Innate Perversions of the Sanctified: a New Wonder Drug Lotion
On October 31st, 1919 the latex nuns threw their bastard
children out the convent window.
in future days,
spectators would spy through the garden fence to
view the small skeletons. the fathers were crucified in
a clandestine ceremony, taken from the addiction.
my grandmother would tell me this tale every year on my birthday,
without fail. until she died.
it was decided at dinner as baleful eyes watched from above:
to hang them from single strings glistening with unknown fluids.
can't talk to us
"my sleep is incomplete: divided and
split on 2 separate planes."
we don't speak to her anymore
she hid in the tool shed behind the abattoir
listening to rock n' roll
a similar aktion was performed by her ancestors
to drown out the screams
after a slow crawl underground she exited, appeared and
viewed the body in the twisted tree remnants
displayed her bloody knees to the papal visitor
who looked away with shame
their eyes throbbed under veils of white flesh
a liquid skin in the hands of the accused
grasping a strangled dove
meanwhile they spoke of desexualizing desire
and inserted opium teardrops deep into a sacred cervix
she licked a .44 magnum before executing the offender
she once again emphasized her argument by opening fire
please take a photo before the scene changes
answering the door again
touching her red hair
camera in hand, she said, "as you know, I'm from babylon.
pose me please. oh please. arrange us crying.
we need a permanent portrait for year 1.
don't make me ask again."
she waited for the live broadcast so she could repeat the aktion
one more perverse loop
once more holding hands in the vigil
spending a few moments in a dead car teasing
spending a few moments under a skirt's accommodations
she just wanted the touch of cold lips on her eyes
she knew something was going
swung round and hypersensitive to light
singing songs of pricks of blood washed away in the kitchen
straight into the camera
fingers grazing over
moved her hands over a whimper
let's play it out accepting this untruth into the American psyche
keeping the stilettos hidden and throbbing
embarrassed at being uncovered, she fires the gun anyway
and rivulets of red seep between the floorboards
just like you were taught in parochial school
atrocities were also satirized by the camera man
under the shadow of the lunar moth totems
A native New Yorker, Peter Marra was born and raised in Gravesend, Brooklyn, and lived in the East Village through the 80s and 90s punk scene. He currently resides in Jackson Heights, Queens. His poems and short stories have appeared in numerous print and online journals. He is the author of peep-o-rama (Hammer and Anvil Press, 2013), approximate lovers (downtown materialaktion) (Bone Orchard Press, 2014), and Sins of the Go-Go Girls (Why Vandalism? Press, 2015).