Confessions of a Wind-Up Doll (True Burlesque)

Confessions of a Wind-Up Doll
(True Burlesque)

There is always beauty in the hissing sounds.
The alternating camera speeds reveal a long-lashed woman;
touching experimental films, she has a forceful birth
to destroy Hollywood
a local documentary,
a psychodrama,
and a spectacle of
piano crashes –
so dramatic
in the cinema on King’s Highway in Brooklyn
three prostitutes wear clear vinyl dresses
comparing themselves to each other.
a purple keeper of her soul knows this:
that every girl wants the music
that every girl wants the sounds
knees on the seat but no relief

she heard through the door
a notorious incident occurred during dinner:
a vomiting was responsible the biggest blushes yet.

her flesh paled after jumping a film actress,
that girl, whose five inch heels burned
as she tongued her legs. just rock & roll

true burlesque. the cracks and the faces spied.

she entered the hotel room
whispered nothing words as the doors collapsed
hissing shut
pale light fractured rays
no light switch just a pull chain that she couldn’t reach
she touched each of the
black leather window panes
stretching her arms tight against the casing.
so organic.

one time
one time slowly
from each touch came warm resistance and inhalation
yielding to her pressure gently ripping

the slight breathing made her eyes tear
she could see that out on the street
the painters had put away their scalpels
and set themselves on fire, brick is cold.
squirm sleep squirm

Scorpio massage film
it premiered in brothels
reinvented characters for a lush freshness
a stick mistress look

a flash silent magician
those close-ups embarrass her

a secluded face on that black summer day
came to whisper to her. so far away

again again

a third sequel stalks the terrible widow of prophesy

knees on the seat but no relief

a bullet true burlesque the bullet shot words hurt
also a great example of the undertow.
waiting for the sex shops. and the peep shows.
peep-o-rama transplanted to the clouds.

from her forehead down, her fingers traced eyes
a fever fetish dream (with wild eyes panting)
because of what was in the car trunk

looks slowly over her shoulder
the painter painted silhouettes of yesterday
and was atomized by the jury
looking over her shoulder
walks home slowly slowly slowly
say something like a refraction of the sunlight,
as she stared upwards.

glazed shut by her own prismatic hand:

a lying poem published won’t know me
Spiral backwards falling between sense somehow,
and whirlpool moans
and she’s guilty of nothing
she vanishes in the fragments of the season

tongue speaking
watching multiple copies of Lana Turner
there’s beauty in the hissing sounds.
they wait underwater as a woman smiles

past: heavy air captured me when I was a person
the cracks in the faces spied. stone is cold.
saints kiss them slowly and grin

glazed shut by her own hand for a jury
as she lay fitfully on smooth tile floors.
figures collided so gently
taken into bliss films
a silhouette molten beat throb
the wall twists with smell of Frankenstein

–Peter Marra


Poetry Writing

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