she couldn’t be heard
she couldn’t be seen
as she was lifting her arms backwards
as she gazed at the clock face embedded in each palm
as light streamed through the pinpricks
she saw that she knew
as she ignored spying figures
pierced in sound resurrected by sight
the needles glowed
salty taste of sweat licked off
her skin by trembling tongues
pinholes in a sky in clouds
and in a body
under the collapsing new building
clear mirrors mouthed images
before we crossed the bridge
rivulets trembled under science
a licking haze that clung around us
a relishing pull-back then denial
silence told us what to do
clinging then tearing apart
whirring rapidly. a pinwheel.
thrown against the sky whose fabric
had ripped. all was new
black and white
she touched the
white paint screamed
Beyond Pleasure For Pain For Some Blessed Souls
State 1: Down The Sides Of Counter-Clockwise
the water and floating cars:
youthful eyes bleeding by the shore
words destroyed in a climaxed blue dawn
solitary photos of her sex strewn on shore
lap lap lapping
another rainy day
and she had murder-appeal
the loose girl everyone
the one with the razor
drives it all home
just like she wanted
the golden ratio
phosphorescent edge of dusk wrapped
around her neck
she brought the details
she reeks of the past and
the order of unreason
driving the hips as
wickedness lives above the flesh
sex within the flesh
the guys yelled at her.
the hands to torture information
you’re beautiful he said while being nailed;
a gift touch of the fear corset
his compliments didn’t buy time
the gang walked in on them
dragged him across the floor
the door opened again and a different
female breed strolled in salty with blood from
her face obscenely grinned and gained a cult following
madness began to be conceived as a desire to have cruelty
dances unending unseen unheard
before long the warm tongues of her wet mouths
licked the electric chair
before he sat down
as a hot-shot curdled the veins
from a great and wide night
where the police
died slowly touching
as milk spewed forth from the clouds
blackened by the lust of the
miserable daughter of silence
later they blotted out the handwriting
that described her fear of so many things
it slipped right inside you.
of modern suicide
a song in praise
of vacant eyes
a laughter containing the
rapid sex of words and things
pearls covered in blood and juice
a dose on the dining room table
an image melded
in the bed situated between a
climax and a hollow scream
she lay down to rest, waiting a brief moment for desire
unable to speak to an anonymous collection
naughty dreams and actions collided to music
and she thought
and she thought
State 2: The Burden Of Annette Funicello
lips moved. they refused
a copy of the video.
disjointed touches on her body
that he wouldn’t give.
mad under the supervision
in the beginning said she.
thank you for giving me the image,
a modern day sex symbol.
when first inflamed,
later forever lost.
the 3 natures of
as virtues denote
a little blood
now slowly hard
against the grain
a description of what is morally speaking.
her cunt lips and clit popped
as she saw necessary.
the sex became clinical
and rote then.
a quark arose behind her
eyelids seen only when her eyes
closed and licked the irises.
she handed them over and kissed
each of her palms
by the shimmering lake
seated at a table going for
who to give it to?
a wicked grin as she
licked her fingers,
then they opened to
to be the
planted her feet firmly
her naked hips aware of the mental
like the orgasm just ending.
It was just
a last song
exit the green world
to the sound of dogs as the
eyes shut again
A Pharmacology for Sadists: (Screenplay for Her·Me·Neu·Tics ) /ˌhərməˈn(y)o͞odiks/ noun
the branch of knowledge that deals with interpretation, especially of the Bible or literary texts.
“you still see yourself as a scientist don’t you?
in just 40 days you have a date with the hangman.
for a climax you’ll strangle the preacher they’ve sent to hear your confession.”
a doped up heiress read her thesis while accompanied by
wailings of rhythmic beasts in heat:
“everyone is so politically
correct. (long pause)
epiphanies avoided instead of jerking latent sexual organs to arousal and
frigging to enter the wastelands.
makes me (beat) fuckin’ sick.
sex equals art equals starry starry pussy and a
random lunatic’s cock. they’re using me to
pass through to that other place. my faith has been severely
she told of uncontrollable mental illness,
branded by the superstitious virtuous virtual vulva incarnate,
punished in every form. she said, “such operations will increase
split it wide open.”
unstable (me) leaving it behind.
they were saying now
they were just saying (about you).
piercing dancers performed for customers to
replace modern emotions with a stripper show,
while drifting into unconsciousness. stretched or tied up.
genital areas remained obscured,
until the censors were eviscerated by ladies from the cloisters.
invariably female, performing mid-coitus,
these women lived with contained evidence
indicating there were gaping wide slowing lunar shifts.
a new pussycat trapped by the revolving
staircases well-greased with fluid chasing images.
radio news broadcasted the evidence: so foul and wicked.
casual sex interrogations for goody-two-shoes
(a dancer just for herself)
killed by revealing attire on the television talk-show,
another broadcast barren, shallow and stupid.
INT. HOTEL LOBBY – NIGHT
highly-explicit imagery classified as exotic.
the sound-scape of the bed tossed and turned,
mauling its occupants.
just a kiss for her before driving away.
she resented her lovers because they kept her brains in a jar,
subject to review and re-use and resentment.
a gently teased slit appeared in plaster.
her notices were written by pencil points dipped in urine.
“can i blame them?” she asked
distinct personality trait
she lifted and ducked into another form
quickly quietly into another room
quiet concern a spectacle she can enjoy
woman’s face of running mascara on cells
more intensely than pictures especially for you
animals turn into people very
pulled back life
overcoming internalized barriers
and periods of prudish repression
BenzeDream of Modigliani’s tomb
i cried when i saw it: she (forgotten) was buried there too
littered with crayon homages and blood
it was all about muffling her moans
muffled music closeted cravings
psychotherapy: theory, research, makeup running
she stepped into the booth glanced down collapsed
battling the ignored prophets for her denied cravings
she played with power,
relishing the stink of booze, smoke and semen in the carpet.
she pushed its head down into the wall-to-wall and
gave it a snout-full.
she made it help her to tell the story she deserved,
those creatures of online sexuality to hire
“makes you feel like something/someone
coated in the 8mm skin of expanded night,
to cover the tightness of the collapsing dawn,
morphing into high digital copies.
these will last forever always remembering your
past pleasures, until the clock implodes and lust mutates,
branded by the superstitious virtuous virtual vulva incarnate.
emitted from medical gloves
dexterous vocal passages and two billows of lust
a brief portrait while waiting to imitate in nylon
covering a face her face
kill the katalyst in aktion in morphine
EXTREMELY LONG SHOT:
(she whispered, “you still see yourself as a scientist don’t you?
i’ll suck up your bitterness,
transform your hate and then leave you in darkness.
and you’ll strangle the preacher sent to hear your confession,
the guy with the white patent leather gore stained shoes.”)
a straight taut line of fluid will splice the sky,
as eyes roll backwards and the towers wriggle in reversals
she’ll anoint silhouettes as tongues clean her stilettos.
“any way you want it baby.”
drops fall onto glistening skins
systematic inversions of the movements of a social order
sneak a kiss
she could hear the buzzing
she was continuing to kiss
it was right next to her overlooked
“any way you want it baby”
Peter Marra started his journey in Gravesend Brooklyn, traveling through Coney Island, landing in Manhattan’s East Village and Times Square, mixing in with the punks, no-wavers and random castoffs in the underground, gathering images, impressions and emotions. Peter has had four poetry collections published. His latest is Random Crucifixions published by Hammer & Anvil Books. A surreal/transgressive thriller, A Naked Kiss from a Broken Doll, taking the Italian giallo films of the ‘60s and ‘70s to the next level, is due out in December 2018 from Hammer & Anvil Books.