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
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
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
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
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
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
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.
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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Intoxicating poems from Peter Marra