Canaan by James Hall

Canaan

Emotions clear

hazy milk

flows free.

Pilfered sustenance

feeds

the hungry babes.

Divine custom

to sever

and divide.

Slipping

through that crevice,

dust of dreams

come by.

No more honey,

flowing

in time.

Carefully,

the cup is raised.

Dark Corridor by James Hall

Dark Corridor

Lightly treading on the razor's edge,

an obsidian pool of reflection

remains still except broken by that

deed unmentioned.

Stillness and purity exist here,

bought with the flames of sacrifice.

All is quiet,

the Great Hall acquiesces.

Lined by monoliths,

austere and sterile

against the backdrop of night,

standing silent in defiance

of the day.

A great people raise their heads,

dust clinging

to the roofs of their mouths,

once beaten, longing for the day of.

Hopes echo

against the walls and over the plains.

Cloaked in dark night,

a blood moon delivers the faintest light,

birthing contours of shadow

among the corridors’ rise.

Spirits of the Earth by Peter Marra

spirits of the earth

breath captured slowly

/silently amidst glimpses of red

as a soft humming humanized entity

make its presence known

/a tender wildlife in female form

rising gently

/slowly uncovering

the soft skin’s deep sleep

neologisms required-

a description of solitude between

and a flaming within

/the brink of beauty

soft embraces of hearts’ violet

violent cravings friction removed

slow flames give birth to

a vapor skin crescendo

a whisper

mutual witnesses to

a drowning of time

the sorrow of dawn when lovers

must part and then tomorrow

science is destroyed buried

beneath the remnants of flowers

as we remain forever clutching each other

for a life together

The Act by Peter Marra

the act

a small room:

4 walls

dirty white.

a box.

an enclosure.

he sits in a corner

back to the wall

head down

-it’s warm in here-

staring at his feet.

fly high and stop

can’t tell the time

a tree in the diagonally

opposite corner

is slowly touching him

reaching inside

then it stops

the desk clerk downstairs

rolls his eyes upward

waiting.

bored endlessly for the end of his shift

waiting for the women in the windows.

they stop

they ridicule

the sofa in the lobby held figures

from his memory.

figures gone 

many years ago.

actions escaped them both

it was a final test before

all participants went to bed.

they were slaves of the walls

the fury gang was sleeping outside

dormant until needed

mistresses of depravities

Captives Of Love Island by Peter Marra

Captives Of Love Island

her tears wash herself.

inside it’s very strange.

baptized by the sickly summer heat

with 1 cry her resolve was on the floor.

skin sweaty & pleasure truncated.

punishment scenarios followed her again because

her purpose was to enlighten mankind. her goal is

to pull the symbol of power and

to sing about the sting of humiliation.

this experience in the black mansion

was published between each moan

sideswipe close

ricture phantasm

go on / go on –

we both evolved

she seduced / she danced

twirling in a glass box as the

bright lights blared up through the floor

lighting her up

warming her bare legs.

she became fully recharged before she became resigned

a girl's firm hand held the digital recordings

secreted them away

crawled by inching

crawled by inching

crawled by inching

mouthing the words: ”love me and

burn the glossy photos”

i had memorized her license

i asked the obvious about why she began lighting the candles,

why it began to rain.

bounce off it,

bounce off it,

overcome the rigid upbringing

the tender touches won’t stop:

gloves on fire

endlessly caressing her face

cold lips on her eyelids

tingling her stomach,

reaching inside

a lacy frilled explosion

denouement fractured

“please fix me” she said. then she laughed.

"They're always afraid to admit they want fun,”

she laughed once more.

she was now a film,

she was now a waxwork.

she was now an experiment in terror

a thorough exam revealed nothing but

euphoria, her mind was photographed

as a great lacerated puzzle

that was hidden in a gallery.

later we sat on the couch and stared at each other

for unending time.

(that’s how long usually takes)

chanting monotone

a most intimate act became impossible:

to be completed as the clothes crawled away screaming into

a bloodless wilderness amidst the

scratchy squeaky sounds a reason to sleep

(a dormant pin-up was splashed across the headlines)

she'll be there

she’ll be made to appear fashionable.

... and in 15 minutes – a green 1965 Pontiac Bonneville

will arrive to take us away.

Suicide Janie Visits Monster Island by Peter Marra

suicide janie visits monster island

the word death comes from the blood orgasm

(leather bound eyes:
it’s the signal of the start of tongue biting
they talk talk about a slight vibrato
they laugh silently - a slight variation
on a daily routine
the advent of blindness while touching.
the figure in the corner seething

finished crafting her knife yesterday:
purple blade deep burnish
the authorities talked about it
slick w/ a smell of plasma
heaving breathing teething.)

flash. she’s a sex toy

bang. she’s an 8-track disaster

old tunes whispered

a grind. The kiss of cloudy eyes

indistinct smile

for an indistinct face

tune in. turn the dials.

fluid volume shifts. Initially a little chastity

against a glass.

breathe fog dreams from

slow telescopic creatures.

changes in brain activity indicated

natural affection  and

ritualistic ceremonies chanted

for a negative charge

one study models

the flames as she

achieves combustion,

in general it’s a

form of inheritance,  

she was crying "babble. life

simultaneously defines death.”

love may be mean as

suicide janie spoke of

(they don’t know much)

a biological basis of love

a slender woman could do a skin graft

while he may also listen and bathe as the water scalds.

because a crash course in examination,

it’s a collapse unregulated

unlucky georgie rolled on

the floor with her and then climbed

out the window

he was given a sky burial /

as they had decided,

before the mess had started

it was called female hysteria.

religious crimes as such are

the secret names of the beauty inside

this disorder has to be true.

layered perfection.

a trip to the burn-box

for that teenage dream.

Uprising by Jeffery Park

UPRISING

idealist criminal eyes

cudgels horny

hands

gripping

and the doomsday

defense

one-two-three-four

followed

by the shockwave bodies

torn

limb from limb body’s

parts

floating out

and away

on the tide constituent

parts

bobbing

still congregating still

protesting

still unwilling

to accept

the idea of defeat

Parade Ground by Jeffery Park

PARADE GROUND

Ragged flags flapping

the staff car slows

as the old colonel throws

handfuls of teeth

to the crowd.

He loves watching

the little children

scramble for keepsakes

on the freshly

scrubbed pavement.

Fully Formed by Jeffery Park

FULLY FORMED

It was just an idea really,

a fully formed idea in my head

corners, edges and planes,

smooth sensual curves,

warmish to the touch, responsive

to emotions like a mood ring

or a dog.

You could have put it in a box

at a party, asked party-goers to

put their hands inside.

What do you think it is?

Something artificial? Something

shaped, molded, fits so nicely

in my palm –

like a lump in my throat,

in my chest, a hard mass

down in my abdomen that could

be something dreadful

or just a momentary cramp,

but probably not, assuredly not

too terribly malignant.

End of Nights by Jeffery Park

END OF NIGHTS

It happened, as one might expect,

at the singularly worst possible moment

and in the worst imaginable place –

i.e. between the sheets –

as we were waiting and praying for the

second coming; happened exactly as

had been preordained, prophesied a

million billion eons ago, it was there and easy

to see and read and grasp every excruciating

little detail.

My boat was rocked, my mind was blown,

the earth moved, and not in a good way,

more in the planet-killing CGI epic vein –

Snowmaggedon, Crapocolypse and Shagnarok

all rolled into one jaw-dropping

chest-thumping nipple-twisting casserole

of existential anguish.

And there in the midst of the sweat

and rumbling and ultimate test-to-destruction

creaking of bedsprings I convulsed,

I retched, I bit my lips and clenched my toes,

all to no avail – you pinned me, pierced me,

butted me right in the temple –

I tried to cry for help but all I could hear

was my own shrill voice: the rapture! the rapture!

Look into my eyes, you said, what do you see?

Darkening fields, feasts of crows,

twilight of the gods.

Circutt by Jeffery Park

CIRCUIT

In the evening

hours after they’ve

finished dinner

as porch lights

blink on

they sometimes let

me out

to perambulate

along the gravel paths

avoiding

when possible avoided

always

by neighbors

who keep themselves

in their houses

listen for the

crunch

and occasional

squeak

glad they can

stay indoors in front

of their TVs

lights on

windows blanked

while I progress

ungainly

unhappily threatening

making

my solitary

rounds.

Human Skull in Space by Neil Ellman

Human Skull in Space

(atter the painting by Damien  Hirst)

Orion’s skull without a face

the contours of his cheeks

no color in his eyes

lightless orbitals

the hunter hunted

for his withered skin—

for him, the music

of the spheres, inaudible

for him, eternal night.

A Little Night Music by Neil Ellman

A Little Night Music

(after the painting by Dorothea Tanning)

As if in an old hotel with peeling walls

and doors like minds unhinged

we wander through its corridors

on groaning, creaking boards

somnambulists in search of songs

to wake us from our haunted dreams

we hear instead the music of the night

the clicks and chirps of bats on wing

the hiss and rattle of snakes

striking at our eyes

the buzz of fading incandescent bulbs

with the ceaseless drone

of invisible machines echoing in our ears—

and then the darkness speaking  

secret words that only we can hear.

Man Eating His Own Chest by Neil Ellman

Man Eating His Own Chest

(after the painting by Dana Schutz)

How delicious his own flesh

how much better than the meat of sheep

cows and venison

how much more succulent,, tender,

more digestible than the fattened liver

of a goose

more savory than an ox’s tail

how much more nutritious for

his brain and soul

how better to be so self-absorbed

with a beating heart

his own.