the crowd saw it
descending slowly:
an embryo on fire
settled in the tree
it glowed in the silence
dark and emotional
chanting a sound
invisible and raw torn
chanting between laughter
then a silence and a moan
clothed in rain
she couldn't tell which was light
or which was darkness
the rain wouldn't stop
hypno hypo
faces burn frequently
hidden against the wall
fused
and the power source is
red in her heart
walk walk
time to sleep front
in a glass casket
then back
lie down
stomach burns infrequently
"oh, brad—darling," she breathed
mini-skirt flames
in the electric farm
veils of love
with the neighborhood doctor
4 a.m. and the wolf is out
baby in its jaws
her victims hid behind her
constantly reminding her
what they had done to her
a dance for a cannibal's sexuality
a new project:
to watch people to and fro
while they sleep, wake, eat,
metal unto metal
granite sighs
as the doors slam shut
on a time
upon a time
we drive past these things
these domiciles all the time
yet never look inside:
a red stain watched by the animals
it owns music for conversing softly,
whispers behind the very white doors
as she drew the internal organs,
attenuated and silent
blind /bind /blind
pale dreams for
the lustful captured things as
they feed.
watch and wait
they'll be back soon,
coming home for a rest
then they'll resume.
once upon a time
a new project where those
who watch hide from those
who are viewed
immodest actions
behind the very white doors
a song for x
as he sleeps and sleeps
waits for a knock on the door
Something with dead bodies
Something with dead bodies
Comes with
the construction noise
Slurs and shadows
Nice and slow
as the buildings face each other
we sit outside holding hands
spying through the windows
that are covered with black paper
fitfully behind the paper
an electric candle
25 watt breathes spastically. asthma.
replacements needed
to hold cracks together.
counting the intermittent buzzing sounds
we can catch the noise every so often.
the efflorescence tells us about its
bitter taste.
count the stains and sigh.
An entrance opened
for Sin Island.
a sticky, brown paste foretells the
morphine curves of the woman's body.
an empty feeling
it was almost pleasant destruction.
the tv ordered us with
instructions stuttered.
she was very naked and was
enthralled by the incisions.
very naked still she knelt down and
placed her mouth to the moist soil
mouthed our secrets
mouthed our fates.
very naked still she laughed w/o sound
enjoying the slight tremors and the warm air.
salty air and fluids she enjoyed as she
lay on her back:
allowed the sunlight to touch her flesh.
allowed the sunlight to touch her ebony hair.
i observed. then faded
without her secrets.
they're running away.
a road is wet and slimy.
turning, they see me
fall down.
look up for
forgiven shadows
reach down / touch a face
throw me onto the barricade:
cold steel and nice
"it's alright"
for a scientific purpose.
chemical therapies.
endgame.
Born in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, 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 50 poems published in the past year, including an interview in Yes, Poetry.