Analgesic Beasts of Eve by Peter Marra

The screen split. Moan.

Criselda entered the room. There was a stool in the center of the room. Five feet in front of the stool was a shiny steel bucket, the kind that professional kitchens use to carry sauces. Against one wall was a black leather couch set up to view the stool and pail. Criselda could smell the leather. A 1935 Philips radio (floor model) was in the right corner behind her. She wore high patent leather heels ca. 1945 and had an iron taste in her mouth. Her body was draped in gauze, her long black hair was slightly damp and above her upper lip was a thin line of perspiration. She drew her shaky fingers through her hair in frustration, slowly pulling out a few strands as part of the process.

“Sing. Song. Show.”

Overhead was a circular fluorescent bulb.

“Pale.” She raised her hand in front of her eyes. The light traced the capillaries in her finger webs.

She walked towards the stool; /click /clack as her heels touched the waxed parquet floor. She briefly admired the intricate designs under her feet.

She sat down.

She hummed a monotone note as she stood up and stood over the pail. Slowly a strong stream of hot urine flowed into the receptacle. When done, she lifted the pail above her head, continuing the monotone note repetition. After her offering, and with legs spread apart, she poured the contents onto the floor. The squiggly creatures (furry and moist) that were inside her Bakelite retinas became manifest and perched on the couch to watch. She stopped humming and sat down.

“My, my, gentlemen. A dollar from each of you please.” No release.

Something was vocalized from the love canal. She reached inside and thought awhile, looking up at the sheet metal ceiling and licked her black fingernails.

“A sharp tingle to overflowing.”

She screamed and bent over, begging forgiveness. The figures on the couch were silent.

The jury never had a verdict. The fluorescent flickered occasionally and buzzed slightly. Other females entered, naked and silent, to sit on the couch and watch the show. She had nothing to give them. The iron taste grew stronger as she darted her tongue quickly between maroon lips. The screen split once more and she fell backwards. The furry beings were on top of her, snickering and clicking as they took what they came for: pieces of skin, hair, gauze, so they could construct stick dolls. Figures constructed, she was barren.

Radio on.

The naked women touched each other and dreamed as their eyes rolled backwards, naked backs sweaty / sticky on the couch.

“The music is too loud,” the middle woman said. The woman on the left got up, walked toward the radio, switched the radio off, and then tasted her fingers.

The woman on the right smiled.

Criselda lay still.

© 2011 Peter Marra

Peter Marra lives in Williamsburg Brooklyn. Among his influences are Tristan Tzara, Paul Eluard, Edgar Allan Poe, Russ Meyer, and Roger Corman. He has either been published in or has work forthcoming in Caper Literary Journal, amphibi.us, Yes Poetry, Maintenant 4, Beatnik, Crash, Danse Macabre, Clutching At Straws O Sweet Flowery Roses, Breadcrumb Scabs,Carnage Conservatory, and Dark Chaos. He is currently constructing his first collection of poems.

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