FADE IN
You are all beautiful, like my heart.
the hands that went wild
as the couple hitchhiked on the flayed flesh road –
four soft indentations.
accentuated pores rising to the surface,
sweat asphalt dead breaths in vibra-color.
there were various bodies identified
by DNA scraped off knees and bruised elbows.
the roles we played out
were given to us
to investigate the intrusion,
and we found fear in the laughter
from her throat.
our goal – to find any information that Mrs. X would convey,
stories about how she hid her offspring
perhaps a method to roll again.
let us go away,
we were filthy with road dirt
and with particles of dreams,
seen lurking near the dark light.
A SERIES OF SHOTS – A DISTANT PLANET JUPITER (MINIATURE)
attacked in this bedroom generation of
the hot vision of a fantasy,
which resulted in a risk of being impaled.
the mother of all of you again and again
her lusty cries went unheeded.
WIDER ANGLE
these needs were not satisfied by robberies,
we climbed higher by performing criminal acts
the crowd quietly spits,
choking on its justifications for violence
and its slaughter of innocents.
she was found in the glass,
mouthing references and examples
of wounds to her body because
these crimes committed against her,
were designed as a product of the American Spirit,
variants of their tongues
constricted, sucked dry.
CLOSER ANGLE – TRACKING
a dark figure looming over this tableau
stood, well-covered in the black window.
it moaned even louder
as it returned
A shredded '67 Mustang ripped to shreds
they never see what's coming,
trapped between her legs.
she fed on its body
you are all so beautiful as the
rain cools the earth.
she and I felt our faces cleansed
by the shuddering climax of dawn.
FADE OUT
THE END
Trapped in a fetal position
Like so many others
The account of his plans gone awry
She lived on a stage
Eternally bathed under a red glow
Embers crashed at the footlights
Flushed audience populated with losers
Autumn pictures dripping
To entice people of all classes
Two-bit viewers—no chance
of fantasy
Abandoned
by spelunkers who never returned
the grieving widow's chest heaves,
Remove this genre so often imitated:
this rare possibility of pleasure now gone
I can't touch you
I can't reach you
She said she was retching, slowly
flickering in and out
(Director's cut):
Coming soon to a
theater near you.
in the opening scene,
everyone is slashed
up by her.
dilation.
tomorrow would
be different, she would
participate in filming
and
eradicate her
shyness
examine the
anecdotal evidence.
as she recounts the amorous techniques
displayed by reptiles
in the passion parlour.
the dance collapsed.
her vacant stare.
nude, she groped at the night.
feeling stimulated
by shows, pictures, photoplays
and
the lick of images flickering on
the video screen,
she fell
from grace.
flushed skin, mental pallor.
a clock
spins its
hands, spraying
faces
with time-fluid as the
crucifix bends
over to
giggle at her.
the authorities filed a report:
sexy swelling
movie cravings,
crazy babes
waiting for the next
ones to talk, to beg, to kiss,
she ripped the fabric,
revealing
the secret ending.
A dadaist and a surrealist, Peter Marra's writing explores alienation, addiction, love, lust, the havoc that secrets can wreak, and obsessive behaviors. His chapbook sins of the go-go girls was published by why vandalism? Press. Peter's published work may be viewed at available as an e-book at Amazon.
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