Peep-O-Rama

Sins of the Go-Go Girls

Hammer & Anvil Books, 2017

 

 

Sins of the Go-Go Girls

 

I.

 

Moon twisted reverse position

spirals down then

up.

watch and wait

the sun cavorts upside

down until it’s beaten by the moon

and buried bloody in the sand

smooth pain watching the walls

radio player electric stations

watch the people pass

 

II.

 

Walking down

streets reverse position

talking to no-one

smooth reverse position

time to go

it’s over then it starts again a moon twist

reverse down up stop start watch

the people pass lonely town

and it’s time to start again

guns sweat frenzy sin.

Best friends pass and lie down.

 

Night chasing her she runs.

the moon cracks into 2 perfect halves

and she lies down to rest.

Lids closed

swimming sounds thrash

electric water sounds

slides away

she’s safe again.

 

III.

 

Boots vinyl

chained to the tight shadows

dancing constant cages of fire

She’s got the yen to lick the staccato leaves

burned to the window pane

broken glass and

leather windows offer some relief

fun to destroy what came before she got there

 

IV.

 

Rain falling

the heat and the stink

as she walks home and goes to bed

the sheets too sticky to

protect and the fires

burning always

as she lies down

convulsive laughter and

tears the sounds won’t let up

and the tight shadows of the night

brand her body

sour smile and sleep.

 

 

 

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

3 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

 

 

 

a legitimate cinematic sexual partner 

 

a night/obsession

so bizarre,

so breathless,

and paralyzed with too much to wear,

but the moans are muffled as necessary.

 

it’s hot for kicks, it’s sleazy-easy in the night,

a volcano reeks fire vomiting 

 

clothes expose what isn’t really there

it’s a way of aktion

that starts right now.

clasping her arms they brought her to where

the car was parked. gasoline erections,

she taunted them and committed murder. no police.

perfect crime scene.

no prints, no dna.

completely naked, she offered up to the black sunlight streaming:

super 8 slam, loving foliage

 

her dialogue with her lover/lovers was exquisite:

 

“i am so obscene. i am filth.

they practice menace at the crumbling fire hydrant,

bathed in the throb of the fading

traffic light and street lamps.

these burnt out fucked out

cases that we spy on as they file past and

passed by down stairs falling

onto knives,” she said.

 

she continued, haltingly, “it’s a music that can’t be heard.

it’s just a low-fi buzz.

never daylight. i must go. the wings kiss me.

the feather touch in my cunt makes it all go away.

always liquid/fascination. my tattoos on my face, they

burn the sky. we’re flayed at midnight, my ideas hurt so much.”

 

“the fluid backs up and clogs the human system,

breaking passion on the

anvil.”

after the words, she moaned.

her eyes closed after the words

the hammering began to subside,

thoughts in succession too fast to be taped. 

 

one is one of each.

it turns to ash in her hands

as she prays kneeling forward:

shoot it.

fly.

copulate in spasms.

 

she handed in her punishment report.

the winged creatures watched

as the insects exited her lips,

 

the smell of female burned her nostrils.

the crucified brides that were kept on display wept slowly, acidly

 

she spoke quite softly and tasted the chains

as the contented victims were slowly

melting outside the windows. rust saliva cocktails for free.

 

black leather skin made from

butterfly wings cloaked her

face, neck, and shoulders.

 

she counted the petals of lust weeping between her legs,

being swept away by sweet smelling breezes. sweat pallor crescendo

insect bodies floating to the dirt. a gentle cyclone tiny in nature.

 

those things that would soon crumble to fading white ash,

those things that are mutating into gentle mounds of dust.

these foolish items made her happy

 

she lay on the stairs,

eyes rolling back,

singing gently to herself.

 

a quiet whisper of flame.

 

the dreaming of petals gently burned

as they floated to the blood-stained carpet.

 

licked by dwarves that were gyrating in the tijuana twilight,

she was speaking in the tongue of the

infernal iguana,

she was born from the daughter of the femme fatale

hidden in the desert

feeling secret weapons under her flesh

 

marked by her spray

as her territory

as the pipeline breaks

her urine’s terror

she happened upon 3 scarred priests as they

sat hunched over a body bag/shadow

they were discussing embarrassed silent sins fitful sleep

after evisceration, they rested in a pool of luminous blue goo,

filtered through black cold sunlight.

 

her sunglasses vibrated with electricity.

 

she lay her head on the lap

of the other watching tasting

a tongue beckoning for that face drenched

in tears and exquisite stains

rain and prayers undulate.

 

a gallery opened: etched in a glass slide, late for the microscope, images of her

phosphorescent ass and vibrating vagina.

tendrils grope the trees just outside,

labeled as pain for the friction couple

small explosions cool glass touch, look closely powerful red sessions

 

as she smashed the mirror, the bites of memories of silvered glass

envisioned the lens, one eye blinking at the wall the other spiraling,

 

pick up the camera to expose herself to

exquisite voyeurism repeatedly. 

 

undulate

 

uncut and uninterrupted

 

 

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Peep-O-Rama

Sins of the Go-Go Girls

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