under a shifting nighttime
under a slow membrane,
a dark moistness was warmed up as time ate itself,
the vinyl sexpot from an ebony nightmare
discharged passengers along the street,
leaving the random cargo to be picked up.
she cherished the memories of the gray city in early
spring just before the plants started to grow
an aftertaste of lust on the tip of her tongue. tingle.
her confession was short and
to the point:
“pornographic holy
images make me so all
electric it’s wrapped delirious Sin”
seeking. rising up. straining.
breathing fingers, stroking herself
push in an emotion,
push away a touch,
push in the fear,
as she was unwrapped slowly,
revealing herself in primary colors:
(unthinking. a system.
there is a shivering and a quake in
between the landscapes
that are no longer here.
perhaps never existed.
can’t stop thinking as
runaround thoughts keep building,
the doors are severing walls in
the hugging rooms,
unable to lie dormant,
just burning blind,
as the slight tremors of
satisfaction were killed).
required lust rips one mind
under a 90 mph dry desert fuck afterthought,
inside flesh,
outside lust,
collapsing buildings,
while razors were carving initials in thin clouds and
eyelashes batted to the thumping sound slap.
reveal the buzzing outline of her form,
touching time. taste it.
camera pointed at her face:
(feminine methamphetamine sweat poured
into a broken tumbler,
run the lips over / under,
tongue beating on twisted flesh,
feeling some crawls and some itches).
play the part of disapproval ,
worse than average.
build trust and intimacy.
3 bellies lay
twisted in corners,
it was a mantra of
fingers never letting go.
fire clasps released the blue words
among the birds fleeing into purple liquids,
under a mushroom cloud.
a fever wrapped in fingerprints with
bites of silence.
an aktion of malice.
taking the camera’s sexuality exclusively.
go away in neon pleasure,
stapled to the eyes.
can’t remove them
burned in
scarred,
a delight of formication
a prance with tiny legs
fornication ablaze with pain and
desire and rejection.
that’s what she liked to give and to receive:
a pin-up gimmick.
“can’t ssstop sshaking,” she said
her teeth clattered,
her heels click-clacked.
she said,
“i’ll wait to forgive you as
you scale the barbed wire.
i’ll wait for you to tell me as the
scalpels are buried with the sunbeams.
we’ll watch immoral behavior and
we’ll baptize vacant eyes,
as the rare vampires become content,
adjusting reception and watching
Bettie Page in a rare speaking role.
under the black rainbow.”
a borderline material beckoned the
mechanism that causes reality,
as the smell of sulphur teased
and much happier weekend home-movies were filmed.
her moans inverted circadian rhythms.
we discovered that the pin-up images could be cut
and reused as sensitive skin that would loop endlessly.
she swallowed hard.
the screaming joined us together.
(again and again the trained birds,
enacted an apache-style dance.
a duo to make her whimper)
still tickling,
the searing pain
was standing out vividly to
everyone who saw with hands and
had lips moving
from the previous movies.
now all films caused physical pain and swelling,
fetish inflicting and longing for growing.
they have a talent for attracting:
high heels fucked,
clicked and flashing in a play room.
the camera was disguised.
the feminine shutter burst rapidly,
as real vampires dreamt of mythological tattoos.
pinned-up, soaking up exceptions.
this always felt right.
she retired from modeling
and played the part of a streetwalker
that walked in circles around the corridor.
she got the attention of everyone present before
she brought them home wrapped
in her expired Eastman color film stock.
way past the expiration date we enjoyed only primary colors.
buried clothes. it was a questionable mission.
after the removal turned into a climax nightmare.
she reveled in the crippled flight paths and
canceled retinas of her lovers’ failures
Primarily a poet, Peter Marra has had over 200 poems published either in print or online in over 25 journals. Also, he has had a short story appearing in each of the first 3 editions of the Have a NYC anthologies published by Three Rooms Press. His latest published work is approximate lovers (downtown materialaktion) published by Bone Orchard Press. Peter’s e-chapbook Sins of the Go-Go Girls, was published in 2013 by Why Vandalism? Press, and another e-chapbook peep-o-rama, published by Hammer and Anvil Press, is available as a Kindle Edition at Amazon. He has just completed a new poetry collection, Vanished Faces (a performance of occult infections).
Peter Marra’s writings explore alienation, addiction, secrets, obsessions and love.
–Art by Menerva Tau