we took a walk by jesus’ tomb
for a dance describing love
hidden by poppies waiting for
a brain song of excised fatalities
straight down for the holidays
a mix and match – it’s a walk away
watch the swirl around the silence of trees
hear the time cascade around
she takes her suitcase in hand
an explosion expression
a walk down broadway
spontaneously spouting tears
as he recounted his hagiography
to anyone who cared to listen
a cut / a smile
an exhilaration
but just a silence
then spasms of
an imagination of
what should have been
to construct her face
of iron and plaster
coated in violent blue
later walking home from the
cinema after viewing
french films for a
long afternoon
in wet spring
re-shape
re-do
so complacent sitting in a chair of nails
lying to herself and to all others about what grows inside
situations unfolded re-bent she feels a
harshness a liquid cold an air freon frisson
a saint’s kiss with burning lips.
they’ll try to fly
maybe they’ll run to a hideout
or into that ditch built from silence
where the rain will wash dirty things away
they were sharpening
a straight razor’s steel – this
stuff’ll kill ya – as the rooms fell apart laughing as
the robots clanged and morphed into sky
cooked up a shot for
a decoration to be applied to her lust
she watched the crowds watch them
stimulated in heterosexual form
perched in the trees. watching.
“we are walking down a sour street.
a wash of aquaregia for the eyes.
love gone in a deep death.
starting to run. A slow breath.
i ran away
and i left you there.
beneath the ocean of salt and blood.
and i still had you.
and the water screamed.”
“louder – it. is. difficult”
her day dreams of corsets on fire
coaxed him into a green embryo
making final arrangements
By Peter Marra
The Carnage Conservatory 