Three Poems by Peter Marra

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Poly-Styles of the Rabid Swans

1. a naked body contorts in various sensitive places, struggling to offend the masses.

looking for attention. showing the viewers a taste reminiscent of light rays.

eyeing the ripe camera. signing away your rights just for entertainment.

convulsing again. the split skin of the clouds vibrated so gently, almost

imperceptibly. she was clenching as she sang humorous phrases of passion and

shame. spurted right out of the mouth, stillborn as it traveled through the

atmosphere.

2. blood was used for a disguise. despite her promises, she had committed murder

again. “so weary from working the system,” she had posted a few days ago. no hits

received. she bent over and snaked the sins over the top again and over again. a

very dark shade of pleasure climaxed without sound; not silence, just a vacuum of

noise made itself known. albino hands mauled flesh transposing it to goo. “the

heads in the trees will not forgive you,” she said.

3. a sadist counts her fingers over and over. that’s what they had taught her to do in

the hospital. the automobiles accused her, so they would never pick her up; that

was the reason they gave. she had disemboweled the dispatcher and hung his

entrails in the tree next to the heads. she had licked the smoke of the matches she

had used to set the remains on fire. such a funny memory. ” the cameraman got

some good angles didn’t he?” use obscene images to surround the mind, to

prevent recurrent thoughts.

4. the laboratory tests had begun. the second swab that was inserted deeper than

the first reached unknown areas and it hurt. but the patient didn’t cry. she just

clenched her teeth and whimpered slightly praying that this would soon be over.

another unanswered prayer. interrogation for enlightenment. she couldn’t

answer. she had memories that bothered her now. these activities had awakened

them and she twitched with regret, murmuring to herself, so she could stop the

feelings.

5. slight whistling in the background as pages fall to the floor. faded tropism.

around her lips grey pain. around her eyes were symptoms. gears of love gazing,

sliding reflected in a black dildo. drugged figurines offered visitations from the

ceiling, rising out of the myriad cracks in the plaster. taught herself . ass spread

“pay now.”

6. After a time, it seemed to have gone numb and juicy. another shooting. shot up

blind. dance on the very tips. she felt tears prick her skin. the construction of the

treatment room had begun. leashes came out from dark places to control the

unruly and remove all justice. hand movement increased the pain. whispered

harshly while riding out time. she felt so intensely alive. they attached one day to

the other and proclaimed this was normal. cradle a head in hands. despite her

promises, she had committed murder again and again. parts of the human world

vanished.

 

Crimson Insomnia

a deep black. a deep red. a profound silence she began touching. it was time to change.

a very tired brain draws connections between sex & lies. gnawed meat…the teeth grew

rotten. we stepped back to savor the systems of religion and to experience intense

pleasures and pains. it was as if she agreed. she was disgusted by her ability to market

herself

immoral laws controlled the top floor, the moonlight and her tongue today.

she opened her eyes. so very wet. still blind; she must like the idea just slightly

to push. to transcend one’s normally perceived sacraments used

to regain sight just push. a female woke up with flaming panties

muscles excruciating. burdened by flashes of embarrassment about what we took

one after another from each other. membranes stretched taut in a lascivious

fashion over writhing latex bodies. in practice, it was a method allowed for now,

causing even more shock to all parts of her as she lay down on the table

and became one with the altar while holding the disembodied cock to her breasts,

the moistened flesh shimmered slightly. she wept because she could not dream.

she dreamt of her tears scalding the skin. the husbands couldn’t stand watching this

scenario on film. once – shy wives had no passion-driven apologies. ambrosia caused her

tongue to swell. she refused and so he went.

a nervous laugh. an inserted finger. a grimace

intense focus on the extended black box with trip wires attached as her mouth burned.

her pornography is guilty of extremes under moonlight. the rite is a prayer needed at the

13th strike of the clock

she was a fairly immobile lunatic who conjured spirits inside us

as her magical techniques birthed a compulsion that made her eat…teeth grew

she could feel the temptation to figure out how to please. this was all consensual,

it was quite easy, her hands disappeared perhaps because of the way our bodies react

she cut away her dress and found a common joy in all of this.

it was a fairly immobile lunatic who conjured spirits inside of pleasure

she had walked as the public imagined. she had a spasm torn belly.

she kissed reflections in any glass. she laughed when past images reappeared.

a video bleeding onto the sidewalk glass beads oozed from between her legs and plopped

to the ground and then rolled, then rolled then cracked the heavenly brides that she had

nailed down smirked and lied about new clothes and sexy outfits

alone in the garden she dreamt of the sea and how it would be red as blood she would lie

in the black sand as the tide licked her toes to the accompaniment of atonal sounds

 

Party Motifs in Decayed Lenses

she could always get madness. she tasted like the nectar of foreign invaders.

symbolic catalogs dismissive hands and she blinked her eyes.

she would be comfortable for the next 5 minutes until the panic

would set in once more.

esoteric decks foretold the next few minutes. that’s when her lips became moist with the

black tide. colorful steaming water. she steals while

peeking eyes are compelled to watch the spurting. she shoots as fingers point at her

relishing verbs of hatred. as the bodies fall pressing. the pad hard under carnage.

under the sidereal zodiac. don’t make the film appear under the slick tongues of the

audience. she rolls onto her back

(pop!)

listen to aching punishing rhythm everlasting spearing whomever she fancies.

bathed in preparation, then dressed but after cruel amusement

her back stiffened. she cuts and slices as tongues point at her.

licking adjectives of pleasure as the scorpion mounted.

a witch who revived the cloud. it came as an alleged messianic figure.

attacked with all the criteria necessary to kill. magically created by hands to pull teeth.

she appeared in summer as a mouth displaying an inspired biting

slicing the black leather motorcycle jacket to reveal a pair of glowing eyes and a decayed

mouth to kiss. a crowd gathered to celebrate a trail of teeth marks up and down the

dying sunday nights: that perpetually boring and frightening time.

wet stuff dribbled down each cheek as it remained watching.

as the crescents of light died midway eyes rolled under and over.

lips quivered as she took his life baptizing her cravings. thrown hypos at a sea of walls.

an attempt to cure childhood afflictions. over the phone: “please come home”

faintly whispered. hard cut dropping tasted like nectar off foreign invaders.

gates of paradise not less innocent faking dead for a little hunger.

she popped back out of her instructions to be submissive until her entire body was

covered. they both were photos. they both were 3-d. as the mystery sects turned a

sorrow into a pleasure integrated with the tender misuses that worsened the panic

under a climax she rolls onto her back.

(pop!)

self-medication habit

skin bump hives vein pump flash

By Peter Marra

A native New Yorker, Peter continues to reside in New York City. His earliest recollection of the writing process is, as a 1st grader, creating a children’s book with illustrations. The only memory he has of this project is a page that contained a crayon drawing of an airplane caught in a storm. The caption read: “The people are on a plane. It is going to crash. They are very scared.” A Dadaist and Surrealist, Peter Marra’s writings explore alienation, addiction, love, secrets, and obsessions. Peter’s latest published work is approximate lovers (downtown materialaktion) published by Bone Orchard Press: (http://boneorchardpress.blogspot.com/2014/04/approximate-lovers-downtown.html)

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