egg:
small and clot-like tiny creatures
accusing. slowly white limbs burning.
slow times we can't see.
we're born in water drowning,
always slicing majestic figures in
the beach's blank sunlight.
time on a subway slams into the wall.
the rails—a cry then a laugh with tears.
a refusal? i don't know of any.
negative sounds: remnants of an oral symphony.
a luscious ass perched upon
long legs and iron pain heels.
not tasteful but it was murder inc.
striding into view.
a black trench coated voyeur let the shadows
devour his presence and the gat exploded.
wall. diodes inside.
Leaden romance letters
she gazed into nothing.
looking at nothing. just a void.
replacing her faces with a janus on fire,
a vaginal face that she uses when necessary.
she needs to see and she wants to
smile a twisted smile.
she wants a smile designed with
factory chemicals:
a twist. a twist.
a twist like the one on her lips.
egg:
she's iced on the slab
a case of nonspecific symptoms
look behind it:
what's there?
some glass, night, and wood—
a shadow box.
a craving for the seven devils lost.
(while lying on the floor, i hear it:
the radio station is signing off to static
the tv screen displays praying hands
then the fbi's most wanted photo
the linoleum is pale cold
and my eyes are wet)
a flesh revenge. A dangerous swan for a cat o' nine tails.
They Can Be Distinguished:
"stop! they're
in the trap."
Accepts Adoption:
some flowers produced
glass images
as they
sat still with
hands in ecstasy.
green eyes.
feet approaching. she was embarrassed,
pushed the head in. was enough.
watched closely from behind as
long stamens and pistils
collaborated on conspiracies.
A Sole Survivor:
as this was happening
in the glass box,
newspapers were purchased,
read quickly, and then burnt
so the spies would be kept ignorant.
Skinning Animals:
voyeurs' silence marks the shaky
hands smoking stale cigarettes
at the corner diner,
shooting at the jukebox,
while the organ goes into a long
wail diatribe spit against
the patrons
and the streetwalkers that
have bad dreams.
The Bedroom Door:
circular discussions and
puke on the floor with
a long slow slide
emphasize the passing lust
cured by a gasoline bomb
thrown at the white line.
Tension Situation:
suck asphalt slow
let's break our teeth with the
charming chuckling loup garou
while damsels in distress
wash the dishes before dashing
them to the pavement
crockery in precision destroyed
while tasting the odors
of the beast in the back
of their throats
skip to the next song
music to scramble
brains by
what was previously a jukebox
killed by meiosis
(tell tales so beguiling)
a host and its parasites
change in harmony
Accidental Catches:
"that's the survivor, make
sure they know about it. tongues
rising. go back upstairs."
experience heaven.
we lay down as the color began to shoot
while hands were placed on her stockings
and the anatomy schools were set ablaze.
inside her palms turned sideways beckoning
for what we couldn't remember.
a blunt question isn't it
(made her blush).
stories rolled like plate glass pieces.
we go into theatres anytime we choose
in search of specialist chemicals.
ideas have a genesis at the corners of her mouth,
we're disposing of the dissected now.
(she got into the position)
"does it excite you to know?"
let's think of summer when we were free
drowning in fevers because of it.
(when a corpse is home from work
nationwide angers increase)
nuts and bolts anatomy
inside her palm i saw it,
and the touch was electric.
as we sat within the circle
of the living room floor,
we ran from the gathering,
we ran from the public presentation.
"i'm up for a game. i'm yours."
as the credits ended, she told me
that her fingers were
buried in the first scene of the movie.
a little while later news,
stories appeared providing details of
people murdering
that time period,
that summer of green eyes.
what's changing is how we're used.
she told me again one more time
"as long as there is sound,
i'm not alone."
A Brooklyn native, Peter Marra lived in the East Village, New York from 1979-1987 at the height of the punk—no wave movement. A surrealist and Dadaist, he has had approximately 100 poems published in the past 2 years, including an interview in Yes, Poetry. He is working on his 1st book of poetry.
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