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Tuesday, 30 October 2012

Peter Marra

circus of nights for a rocket 88

she has a motherly instinct
she has a wonder concerning
the branches that are on fire

she is grasping at black clouds
as a car engine coughs
spits hums
go man go
vibrating - a 4 door super vegas

inside in while
all the way out
she is in love with the dead
she is obsessed with the deaf
she kisses the blind
all the way down

sing a vivid strangulation
chant a way and a cause
the acrobats slowly fondle a trapeze

a stifled moan that she
never feels
a remembrance of
when as a baby she
rejected the breast milk

the poison from the vine
bends away from treason
rusty models increased with thick veins running down
hardtop sedans. she took her to bed and
balanced the sighs in the rearview mirror
fluids coupling in a smoother fuselage
her hands slipped up

she has a motherly instinct
and the wonder about
the branches that are on fire
grasping at black clouds
passed without incident

2 of the mindless with
emotions warring inside
by the drive-in

slinking inside restless skin
shadowed by guilt
we'd been sleeping in the car together for seven years,
fueled by a lust for squirming Chevrolets

she moaned: “you've been keeping me with
some skank on a strange sort of symmetry.
at least one glass tipped basic
bodyshell was open, while he
checked out oldsmobiles”

a bump and grind
across the state line
with a dream of billy jack
tattooed on her
inner thigh

the blood and the
sweat and the
mess

and the memories of the my lai massacre etched
into clouds by tornados

in the fissures of her brain


gun crazy

a
side catatonia
betrays (whisper)

symptoms of a mimic
and the small dreams offered
by antipsychotic medication for a brief
walk in the woods then
to lay down
by the river
trending towards life
a burning
lake
district

burlesque dancers tear the imaging technologies
shredded moans sound concrete then crumble

under my eyelids flickering naked forms clutched
against walls bending – a sometime sweet fever

("why is it so boring," 
"i don't know what to say," 
"well," she starts, "when was the last time you?"
"i really can't remember,"
“i know what is confessed”)

giggling brought her back into a 
frantic style doze while
negative symptoms contribute to
sitting in a car with shades and a gun fondled
cherishing the sound of a telecaster and a twin reverb in the
back seat –
rubbing her legs and
glancing in the rear-view
taking in the
sight of his corpse
starting a decay
of memory

an odor so far away
what was nice once
a popular itch

he promised the nighttime
the pleasure of night town
when he showed her dawn – she blew him away
a burn in her back pocket
his photo in her wallet

("why is it so boring," 
"i don't know what to say," 
"well," she starts, "when was the last time you?"
"i really can't remember,"
“i know what is confessed”)

burnt
burnt
burnt

he had brought an album
to her home once –
parallel lines
poignant
acid
times

burlesque dancers tear the imaging technologies
shredded moans sound concrete then crumble

visions of him ran around retinas
and out in tears

up against the hall naked
he was so cool
cook up/shoot in
kissing by the airport

female visions of him ran around retinas
and out in tears
the desert wind burned
felt so good


3 comments:

  1. I totally love this dynamic, swirling, beating, Salvador Dalí like, Gala like write

    ReplyDelete
  2. Thank you so much Lolita! Love your description!

    ReplyDelete
  3. This really kills--it's the kind of poetry that's smarter than you and reading it five times only lets you pick up the half of it. Wonderful!

    ReplyDelete