Lacuna Forests by Peter Marra

i wont go on.

who was son of sam’s 1^st victim?

henry miller’s house breathes in spasms

as french women fondle the yellowed pages of old books

for a dogshead vagina.

Chatting as they smell their fingers before

slowly licking each fingertip

of the left hand swarm

of calm

of a collapse.

crawling to a beckoning bed

with red dust sheets

missing sounds truly expected.

take it away.

so long.

goodbye.

they scream they touch they fall.

moons crack in mirrors rotating

show us your face

they demanded reluctantly.

touch the face dying

they turned around reluctantly

from sunlight

a cast of thousands talk of

switchblades excising rotten memories

they are now machines talking slowly

then rapidly stuttering as she pulls a sky skin down