a pale white figure etched
on the cavern wall beneath.
a figure that gazes steadily as we
sit on the wet ground.
outside the animals
twist, then spin rapidly.
from the ceiling and bats come to rest.
she removes the eyes with opera-gloved hands
a surgical precision
she comes from
that part of the woods
where a wet sneer is functional.
a confession of shame is a pleasure.
the doctor kept talking
but wouldn’t end
the doors in his eyes
ate me chewed it up
it was gone the doors in
his heart a craving to pierce his lungs
set him aflame
they recommended the treatment and the victims
crushed under anvils
smug fucker eviscerated clad in webs
blud gone all dry
a simple use for a room:
naked longing and the operation was scheduled.
a headline laughs for the profane.
i want to be there – across- away –
in los angeles where it’s 3 a.m.
hide away at the ranch.
lumps of pain.
take him and throw him into the highway.
let the tires complete him
sliced diced asphalt justice
roll over 1-2-3
the throb spurt spilling on the road.
By Peter Marra