and put some money on the plate

Hey I got nothing against Jesus, I mean isn’t he a hippie kid like me?

But I keep my money in my pocket

and stick to my more practical claim of spiritual not religious.

I have to tell you though,

there is a time when Jesus won’t stay out of my mouth

I’ve never read the bible and the only testifying

I’ve done is when this man is inside me

suddenly God and Jesus pour out of me

oh God, Oh Jesus, Oh Please, Oh God  It’s Good!

With him I feel faith on my knees

that beatific thing in my mouth

I am fervent-fervid, a zealous believer

Porn playing on the screen, round ass’s bounce sacrosanct

Bodies in a cathedral, his skin coco-colored, smooth to taste

He touches me places and I am born again.

I am devotional, his hands on my throat.

He holds himself against my cervix

he’s found a space in me no one ever has

hallowed be my adoration.

I will return here on my off days,

when his girlfriend and my man are working

prostrate myself for it,

speak in tongues,

catch the spirit,

turn myself over to the flesh

in all it’s ravenous hunger.

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