Peter Marra

Poetry

 

 

 

7 Sacraments (chiller theatre)

 

Clothed

in barbed wire delirium

we walk up the street to the house

 

She

licks the knives clean

after we finish our project in the frightened summer

 

It’s

time to go home and

attend to the garden while the noises fall

 

Where

the watchers rest. cloudy retina.

then look up at us and take some time to

 

Close

their eyes silently

soft rain and Spanish moss

 

Bruised

Bruised faces

frozen to the window

 

Puffy eyes gazing inside

watching the lone figure

 

stare at walls bathed in

cathode rays but she’s not watching

 

He’s praying:

Praying for the ghost bike

 

white / frozen

to offer some relief

 

rocket fuel speedy escape

from the cardboard box room

 

and it all accuses

(a boudoir in flames)

 

Wet. Clock.

dead. baby jane sleeping.

 

 

 

plasticon gang girls

 

please tell us about the saints

in bondage

please describe these benefits

no memories

no memoirs

the color of war itself was used to paint

 

a few moaning crimes split the drive-in. splices

were lubricated to express her anger about them.

crimes against property were equally important

this occurred in the middle of a brutal naked evening

just one of a vast number of futile acts

 

an hourglass torso became apparent as moans emanated

from the dance of the leeches. in the distance

the holes of the fleeing marble figures were tortured

for pain and pleasure

infecting pleasure with pain.

the big blackout arrived after the businesses had closed.

 

plugs were pulled. a tongue danced, shifting positions

the women licked switchblades before flinging them at

the eyes of wandering philosophers who betrayed

their words. love was burnt in the junkyard with

the cast off Harleys.

 

their lips never closed. that taste never went away.

trying to live by chewing furiously

these mischievous legs clenched around a neck

with one swift movement it was over.

 

suddenly she walked out of the room. rancid pearls dropped, then

mouths with violets drooping down slouched away toward prisons

all was blood stained.

so frantic

so naughty

 

one day we'll start over. the slaps from above will stop.

once a serial killer, mirrors now appear adventurous

they discovered a number of picture composites

cheeks spread apart by frigid fingertips

 

so sleepy

the touch comes often

the virgin opened her eyes

with a peacock scream.

 

tasting mirrors

look through it

the fever of fuck

a hot ass in a crime-ridden slum

all over for now for her

she had no liberty to take

she announced she wouldn't follow.

 

they carried them off

would have come

her words finally slipped low enough

this lady was something:

the pinup queen was cut short

the woman in plaster 

her lips and the illusions

from inside

looked quite content

 

a body wrapped 

bodily injury

a torso of flesh encased in leather

wrapped tightly – no music – the room is bare

a black smooth plastic floor

white washed walls

the ceiling is a fresco of wise female faces

their eyelids painted with heavy makeup

shimmering laces are wrapped around her tightly

 

barely moving to the vanishing noise

(a new sound source has been plugged into

the left corner wall outlet)

 

acts with water are depicted in the stained glass window

through which the electric light passes.

her eyes move slightly but she recognizes nothing

her female companion knits rope in the background

 

her lips parted slightly and

a red petal drifted out

her lips parted slightly and

a trickle of white

a soft cascade

gently rolled down

 

a vintage amateur never named

a loop of images removing pleasures,

the women fingered themselves anyway

nothing else to do

 

 

 

Of  Whispered Oddities: "Just what is it that makes today's homes so

different, so appealing?”

 

(from a collage by English artist Richard Hamilton)

 

Moisture interrupted her

thoughts

Vexations became Fine drops that oozed from

the 7 hanged men overhead

Lithe memories twisting

slowly under the [pain of] moonbeams

She had arrived for pleasure but

stayed to enjoy a crime

 

she’s a true detective in search of clues

so she can help the criminals hide

 

tied. Tired.

firm full ass like the kind last seen in romance comics

juices gushing out circa 1972. Shape-shifter sex-pot.

 

three decades until the turn

sucking the soft clouds under her skin

tightening over a morning that led to zero

hollow screams led to her loneliness

led to her face tattooed on skies

led to her observations

male voice /female sensations

humid summer

sweat on muscle

evening face against stucco

against steel biting

dirty melting sax pierced by a fender bass

vaginal revenge wrapped around a penis of treason

 

a human hand hides itself from the sins it has committed

some remnants slid down her chin and

only later did it all become clear.

 

stretched screaming but no sound

aching throat: the blood and thunder seen in person

a voice from his disease forced her to go into hiding

the hidden cures slipping out

we’re waiting for that response

and the reluctant activities of sexual sculptures

 

that’s the only thing that cures

 

can’t find its function

beating hearts touching

she’s standing in her own other life again

scratching her face with the other one’s finger nails

savoring the existence she had abandoned

she returned to make things straight

 

she donned a corset of mesh so she

could view her own flesh

the beads of sweat working their way through

 

she donned a corset of wire so she

could hurt her own flesh

the beads of blood working their way through

 

she donned a corset of leather so she

could contain her own flesh

the beads of fluid hidden from them

 

they draw the line at assassination they say

 

it enveloped us in fear

 

don’t be afraid to pass from one state to another

mystical words etched in chalk

a well know collage dissolved by July rains

 

the creepy-crawlers

the time machine

and the melted plastic faces grin

 

random fingers cupped the air

held it close to understand

some reasons not specified

 

peer throw the peephole

 

when out in the hallway:

dual feminine forms fingered nighttime words

check the balance of each image

 

out in the hallway:

cascading flowers violets drawn

against bricks and mortars buildings collapse

 

on the fire escape:

biting each other’s lips

coalescing into one

 

beating themselves under a common prayer

a germ line condition

she fell over and returned my mantra

before it was all murdered.

sin wins with decomposing bodies

 

well, compare it to mainstream violent activities

she decided to tug and pull just like this and that

you won’t be in style anymore.

it's way fucked for what must be

 

her eyes closed and

she discovered true nature of man

the true lives of human culture

i stood there watching her ebony straight hair

grow damp then

clipped a souvenir

and placed it on the glass table top

i slid underneath and looked up to grasp all the textures and shimmers

then walked around to the other side of the film.

 

this strange one.

 

the father of us all fell down the ladder,

looked up from position then passed away,

both her pussy and her eyes bled out of her and

she lovingly pulled apart the details

 

casually shot day for night

a lightbulb nestled in between the thighs

a murderous plan in the iron den,

will you stay for the night?

embarking on a life about half way gone. 

 

"ahhhh! the chest heaved once more.

if this piece is

part of the universal hum

it was betrayed by

your creaking;

by the heavy footsteps,” she mumbled.

 

one doorway possessed another

cold-light touching a figure on either side

entryways long forgotten

a smashing of devotions

a slashing of lust

 

while devouring each other,

the ravenous couple stepped out of events based loosely

upon real-life occurrences

a post-it note contained minimal details of his biography

a small memory that she tore up with glee and

 

then she was free. A photographic record of these events exist today.

 

 

 

Peter Marra writes from Queens, New York.