(a skin composed of milk
is a backdrop for what will happen.
a much anticipated event
but no audience is present).
he told her a secret but she asked him to repeat it
(only in a soft soft whisper).
she gave him a sweet taste and burning veins.
(any movie will do).
her smile queried for a solar direction.
her eyes asked for a lunar purpose.
her flesh was clammy from the events of the previous day.
she was at the door,
it was an attack of unusual strength.
the depravity had her stretched. quavering.
they were lost in museums for the entire time,
the black tides under the moons were
touchy feely for her frame.
as one eye peeked out from the walls,
she washed his hair with rubbing alcohol
then tuned the radio to static.
a flesh fire dance in his brain
the foolish decisions that had precipitated it made her go forward
“my darkest sense just is,” she told him, “that’s why i had this thrill kill”,
“i was gazing at the semi-dark / and now it whispers.”
she continued to croon pain then left him in the surf, it was
nighttime: a tide erupted and took him away.
she cried then shrugged: the illusions of a lady.
Raw Weekend A Sliver Screen Confidential
Follow me
On the mainly negative dance floor
Fall down slowly and talk to the screen
zippering a window closed forever
ideas buried beneath the waves of light
a turning black-tide
a party was starting but the people had left
the motion mixed very well with my blindfold.
Swollen minds stretching from the moment
Quarantined as the eyes adjusted
Hooves polished the mare rode off
The women talked and stared at each other
Frozen grins laugh by laugh heard behind them
the next morning she transcribed
the events of the previous day
on a clipboard.
finished.
she lifted her skirt
admired herself
smiled at her exposure
adjusted her seamed stockings
she then walked
slowly home
slowly whistling and
gently stepping over twisting horizontal figures that were
slowly merging with dark widows.
By Peter Marra
The Carnage Conservatory 