The Blindfolded Have Carnal Hallucinations With The Amateur Scientist


(13 television channels but only 7 are active)

The body the bare and the beautiful

Channel 1.
She moaned he sighed
soft buzz background
drips slightly on
the black and white photos branded in her brain – the aroma
tantalizes her nostrils as her cunt drips.

Channel 2.
the people are
talking slowly in a very dirty way,
she lets her words flow slightly between the apparitions
of her mother and father nailed to the smog.

Channel 3.
His anguish was laughable
she’s thrilled
by experiments with magick and animal instincts
and with electricity, razors, and lingerie;
she demonstrated by orgasm what was sassy and what was taboo
like the smoke of vintage nudie pics and flesh burned at dawn –
coating the back of her throat
a taste of a pyre.

Channel 4.
Her pleasure was quite audible
she licks
the flesh raw:
the skin of the lovers hanging from her cracked plaster ceiling
are the first taste.
she was checked out to be clean in prison
slowly by day
quickly at night.
it’s a velvet touch that grows increasingly
rough – her eyes glazing over as his wails become
faint echoes of doves flying overhead flying too close.

Channel 5.
all she wanted
was a piece (while he lay dying)

of the nudie cutie that he underestimated – a quick fuck
slowly turned into a slow death –
amidst squeals of pleasure, her father called the police

before daddy died upright in a plexiglas cage.

Channel 6.
time quickly
snuck up behind them
tick-tock-click unending
their sweat flying out in swirls
in the 900 slime room with the
thermostat busted

Channel 7.
white-noise caressing
iron taste in their mouths
she knelt and her nipples felt the blood:
lying in wait by the reflection of the ny police dept. phone system
her blouse opened down to there she
got what she wanted. some death in a new york city street

Channel 8.
the storm was gone
the rotten wood coffins floated into the street
under the constant throb of
generators pumping lanterns. bang.

Channel 9.
she thought
the tissue could be better organized
she felt fortunate to still have shiny knives
and the slick soft scratchy noises of flesh being sliced started
to tingle her groin
at this time the daily news reporters wrote about
the unblinking eye that said “let’s go”

Channel 10.
she took
his cock stem from almost any good deed:
and as she struggled she took as well his ritual magic
they both smiled at his humiliation
a good ju-ju a burning fetish
can stem the change of a burning object

Channel 11.
“thank you,
for my hands,” she said in monotone
“they were massive
i needed to be fucked
i wanted to feel your cum
a journey on glass from a tornado into freezing”

Channel 12.
it posited fetishism
as the earliest form of reasoning
as she licked juices for a contract to ensure compliance.
she knew objects dictated the social activities.

she was still attached to what is typically called religion

Channel 13.
she verbally
clarified her actions
as juice gushed out of electrified panties
and silence nestled between her breasts
looking for a beating heart
that apparently had been removed
and thrown into the fireplace

By Peter Marra

What You Told Me

It was in this spot with rising stalks of golden barley far from your father’s house that you first gave yourself to me. You were wearing that rose-pattern skirt and when we embraced, I felt the cotton underneath and the soft contours of your leg as it sloped into your delicate calf.
We were embracing. I ran my mouth along your neck, smelled tulips in your black hair. Your hands reached down and without blood-field-235651hesitation, I was inside you.
And now we are in our fifties, standing in this same place and it is here that you choose to tell me this. All these years later. It is in this place, watching our children’s children play in the barley. Watching while the sun is setting in an orange sea. This is the moment you choose.
And to this I can say nothing. When the sun is gone and our grandchildren are home, when we’ve retired into our beds and you rolled away from me, leaving the words hanging in our minds, I walked quietly into the study and cut my throat. Had I known how painful the strangulation would be, I would have chosen another way.

By Christopher Grey


She had constellations printed on silk, the rain soaked it and I could see her bra through the star formations. I think she wanted me to, she was always creating accidents like this.
“What did you come for?” I asked, no song and dance, no invitations. She was like a vampire in that respect, had to be let in with your mouth.
“Can I come in?”
She shivered, and of course my shoulders dropped and I conceded. “Alright, but only for a second.”
She smiled through wet red hair that looked like drying blood around her neck and face, she sauntered in.

“What do you want?”
“Can’t a girl just stop by her old friend’s place?”
She had a toothy grin, it crowded her face and I used to like the predatory impression it gave off, I hated it now.
“You got sour on me,” she pouted, another thing I hated: her plump lips.
She ran a moist hand up my arm and I thought she’d covered her tracks so good, no one would follow her here. She was hiding out, hiding in the love I used to have for her.
“Why are you here?”
“Because it’s almost daylight and they’re going to find me,” her voice cracked.
“Why me?”
“Because they won’t suspect you,” she whispered and pulled me closer to her crystalline eyes.
“I can’t do this with you,” I was suddenly angry. “You need to leave, I’m not cleaning up your mess.”
“I wish you hadn’t said that,” she frowned. “Because you really don’t have a choice.”
She slammed my head against the door and I saw those speckled blinking orbs of space float through my darkening vision.

The room was upside down, it was blurry and dim. My cranium felt like shattered eggshell leaking bits of brain through my scalp. I saw her feet approaching, naked like her legs, and as I moved my eyes up her body, I saw all of her uncovered.
“It’s been awhile since you ran your eyes over me like that,” she cooed and knelt next to my throbbing head. “Look at you, hating every inch of me, but unable to look away.”
I felt her hand at my throat, she softly massaged it, felt the pumping veins protruding from my displaced position.
“I know it’s hard to believe, but I always loved you,” she paused and began pacing across the room. “I know the break up was bad, that you thought I was a monster, I doubt this situation changes your mind much,” she laughed, almost nervously.
“Well I fucked up, and I’m sorry I just left you, I’m also sorry for what’s about to happen.”
She leaned her mouth into mine and kissed me, tasting of copper and honey berry cough drops.
“Remember,” she continued. “When you wake up, now you know, all the stories are true, follow the rules.”
Her face was melancholy, it might have been the first time I saw something akin to genuine remorse or tragedy etched in her eyes. Then she locked her mouth around my vein and I felt the blood run into my vision.

He was bleeding out, she nuzzled her nose into the crook of his neck and licked the wound. That would slow everything down, just enough, she thought. She cut the rope that she’d used to string him up by and his body fell to her arms in a heap. Carefully dragging him through his studio apartment, she finally tucked him away in the dark nook of his shrouded loft bed. The sun would be up soon and there were windows everywhere. That was going to be a problem. She pulled out a pen and notebook from his drawer, removed a sheet of lined paper and scrawled a quick note. Then she descended the ladder and went back into the kitchen where she made a cup of coffee and smoked several cigarettes.

The sun came up as promised and she looked on at the scalding bringer of morn. It chased away the hazy dawn and her skin began to bubble, her eyes burned. She held herself together as long as she could, she wanted every last second in this place where she had felt her heart beat once more. Then there was nothing left, save the smoldering cigarette and it’s ashes now mingled with hers.

My eyes snapped open. I was in my bed, and it seemed dusk had settled in. How long had I slept? The dreams I had, of red and black, of her naked standing on the hard wood, the pain. Dreams. I shook my head, it felt odd, something was off. There was a sharpness to the moment, everything in ultra high def, from the sound of the faucet drip below, to the color of the carpet, to the fibers of the carpet. I looked at the clock, it was almost eleven, the apartment should be dark as pitch, but it seemed only gray. Then I saw it, tucked under the lamp on my bedside table, a white note. I flicked on the light, it blinded me momentarily. I shrank back to the shadows gripping the paper. My name was scrawled on the front in her handwriting, I opened it and began to read:

Your place has too many windows, you will need to find another apartment, probably a basement unit. This is my last ditch attempt to make amends, I hope you appreciate my gift to you, I have no use for it anymore. I truly loved you, no matter how loud my actions might have suggested otherwise. Take care of yourself and remember what I told you about following the rules. We are real, you are real. Don’t get caught in the daylight.

Forever yours, with all my heart,

By Emily Smith-Miller