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
dined
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
The Carnage Conservatory 