antipyrine and vaginal electricity
Christine had many hands.
I started now on overload with
a bottle of serial killers:
Everything became a new fiction, craving to
slide way down into her. amber bottles of
was neon injected.
The needle had a barb and
the bitter wind salted my hurt
my skin asked me not to
as time went on
the taste of automobiles
got strong & stronger
strings of pearls thrown from her to me
we weren’t sure what could preserve the brain.
a longing for dirt on the highway.
meanwhile as we dawdled
waiting for one method, each thrust, the throat remained open
longing for dirt of the highway and gasoline / rubber signs
Peter Marra is in Williamsburg Brooklyn. His goal is to become an adjective. He has either been published in or has work forthcoming in Caper Literary Journal, amphibi.us, Yes Poetry, Maintenant 4 & 5, Beatnik, Crash, Danse Macabre, Clutching At Straws O Sweet Flowery Roses, Breadcrumb Scabs and Calliope Nerve. He is currently constructing his first collection of poems .
We don’t see too many poems like this, a poem that isn’t apologizing for being a poem and isn’t afraid to craft its tone from workshop-writing taboos that could easily disqualify another submission from any serious consideration. We don’t write about serial killers anymore, or drug abuse, and we especially don’t write about “the bitter wind” salting our “hurt.” This poem does, and it is so much the better for it. It’s ambiguous in a way that unsettles the reader, not just in subject, but in tone: I don’t quite know what the speaker’s getting at, but I know this is exactly how it should sound.