(The devil dolls were singing
about Françoise Dorleac lying amongst the midnight
flowers fondling her memories
after the Renault pyre.)
She and I hid in our room
we watched as
her face described sumptuous
polychromed interiors where
she had reveled in public disgrace.
She made a statement:
“I have a surprise for you!”
(“We’re not going to leave this room at all, are we?”)
A faraway voice begs:
“Make a sacrifice: a halo or a disembodied heart.”
Symmetry will be
a desire we no longer need:
a woman’s torso bent, slightly warm.
We watch each other
while she watches us;
always a caustic comment etched in plaster,
crackling with sensibility.
(Vandals were guilty:
wanton, wide open, oversexed,
and they took photographs, while speaking of
the functions of a verb.)
Leaking fluid out of a warm window,
into a cul-de-sac
always licking puddles,
shot from behind. She smiles.
She will sit and warm
herself with the fire
from the pews.
(She licks quivering lips as
female bats discuss flight.)
These wounds seem right
as a door of significance.
She left them to be entered and catalogued
in the museum collection,
we strolled outside,
feeling so relaxed
and slept in the grass,
while listening to the passionate moans
that were emitted from the practitioners
that are attracted to
the current social order.
“Make a sacrifice: a halo or a tarot card.”
The snow, slight and cold,
opened her eyes:
A specific reflex. A pure form
devoid of people.
Her silver cluster became the air
as we needed and we removed
desires with a higher image
this was in their design
a trip to sin island for
a sticky, brown paste,
enjoying the morphine curves
of any woman’s body
an empty feeling
it was almost destruction
the TV ordered us
instructions stuttered reminiscing about
those prescription days.
She stopped filling that
prescription days ago
images sliding in
a shooting gallery
sulfur and smoke
so much that she has trouble breathing.
the overhead fluorescent
has a smell of skin
those prescription days
she strokes her fur
feeling the shock
something new for her fingers
a magic number
on a gurney sliding
a treacherous dance
at the end of the white hall
the tiny people are waiting
descending horns slowing down
she touches time’s spiked collar
something new for her fingers
for a pain exercise around the corner
to stop the transmission we opted to walk
she cried because she was stammering.
Peter Marra lives in Williamsburg Brooklyn. Among his many influences are Arthur Rimbaud, Tristan Tzara, Paul Eluard, European art films, Edgar Allan Poe, Russ Meyer, and Roger Corman.
He has been published in amphibi.us, Yes,Poetry, Maintenant 4, Beatnik, Crash, Danse Macabre, Caper Literary Journal, and Clutching At Straws. He is working on his first collection of poems.
Living life as a guinea pig in
a 3-headed dead-pressing
touting the leather clothing,
a disease with the appearance
of a dagger most comprehensive.
Patent leather reprisals
split them in two
deeper into relaxation
deeper into silence
they stared at each of us
voyeurs hounded by a street light
as we passed by,
an exposure ignited then detonated
not sure when
automatic knives flavored the evening.
That clicking sound was repeated over and over
it made us feel guilty
friction — assess the material when needed —
inject the eggs without any scientific basis
we never spoke at the dinner table just yells and tears
torn from the headlines: I drink your blood I eat your skin.
We sought after such instruments of pleasure by legislation
fungus-like or a characteristic more realistic
than real: extremely rare fermented juices
the human use of a slender blade
tapering to a rapid dispersal more sexual
than the angel that it punishes.
Peter Marra lives in Williamsburg Brooklyn. Among his many influences are Arthur Rimbaud, Tristan Tzara, Paul Eluard, European art films, Edgar Allan Poe, Russ Meyer, and Roger Corman. He has over 100 poems published in print or online and is working on his first collection of poems.
Experiment #1: Extreme Bitter Sequence
the scientific method,
it draws upon a store of excessiveness.
tender skin of electricity
veiled environment - a territory of
experimental lust for the corona discharge.
a small amount stretched far out of time
while rioting on the sunset strip.
they landed quietly but burned away
as 2 knives crossed the tongues.
later towards the stairs
a couple of months ago,
penetrating together without success.
a materials list.
taste the juice.
the sequences reconnect
buildings stretch to breaking
conduction is true or false.
Experiment #2: Extreme Neutral Sequence
greatly relieved when they explode,
tilting our heads up until necks
crack to see the particles
of the present come to rest
near the curbs.
quiet in the soil.
electrostatic generators bring life to the
formless bodies – the ultraviolet ray -
the patient charts are thrown into the incinerator.
Experiment #3: Extreme Testing Sequence
hide the evidence
burning between the amputated limbs.
who can easily measure?
the final report was expunged.
deep into medical electrotherapy equipment
turned in the elevator.
Eve conducted an experiment.
another common mistake:
the word “electricity.”
we must have crossed the
terminals on her arms
my pretty little thing.
Peter Marra is from Williamsburg Brooklyn. Born in Gravesend, Brooklyn, he lived in the East Village, New York from 1979-1993 at the height of the punk – no wave rebellion. Peter has had a lifelong fascination with Surrealism, Dadaism, and Symbolism. In the past 2 years he has had over 50 poems published online and in print. He is currently constructing his first collection of poems.