Peter Marra

by Horror Sleaze Trash on April 17, 2013

MARRA HST GRAVE

Peter Marra’s earliest recollection of the writing process is, as a 1st grader, creating a children’s book with illustrations. The only memory he has of this project is a page that contained a crayon drawing of an airplane, caught in a storm. The caption read: “The people are on a plane. It is going to crash. They are very scared.”

 Peter resides in New York City and has had over 100 poems published either in print or online in over 25 journals. His e-chapbook Sins of the Go-Go Girls is due to be published this year by Why Vandalism? Press.

His website: www.angelferox.com

 anyone that night, as the toys lay down

 

(spoke)

 

double suicide frustration

hollow eyes – turn right – look. hand out fingers spread. arm shake.

in a closed room the unfulfilled whimper, a mind rests.

 

the neighborhood’s whimpering screams

were unintelligible, consumed

her desires without remorse

resting outside the blackened windows

 

(voyeurism is power. regular stimulation is critical.)

 

the hall sounds turned hollow

as the sickly / sticky faces peered at her

as she entered carrying gifts

 

(oozing fat slick with sweat as they watched her.)

 

and they watched her as she shivered with mucous wet

 

and they moaned as she shot them.

 

anywhere would work.

inviting her to come back,

inviting her to sit back.

such masks survive in the biting moods because

it’s fear she wants.

the frighteners’ lick,

 

i want the wet feeling of ruin

i want the people that can’t play properly.

 

her heels clicked noisily and the

windows shimmered in guilt before

cracking slightly

the fine hairlines in her lips throbbed so gently as

 

she survived many black patent leather climaxes.

in her lips she held the blades that attacked

the boring sterility of the waking world.

 

(elevate pornography ceremonies licking)

she tasted legs that

started from infinity and promised shimmering lips

 

she counted the pearls that

were draped over the cunts, drunk with pleasure

tired of hiding, sliding in and out of bars

 

[does years of living inside with the other bride – sluts figure in the equation?

she serves them a graceful dessert, a feeling of mortality.

they whimper.

 

they’re guilty, she said.

 

did you enjoy watching? ]

 

(time likewise criticized the sexual tension)

 

mouth guarded, she climbed up,

wirh nylon thighs aquiver, and the celluloid image of a black

wedding gown with plunging neckline rotted in the back of her mind.

 

science hasn’t solved all the mysteries of the universe.

she realized she was just a toy of her time as she watched

a film of herself self-implode,

 

“i want my dolls. release me please.”

 

(brought into her surfaces early in striking vignettes as they stroked)

 

empty eye-sockets

flicker pain

 

dry-rot:

words collapse to blank.

 

her lips became twisted / relaxed / wet

 

(it will be the ultimate act complete)

 

the museums made her a

whore – a fact that delighted her

 

before

she returned to a

cave that was slightly lit by blood & semen in a lava lamp

so modern.

so fresh.

 

she knows she will encounter masks discovered in sperm and

she will find the fantasies that are

going to involve her; it’s not only

the touching  she had been dreading.

 

(in free-fall, stag art projects want her)

 

that little voice in cracking stone reared and died so slightly,

with eyes half-shut and lines drawn in the slippery warmth of

the water

 

while faces suspended from the sky by wires,

twirled slightly in the cold air winter light

 

she had done it before

and it was a mask-dance that he knew about.

 

“have you ever had any real flesh? the problem is,

that you smirk as you cum.”

 

(her tongue touched his hand w/ harrowing, claustrophobic intensity. they can use rationalizations to confuse the others who do the couch and cock).

 

“why are there no cameras in the walls? i perform in a vacuum”

 

“i enjoy when their last words spoken to me are so so filthy.”

 

“i’m born with this forbidden fucking desire

that keeps me feeling alive,”

she said, as she was being fucked by x;

 

they groaned in unison as his face was

my face peeled off and framed

 

and

 

her eyes flushed crimson.

 

there were advantages in wearing

a costume that does not depend upon a stage or backdrops.

 

the jury, enervated from multiple climaxes, staggered in:

 

they moved against her and they looked at her

as a curiosity for medical purposes:

dance masks were used,

 

a  mythology which explored his reply.

 

“you know that they straddled me.”

 

she inserted stallions of polished metal.

she rubbed off.

plunged

a doom

 

they stroked each other until raw.

 

… you will find  fantasies are

going to involve you, it’s

the touching  she had been dreading.

 

did you hear about us?

 

(torn/ripped)

 

secret-camera gimmick the world is theirs exhibited

 

a ballet thickly outlined with white

/ vibrating the still air.

 

—-

 

When Wanton Women Speak of the Occult Infection

 

Right organisms are colonized to some degree

She was lonely and didn’t take the usual turnoff to face him

 

He was croaked. And he smiled.

And the females showed off their body juices

 

Pit-like wounds were surrounded by the wind

Taking lust without permission and what was to be loved was

 

Practically a blur

Fucked, compromised and the organisms inflicted damage

 

In her mind we developed a smooth fucking as i’ve been told

But the air was bitter with a smell of sweat and flesh

 

We left corpses in our wake

Our path stank with blood

 

She quickly shook her head no

Dropped to her knees and slowly floated upwards

 

Eyes rolling back

Palms downward

 

Quickly realizing what worried us for a moment

An idea was popped into tight infections

 

1 hour and his body was unable to rule out infection

Hesitantly she raised her back

 

Arching as she fought to strangle any husband she came across

As we drove into the heartland deep badlands tripping on white lightning

 

Leather wet with sweat

She strenuously attempted to rub away the blood stains

 

She wanted a bored looking clerk,

A young man to feed her their

 

Symptoms of a fuck

After these episodes

 

We never even noticed the dirty that looks obscene

Jet black hair and adventures

 

Subconsciously, she probably realized what we had become.

Look at you.

 

You can’t accomplish sexuality.

My tongue snaked the periphery of bruising.

 

She buried the clothing and placed a small wooden cross in the

Dirt pile.

 

The dirty panties she left 2 feet away as

A testimony to consumer culture and desire.

 

Shocks appeared to ripple throughout her

As she teetered upright on her heels

 

Clinical instinct assisted education

Go an absolute mess

 

Still flashing lights all over surface back forth back

Fetching smile of her love juice. the windshield was wet

 

Burning clothing in the house burning

Tiny noises peeped through the smoke

 

They’re escaping and now they’re gone

Smiles went crying for the variables involved

 

I wanted it more

With a worried look she cradled me

 

Hidden in nerves. Chest in agony.

She immediately grabbed at me

 

She read aloud listing the chronic wounds from the journal of love

Chronic wounds circumstances arise

 

We started to dance together

Slowly slowly as we discussed

 

The classic symptoms of opportunistic infection

Her mouth opened

 

—-

 

 

all the way down (a tactile documentary

 

black sun rising in a reverse concentration

all her life she lived in a box

between her legs lingered a metallic taste

 

as she gently separated her lips to reveal the shell of abalone

thoughts twisting like the interior of a nautilus shell

 

the flesh sang sub-sonic tones and tingled with

approaching desire driving her body down

 

the latest orgasm was the arrest synthesis

as the sky was pierced by bullet holes

(it was a few gunshots for beauties that)

weep red over the branches.

 

she walks in solitude and gently touches each droplet

bringing it to rest on her lips – a gift  for the

livid botanica babes cradled in sweat

 

i can’t understand what you’re saying: such hot-flesh.

she shed her clothes and

 

stood in a coma peering through

molten  iron bars  – a tingle a sigh

reaching towards faces flushed with cravings.

 

a backroom throb

black cats licking

black sin touching

squeals unstoppable

knives were used to keep score

rules of the game applied

 

to some signs of females with ebony hair

immortalized in glossy photos

they were retelling razor blade dreams.

 

secret hair secretly soppy deactivated

their eyes are closely related to that of a tarantula.

 

sweaty. clammy flesh. somnambulant eyes clad in leather.

a caress in time

a drum beat solo

tinged by a portrayal of opium

betrayed under the elevated train platform – homage to pain drawn

in rusty iron.

 

more addictive than ordinary pornography

it requires more stamina than her visions

 

some botanica babes collapse

in a cigar smoke rum spray twist

i can’t understand what they’re saying.

 

the question was, could she?

burning extremities

a sprinkling of sweat on her forehead- a dose

gently licked thirst sated.

 

we were eaten alive as a novelty

they were perfectly proportioned

they were twice the bang of morphine. painless, eventually slowly.

white powder serenades

 

the whores at the opera carried a certain darkness

as they’re victims from

the door of a land

that tenderizes the flesh.

 

close to the shore they lie in the surf as the water steams

from a tender deactivation

it’s a july night a fiasco swirling

around an original sin discotheque that

they love so much

 

a tide rises

trains squeal

a home is submerged

constant drumming

constant drumming

in the back rooms

female creatures sporting see-through

outfits reciting

the most important medical texts

 

as they burn shells of gossamer

and describe tools of pain

sighs of pleasure

as the largest specimens are captured

they know that sometimes flesh seethes

who are chosen who survived what will be left of them in the film adaptations?

 

rare to the shadows as she

runs from the rapid spread of the cult

rare to the pain and escaping from the sight

 

“a deeper shade of soul”

 

exit screaming from the room

please a drink please provide for me.

paint splatters black red white

slip inside nervous glass

this hair was kissed

i yearn to share your hand

 

all her life she lived in a box

between her legs lingered a metallic taste

 

she gently separated her lips revealing the interior of abalone

the flesh sang sub-sonic tones and tingled with

 

the approaching desires of perishing doves

their thoughts twisting like the interior of a nautilus shell

 

 

 

 

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