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