He awoke to a scorching.
Fire. Sighs. then a laugh.
A crack in the ceiling a drip of water.
Then she laughed a frozen knife as
The sky burned into him.
the flash of her teeth
Skinned the sky that
fell into his belly
Then it turned over
Tasted like Joan of Arc.
She plugged him
into the nearest outlet.
His black-light glow:
A mantis excised from
a black velvet poster
a smile – a punishment
a grin enshrined in shiny black vinyl (the love machine)
she looked down. he looked between the large glass.
a web of sky
a scared weekday afternoon
spent lyng on my back looking up through
the web of branches interlaced
with the sky - a sky black and enucleated
drifting in and out of
a lattice of fever dreams
ladders on fire crumbling in slo-mo
we talked about
ocular surgery carrying
a rhythm for a beat
she danced with the throbbing film
as my headache spiraled
slammed against the iron wall
i lay on her lap
she gazed
she gazed
her eyes drilled into me
glowing pitch black hair
i touched
i felt the heat
(a nuclear pietà )
a blue iris dropped
landed gently on my lips
a black tulip dropped from her mouth
cascaded and consumed
my eyes burned as
my cheeks flushed
and the black sky gradually
grew pale white
in the room next door
buttons were pressed
she let me go
we ran into the garden
so we could uproot the foliage
we strolled hand in hand
then went to the eternal picture show
crimson rage exhale
the white parasol
a delicate umbrella
slowly taken by fire.
flames creeping.
a memory long gone still burning.
rabid pacing in the alley and
a sign on the wall sent by machines.
both are female matter – a silent heart –
reminiscent of a library in which i will burrow
so i can look back at specimens of the natural world:
the two chairs that drip blood
exposed to the world.
both have species cooperation through her subject.
an exhibition seeps through burnt burlap sacks
she proudly displays a fragile neon “please smell” sign.
this show is “human” for her
complex times for
the 2 characters
with categories that “rupture human differences.”
she breathes heavily into the
symbiotic pieces
extended from the ceiling
and the sewing machines in the
ceremony leave us a crimson rage exhaled.
while flying she dreams of
2 chairs for the
female sex organ
those innocent pieces
covered with lungs
that anatomically inhale women.
these innocent pieces will watch the pumped face
lie down on the floor
(a sperm filled vena cava)
Peter Marra is in Williamsburg Brooklyn. His goal is to become an adjective and find new methods of description. He has either been published in or has work forthcoming in Caper Literary Journal, amphibi.us, Yes Poetry, Maintenant 4, Beatnik, Crash, Danse Macabre, Clutching At Straws O Sweet Flowery Roses, Breadcrumb Scabs,Carcinogenic and Calliope Nerve. He is currently constructing his first collection of poems.
1 comment:
Decalcomania
What I feel from this is an intense intimate sharing, an exchange. Your words describing intense heat and cold are very sensual to me…an experience couples share in their private ways. The lover, the martyr, acceptance. Your final line “she looked down, he looked between the large glass” is a merging (to me) of he and she.
The title, so perfect, and I am not a fan of titles as they are difficult for me to create.
A Web of Sky
These words unraveling this story, journey, are more sensually descriptive but less mysterious…I think that’s why I am feeling the shift from most to less in sensuality. What rings so clearly in most of your works is this sensual nature and it gets explored differently in each piece. A Web of Sky brings the She and He to me, the reader, immediately. The sharing is precise and raises images to match. The closing of this piece feels earthy and touchable.
Crimson Rage Exhale
Here the intimacy is personal and singular. This is more for me like following the thought and feelings of the “I”, though images are created I am inclined to understand the experience from the words alone. Perhaps the “I” exploring femaleness, ruminations on women and their sexuality. This is most explicit with in your words and anatomical references.
I love ,”the two chairs that dripped blood exposed to the world”, already knowing from previous readings that these two chairs dreamt of as the “female sex organ”, only later. The power of the female rings loudly in this piece.
All three are wonderful works – I am most fond of the first – it holds more mystery for me….but the last, so graphic, is wonderful.
Leslie
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