an exquisite darling
a gift from the pulsating iris of the overhanging sky
came to rest between here and there
caressed by the kisses of a million lost butterflies
hidden by the petals of a million sighing anemone flowers
silent in the darkness
hiding from the electric oscillations of the frantic medusa
waiting for the right time to find her lover
hidden in the alternating evening waves of light
between then and now - she walks slowly into a soft white noise
her eyes piercing ebony walls
kissing her true love
before lying down in the black sand
“our love must be reinvented over /over /over”
at the end of the night
she would reveal what she had been telling me all evening
the great beauty and the great secret of her love
once gone but now returned
molded into the flesh of the luminous withdrawing sky
she entered the alcove and prayed at the figures that were
staring down at us from the electric balcony
A sphinx asked her “when does love end?”
and she replied, “never.”
Consecrated Torsos of the Holy Mannequins
(A Rabid Woman’s guide to Peepshows - Inspired by True Events)
Prologue: “Esther Williams dropped acid once. She described it as ‘Instant Psychoanalysis.’
Swollen and purplish
her visions on Saturday Night
beneath her, the body responded
her hips titillating yet fraudulent
her humanity was a tiresome burden
she passed the time by reveling in obscene expressions
bathing in black sunlight – ravaged thoughts
twisting turned into tomorrows followed by yesterdays
continuous dissolves that started then
continuing into today,displaying defilements from
long ago – sleeping in the salty mist
anointed with her musky fluids
waiting for another time
she was offered a choice between good and evil
the confessional had recently been electrified. no matter.
this made her happy.
she walked in.
(waiting for the human pain again)
thunder or vibration - what could be felt?
others were watching the booths behind the infernal lenticular screen
sullen and nude shadow players masturbating slowly and deeply
a disembodied face,
unstructured voices on the floor
murmuring about a dancing cadaver of smiles
“What I love is this,” she said.
“You’ll look gorgeous as usual,
fluids will flow freely,” she added.
“We’ll really overdo it.”
Enter this way to the party of sin.
Rabid teeny boppers were now wiser and out of control
Her sigil of protection vibrated softly under her so soft tongue.
another eucharist to swallow, she was filled up now
a fast way to the hot stuff
warm, moist, comforting, as she dragged it across her navel
penetrating slightly for a taste,
then proceeding to the labia that had resumed enunciating unknown words.
She loved these lips, protruding slightly,
a mixture of sweat and woman-cum potions.
its magick intoxicated her
over and over as she attempted Love Potion Overdose #9
their backs arched violently as
orgasmic waves welcomed flashes of
deep blue neon –
as an orgone accumulator trapped
under fractured glass wheezed
A silence enveloped them as their frames merged.
(body discovered buried in the park)
consciousness illuminated by the growing transgressions
(stretched, torn, confused)
discarded politicians, the
(thick slabs of meat hidden backstage)
the targets of her hatred
she assassinated their pimps and
used the flayed skins as her new disguise
as she ventured into the Valley of the Dolls
Hallucinogenic Horror with a Christian Understanding
Plastic comfort comes with a price
a twisted dove of a robotic nature slept in her bosom last night,
as she tallied her nursery rhymes.
Numerous victims of punishments and
psychopaths provided little comfort for our outcasts.
they were hidden in rooms of iron roses, in fabrications of bliss.
Sex-scenes just didn’t do “it” for her,
so she indulged in frivolities and committed crimes,
usually accompanied by murderous laughter.
A fugue of a murder on an endless loop: background – low /low volume.
“Barely discernible,” the critics had written, but she heard it distinctly.
After kissing her lovers in the park, she rolled with them on the grass – warm summer rain – cleansing and soothing their bodies.
At the final moment, she revealed the secluded instruments - always infatuated with the gleam of her tools.
Even on this grey day she was happy and decided to be gentle. only the most important areas were noticed. the faint hissing of the summer earth frightened the white doves. she wept as they took flight.
They bled out quickly, coating her face, lips, throat and heart.
They bled out quickly, nourishing the soil.
Pale figurines, once small, grew to full size in her aftermath.
“It was envy,” they said. “It was pain.”
“So, we’re alone now. One is here, one is there. Behind walls we feel healthy. They won’t get me here,” she repeatedly said.
Chateau garden of torrid flesh experiments. final words for a sin twice removed. telepathic transfers of her emotional state from one fractured being to another. she is exceptional: an exquisite murderess of disjointed egos.
Undefinable pain arrived until it was an overwhelming blur, then it quickly left.
The background changed as a tattoo artist transcribed her favorite words onto quivering, flinching skin, sweaty from the shock.
The prime target was the inner thigh – a route to the perverse, amidst the tiny laughter of insects.
A mandible had taken hold.
Originally from Gravesend Brooklyn, Peter Marra lived in the East Village, New York from 1979 to 1993 at the height of the punk – no wave music era. His published works include approximate lovers (downtown materialaktion) (Bone Orchard Press), Peep-O-Rama: Sins of the Go-Go Girls (Hammer & Anvil Books) and Vanished Faces (a performance of occult infections) published by Writing Knights Press. His latest poetry collection is Random Crucifixions: Obsessions, Dolls and Maniac Cameras(Hammer & Anvil Books).
Peter’s latest work is A Naked Kiss from a Broken Dollpublished by Hammer & Anvil Books. He was Danse Macabre Magazine’s Artist-in-residence for the year 2018.