Peter Marra

Cinq poèmes


The Negative of a Plastic Madonna


There was a time when she lived in different dimensions. 


She was pensive and lay back on the wooden table, ready to be pleasured -  waiting for the nips and licks provided by the glass teeth of love and the tongue of infamy. This was the time. A forgotten body snatcher faced the left rear corner, oblivious to the activities. Its arms gesturing in unknown rhythms, waiting for a detailed map of the choreography. None was coming. She turned her head towards it, barely able to enunciate. She yearned to say some words, just a slight cough was produced. Her tight-fitting blue gown radiated darker and darker hues as the time progressed – a pendulum in her heart swinging. Occasionally her torso stiffened, and her arms ached. Fingers stretched, attempting to grasp.


One day she was visited by the specter of Sal Mineo. He did not know who murdered him, but he suspected it was the results of rough trade. Intense interrogation did not yield any fruitful results. Without missing a beat, he displayed the holes in his palms and his feet and the incision in his side from the spear. 


“You do believe, don’t you? Blessed are they that have not seen, and yet have believed.”


The incandescent blood of Jesus was an intimidation.


“I fantasize often of my fiancé Jill and of Sally Bowles, polishing our switchblades and wreaking havoc in American Suburbia.”


A murder to solve. Depraved detectives arrived at the crime scene – a driveway, looking for a quick fuck and an even quicker solution. A suspect was required – a fall guy, a schmuck. 


“I’m not making that choice anymore. Throw the dice.”


Approximate Lovers


My little gal my little gal and the subway doors slid open, hush my little girl. 4:50 am and the platform stank electric fuzz. Urine heat sweat stepped out onto the platform.


Wandered in and stepped over the slick crimson pool slightly coagulated. Here on the way  the cringing mass slowly mutating under the benches. We went out and we came in, our split face in the puddle. One male one female, and red footprints over the edge


Kissing the cool concrete tasty sweet cakes.


A Targeted Killing for A Chosen Pleasure. It was time. The flea-pit across the street had burned down. Some junkie on the Deuce. The place with the trannies. 


The leather-slap of memory defined by joining hands with the whimpers behind her eyes. She spread friction using precise hand movements, as cunt assassins spent copious amounts of dough. It was a a gusto disgusting; a false image of living dangerously that she despised.


The sun was a history of serious depression, fingering under the lights, flickered awake.


Several rivulets of juice, a journey that ended with a hard slap. Deep fears about assassination attempts kept him in check.


“I don’t feel degraded,” she said.  "How about you?”


Shocked during an invasion of his home, wrap yourself around it. The look on her face as she targeted killings….


Inexorably pushed down towards her command, in silence they closed the stale emotions.


Her lips brushed mine as she injected into her leg, the liquor of her own stench.


We had turn-ons and transgressions, she grabbed our lives, she urged herself on to become delusional. Shame and disgust of morality detrimental to our interests

She was now pawing a female body. The director never set “Cut!”


“I want to jump off. To live away from The Avon 7. Always.”


Produced three good spasms, she actively enjoyed it.


(Her eyes blinked )


“We’ll be accepted by the mainstream,” she said. “You’ll see. You’ll see.”


Out of nowhere, straps of leather. The more recent fetish request was a shameful reminder and a surprise. She looks on people's faces and saw a large number of nerve endings.


Stiletto heel shoes on her body slipping down, full limb-covering leather in desperate protest. 


Carried out conversations in the neighborhood pharmacy, attempting to bust the Benzedrine script. Dr. James had told us where to go.


She belonged to stainless steel


Her Eyes saw the pleasure starting to build


She offered a kiss  


“My parents,” I whispered. “I’ll kill them,” she said.


Sensitive catholic guilt

anticipation of room

back in humiliation

slightly nervous 


“Tonight's fun!” she said.


A Taste of Burnt-Out Memories


V’s memory opened up - click and pop and those thoughts emerged again, like so many times before.


“Are you looking? Can you see? Are you talking? Can you taste me? Smell me, catch my evil aroma?”


“Just give me love. I’ll take it by force. You won’t have mine. No, I can’t tell you what happened. It just hurt deep inside.”


“Verily I say to thee, taste my body, drink my sweat until you’re drunk and puke up. Can’t tell you about it. If you can’t see it then you’ll never know. I feel sorry for you. Move this here, then there. You don’t know what it does, do you? This asshole couldn’t satisfy. Meet you at The Junction 3rd avenue and 40th street. All these women at the bar. I got lost in there. Just syphilitic hookers. Have your cock and eat it too.”


Mostly dread. And neon faces behind pointing digits of unknown origin. Finally the street lights flashed back and gave V the message. Illuminated random passengers carrying memories of things once held in high esteem. Sacred. Cherished. Corrupted by electric monsters and polypropylene dolls.




People lack passion nowadays - no commitment. Fetching silhouette of a vampiress, longing for a meal or maybe just a snack. Breasts and fangs exposed. She cleanses her trembling hands as a trite repentance before her next kill. Sweet human blood. 


Blood on a knife kissed by incandescent amorous pieces of her memory. A talented woman devoid of empathy - sexual in the extreme.


Uncontrollable flesh. Come to me. V didn’t hear me. The door slammed shut. She stood in front of it, smiling at me, bloody fingernails highlighted by artificial light.


“No bad things tonight. Not now. Please.”


The chairs and walls shuddered and screamed as she manipulated the cables that held her together. The cables she had manufactured gave her a sense of security. A mirror screaming soliloquy. Voice of the vacant solitary shadow.


A Delicious Frankenstein


Evening one more time. Closed shops. Bars ejecting the last of their drunken customers. Inside a random dive, bathed in dark red purplish light, a nude woman is perched on a bar stool, legs spread, forced to be the after-hours entertainment. Fingering herself for the hollow patrons. The jukebox had perished so everyone imagined recordings. She was collecting a lot of dollars so she didn’t feel used. She kept repeating this to herself. The vinyl seat was slick with her juice and some blood. 


“Doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter. Wearing a dress later anyways.” Comforting mantra.


Several wild beasts were hiding in her retinas, giving a preview of coming attractions from her brain. Spasmic jerks of hands and lips, lying to her about their intentions. Inanity of their pain elevated the 3 moods of her personalities. The police uncovered no clues, just random blood stains in a locked room, blinds drawn. 


“She looks familiar.”


“Just tryin’ to make a change. Just tryin’ to get over, get away from here. Antenna head microscopic things infected my bloodstream,” she said. "They’re there to punish me. I feel them swimming up and down. Up and down.”


The generators were kicking in, providing a life force for dead flesh. Tingling skin, one more time for a rebirth.


Out of order, she yawned lazily after the 3rd climax. Lazily fingering her pussy as she lay on the red satin sheet. She occasionally lifted her fingers to her nostrils in order to breathe deep the aroma of their mingled sex.”


Kinky ladies, all fellow performers, scryed the possible outcomes. It was determined that there were only 3, and only 1 is relevant. She had discovered the gorgeous beauty that she couldn’t reveal to anyone, not even to this thing she had just fucked.. Trapped in back of the leather mirror, trapped with her vanished faces. Hiding from the sunlight, sequestered from he moonlight, despised by the sky and night. They basked in the light of the film projector at 24 frames a second. Craving a fix, feeling like the scalp of a shrunken head. 


“So high.” 


It was an act of atonement. Many things will be explained if she passes a test, risking disgrace without any qualms. 


“I want to be pretty again, so I can love like a person again. So I can murder mommy and daddy. A mantis in leather.”


Probing Puppets and Peeping Toms


An inchoate schizoid female was on her way to purple insanity. Trapped in the dark suburban house. Coming home. She could see her thoughts throb and take shape at the horizon.  Random laughter. Sometimes, hands grabbed her. 


“Go and pray. And sin no more.” 


[A projector is running]


“I’ll watch my films,” she thought to herself. Not too many, a mini-festival. I have those loops and that old super 8 projector.”


She met a friend later on. She gestured slowly and caught their attention.


“Look at my pale white legs. Gorgeous. Gorgeous. You’re trapped now. We’re trapped now. Outside the theater - we saw them earlier - that’s where the cruel people dwell. The fuckers who don’t like us.”


Her mute companion looked at her. Remained motionless. Frozen. Paint peeling from his face.


“I’ll start the first loop,” she said. My pick.


That Great Whatsit that no one could provide. Something that would make her complete. V the hollow woman. Nothing was helping.She wanted to run, to sit in the hot seat. One more fuse blown. Many eyes at the window. The curtain had gone up in the cubicle. The peepshow was open. Next door, couples were pretend-fucking at Show World. 


That Great Whatsit. V, the Hot One - a new film that premiered yesterday. The woman with all the answers. 


I’ll do it next time. Under the black moon. Next time.


Peter Marra has had over 300 poems appear either in print or online in over 25 journals. His collections include: approximate lovers (downtown materialaktion) from Bone Orchard Press; Vanished Faces (a performance of occult infections) from Writing Knights Press; Peep-O-Rama: Sins of the Go-Go Girls and Random Crucifixions: Obsessions, Dolls & Maniac Cameras, both from Hammer & Anvil Books. His debut novel, the surrealistic giallo A Naked Kiss from a Broken Doll (Hammer & Anvil Books, 2019) was well-received. He is currently completing a collection of prose poems, as yet untitled. 


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Website: www.angelferox.com