Friday, August 26, 2011

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.


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

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.

in the darkness/

and the blood figures
were laughing at me

we sucked on bullets,
cigarettes, and acid sludge coffee


white nylon
seam up the back

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.

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