Peter Marra: Four Poems

a tourist attraction

scant images without sound are

gently displayed

scant images without sound are

violently heard.

“please hold me”

she gasped.

it was straight into the wind

a beat a grasp for her heart.

she’ll be listening for a mental

contact that broke

the primary circuit.

watch and wait

until sensation falls down

flat on its face and

rolls over / gives in / a fake most demented

while kissing the rusted soft iron.

under her breath she spoke of the

the soft chill in her bones

the spots of infinity.

a chill that started to wane

then reversed polarity.

“the police are supposed to be kind”

make it stop. echoes of faces she no

longer recognized that accused her.

an obscure something

a digital porno voodoo heartbeat.

 

say hello to germ-day

torsos clinging to the spires

because the towers are weary 

behind the windows the wet frantic women dance

and heave and wave hello to me

they have moist foreheads, their flesh is

wired for sound and painted. watch the action

behind the leather-paned

windows. as they fall to the ground their

eyes roll and shoot the ceiling tiles.

i saw the faces cringing

twisting back and forth slowly hanging.

the hot wind slices the street in halves.

as she ran away she batted

her ultra-lashes against my skin.

she ran away to play

with perfect eunuchs in sections.

imperfect sensations.

i see she feels and

the sand is burning.

the sea is calm and the boardwalk buckles.

the televisions on their perches

watch mutely and the women crave;

left wanting the ash and sand

and the girls can’t help it.

pained.  their love felt like a ghost.

a seat to watch the action.

behind the leather-paned

windows they coil her entirely without

leaving the punishment.

it’s not my call, a twister burn

to produce long sparks. may i please?

my erotic thoughts came thick for

several minutes as i checked into the office.

i admired their eyes when closed.

he had these tesla coils under his coat

morality is simple: torn asunder,

being careful to be converted into a

black piece fucking machine

connect with real morality.

some might visualize better into artificiality

and extremity. they took her face.   

and we lived in a community of arbitrary laws

his wife a mere instrument of morality

protects life and property,

selling and buying.

say hello to germ-day.

 Tenebrae

one more time

before leaving;

it was a lesion.

a season from the past

confronted her yesterday

in the brilliant sunlight of morning.

it was the type of light that

slowly dances across a dusty table top

in the afternoon.

it’s a time when memories start to slowly regenerate

and the empty silhouettes grow cold.

a severed conscience

keeps a repetition reminding her she was

covered with humiliation.

it was after viewing the screen,

a silhouette of feelings:

the cold hands of the magi on her shoulders.

the stones on her neck

pulled us down

into the bog.

a suffocation dance

of exhilaration

of silent freedom.

 

unfinished jobs

the neon sign exploded its breasts over the city

glass and gas trickled down to the glistening cement.

a gun and razor

/shiny

fetish

things/

made it out

to the street and

hugged the

humid orbs

floating in the sky

red pulse.

(legs once felt

slow in jelly,

movie crawl attempt walking)

moving better now.

Cut/

Slash/

in the darkness/

and the blood figures

were laughing at me

we sucked on bullets,

cigarettes, and acid sludge coffee

smoke

sulfur

hurt

white nylon

remember 

seam up the back

black

lacquered

toenails

and a translucent face

droplets of blood on the upper thigh

stared at me;

and we were out of ideas

for sexy shockers

"I have shut it out, focus on sleeping,” she stated.