White Handkerchiefs

white handkerchiefs with

stains that she and i don’t talk about anymore

but it’s an implied

secret that we smile about occasionally.

brick stacked

upon broken brick

upon glass bottles


black. naked.

silhouettes lightly touch

before evaporating

moans escape as

a gaseous existence

timed to the slight keyboard sounds

of the surf organ sleaze


she wanted to cry in joy again

we gave each other fantasy and

a criticism construction

built slowly that collapsed


forever hers

forever mine

back to whispers

back to silence

about the documents

entitled the standards of care


as a symbol to her

the other species found the problem

her legs squeezed together

her nerves removed

her sinews dissected

heart set aflame and

sacrificed to the sun god


as she was disturbed

by the naked walls

as she was disturbed

by the non-stop sounds

constantly arousing her

then ending when she slid free

her hands free

then she stung


a serious tone as

she was sucked by the institute into

a black waltz

that left him watching


eyes surrounded

by pearls

fucked by the color spectrum

with blue as she permitted

her tics grew steadily

as she feasted on flesh

from the physicians that slowly

castrated themselves as she



waiting for the surgeon as she squeezed

then rubbed her face across the danger

as the exhaust kicked into overdrive


“your screen is blank”

By Peter Marra