A street partnership resulted in a flesh encounter. A female delinquent spoke. She described how her male beast was a cock artist. “It lives inside my brain. A Twisted thing, it tells me its secrets – dirty and unclad it hides behind objects and silences. It satiates victims for amusement.”
Her labia were gently tinted with the colorings of the purple iris – moist, delicate, quivering. Her anus was a concentric gradation of delicate shades. She was aware of the narcotic draw these lower body parts possessed. Minutes to pleasure.
“I’ll send you to fuck Persephone. She told me she wants it badly. She will chew you up and spit you out and leave you in a NYC Shanty Fuck House. Leave you to rot, you miserable fuck.”
Revenge against past transgressions was so sweet. Dark Madonna, my last sweet Madonna.
She paused to feel and inspect her pussy, then continued.
“I’ll give you the gift of a neon aneurysm. A black & blue orgasm. You’ll pay me with your eyes and your hot breath.”
“Wait until you meet my sister - her name is Destiny. Truthfully. I’m not fucking with you or fucking you right now. You’re such a pretty guy. I could just eat you up, my little baby. What did you say your name was?”
She spoke rapidly; her lips were chapped, and she was parched - amphetamine delights. He just listened as she went on and on, admiring her full lips. She was wearing a ripped black tee and ripped faded blue jeans that clung to her, smothering her legs and pussy, outlining her anatomy. Sweat dripped as she purred.
“I want your cock for my present. That’s all.”
Barefoot at midnight on 43rd and 8th. Fun City. July. Temperature: 90 degrees Fahrenheit.
A Prevue of Coming Attractions
The soft touch of the Valium pillow was an eternal comfort. She was at the Avon 7 porno house, 724 7th Avenue, NYC - in the Studebaker building near 48th. Right over the very center of hell!!
Zig-zag trip – her phantasmagorical erotica. Crimson fingernail attached to albino digit sliced the belly flesh open. And she smiled, but the sound was fluttering in reverse – nuclear hot wind whipping her ebony hair.
Cinematheque de Sang: free admission. Her teeth burned; the tongue was coated with a ferrous substance. A ferox female, she was clothed in gossamer and crotchless hosiery as she appeared on stage at the AVON 7. Now she was ready to entertain.
“What do you think of me now? The pain is slowing down.” Avenging patricide and matricide. It was all the same to her now.
An elongated and dislocated organic scene in front of an appreciative audience that was clothed in shadows and moans. Faces painted on flat backgrounds. She gently pumped and clenched her muscles - that’s entertainment. The crowd watched the muscles of her throat and the rate at which her bosom rose and fell with each breath. They had paid to see it and they were not disappointed. She was amused at how little was required to get them off. “Feel free to cum as I cum,” she said, as she faked her 7th orgasm of the evening. “My sins are for me.”
The net had reached out and trapped her legs, arms and still beating heart. She moaned for a while, then decided to re-do her eye makeup: black eye shadow, mascara, and eyeliner; lashes razor sharp and inviting. She never wore lipstick because she felt it detracted the attention from her eyes.
Zig-zag strip. “I can’t stand the bright lights. I am the female of your dreams. You are the horror of my love.”
After one more fake orgasm, she bobbed a curtsy and exited stage left.
Synthetic Love & A Carousel of Suspects La Peste; j'ai peur.
Pretty candy-colored explosions in each rivulet of her brain. White hot / open her up. silently, the hypo fell to the linoleum disrupting the blood blossom in the barrel; the record skipped a beat. “Long Tall Sally” – her most favorite. From a darkness a few words: “How do you like to fuck?”
The sledgehammer was raised. Her arm trembled as she brought it down with electrified cruelty, driving the iron spike into the right hand. She detected the tones of pierced flesh and splintering bone, marveling at the minimal blood flow. “Black and blue. Black and blue.” She repeated this phrase 70 times. Neon twats. Time for some more. She had decided to stay.
We were happier back then….
This lasted two seconds longer than the subliminal suggestion of the Black Dahlia kissing a postcard of the HOLLYWOOD sign.
Back there - a very long time in ruptured eons, in Tompkins Square Park, a cannibal soup was consecrated and doled out to the homeless.
Sometime back when….
Wrapped up in a cloth of random sounds - street environmental noise, motors overheating, women recounting horrors of love, females moaning, rubber band stretching around closed eyes, just for fun. She hates it now. No more. It was her idea. “My Idea, I know.” Just for fun. Odor of unwashed men in their twenties, twitching, twitching.
The random male fuckers were enjoying the plague because that was all they knew. Only one point of vision through concentric glass.
Peter Marra’s writings explore alienation, addiction, the misuse of love, the curse of secrets, the pain of victimization and the impact of obsessions.
Peter has had over 300 poems published either in print or online in over 25 journals. His latest poetry collection is Random Crucifixions: Obsessions, Dolls and Maniac Cameras(Hammer & anvil Books). His latest work, A Naked Kiss from a Broken Doll, a surrealistic giallo novel was published in 2019 by Hamer & Anvil Books. He is currently completing a collection of prose poems, as yet untitled.