Clothed in barbed wire delirium we walk up the street to the house. She licks the knives clean after we finish our project in the frightened summer. It's time to go home and attend to the garden while the noises fall. The chamber where the watchers rest. Cloudy retinas speak then look up at us and take some time to close their eyes silently under soft rain and Spanish moss.
Bruised, bruised faces frozen to the window. Puffy, puffy eyes gazing inside watching the lone figure staring at walls bathed in cathode rays but she's not watching. He's praying for the ghost bike, white and frozen to offer some relief.
Odors of rocket fuel offer a speedy escape from the cardboard box room and it all accuses, it's a boudoir in flames. Wet clock dead because Baby Jane is sleeping.
woman with a hammer
(Painting by Italian Renaissance artist Artemisia Gentileschi: while Sisera sleeps Yael calmly / quietly hammers a tent peg into his temple).
Decay. Decide. Evolve. Tuneless song about an assassination in Room X at the hotel. Murder by a spike piercing light and darkness right through his temple,
Fastening his head to the ground (the crack of bone). A succession of minor conflicts, she'll have to wait to finish her task and to taste black night snow.
Her daughters sang as her tool did its work. Back and forth. Again. Back and forth
Through it completely. The stone covered the entrance to the tomb and
They all waited for the barrier to be lifted. Sweat dropped from her forehead and her moist blackened hair as she worked. Beads of moisture kissed the soil causing small foliage to come to life. Birthing petals for cradling eyes that passed judgment.
Images were re-used, but the captions were different. She knew that no one would notice. She also knew that the subtitles were incorrect. She smiled at their discomfort, courtesy of the awful female physician we've all heard about: an infernal part she plays down by the docks, by the warehouses. She loves to fuck so hard before taking to her bed. As seen on TV.
Amoral at Close Range
A decade is around my neck. Now one by one some shotgun blasts at close range. Be quiet. I stood watching alone 150 years. The bodies were discovered by the two who were out of the room. Driven to death today in their home. Body tight blow hell. Inside. Fractured words. The infernal machines of the police scream. (telephone lines had been cut). A succession of unskilled jobs. She never felt, just stared. Boiling scratching
They take photos of her when she and I talk dirty. She gasped as she shouted as she gasped all over the inside of her soul. It was inside where the membranes pulsate in the company of them, before they take their pleasure from her. "I restrain me," again. It's only going to paralyze. Her words bit. The heart - cunt was the central figure of obsession. Between an origin of light and a bed of darkness, She knew about the taste of things gone awry. Spoken aloud, a torrent of the sweetest body and the taste of inevitable sin.
Keep your eyes closed. Wishing my hands clean without consequence.
We saw her standing against the blue cement wall, standing straight; back pressed next to cool stone. Against skin a voluptuous body, long hair smiling
Washed out technicolor. Skull taste crescendo.
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 / art and music rebellion. Peter has had a lifelong fascination with Surrealism, Dadaism, and Symbolism, some of his favorite writers being Paul Eluard, Arthur Rimbaud, Tristan Tzara, Edgar Allan Poe, and Henry Miller. His favorite artists are Salvador Dali, Felicien Rops, Dante Rossetti and Amedeo Modigliani. Peter also cites Roger Corman and Russ Meyer as influences. A Dadaist and a Surrealist, Peter's writing explores alienation, addiction, love, lust, the havoc that secrets can wreak, and obsessions, often recounted in an oneiric filmic haze with a taste of the grindhouse. He wishes to find new methods of description and language manipulation. Peter has had approximately 100 poems published in print or online in journals such as Caper Literary Journal, Danse Macabre, Maintenant 4 and 5, Yes, Poetry, Literary Orphans, The Carnage Conservatory, Carcinogenic, Calliope Nerve, Unlikely Stories and Why Vandalism? His chapbook Sins of the Go-Go Girls
was published in April 2013 by Why Vandalism? Press
Two of his short stories are in the anthologies Have a NYC and Have a NYC2. Peter is currently compiling his first collection of poetry. His published work may be viewed at www.angelferox.com