Wednesday, June 19, 2013

Canaan by James Hall


Emotions clear
hazy milk
flows free.

Pilfered sustenance
the hungry babes.

Divine custom
to sever
and divide.

through that crevice,
dust of dreams
come by.

No more honey,
in time.


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

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


idealist criminal eyes
cudgels horny
and the doomsday
by the shockwave bodies
limb from limb body’s
floating out
and away
on the tide constituent
still congregating still
still unwilling
to accept

the idea of defeat

Parade Ground by Jeffery Park


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


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


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


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
when possible avoided
by neighbors
who keep themselves
in their houses
listen for the
and occasional
glad they can
stay indoors in front
of their TVs
lights on
windows blanked
while I progress
unhappily threatening
my solitary


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.