Revenge Of The Delinquents (Sacred Texts) By Peter Mara

October 21, 2013 Comments Off on Revenge Of The Delinquents (Sacred Texts) By Peter Mara

Upon awakening, I saw her.

Poppy capsules adorned her hair. Her passive lips craved their narcotic violence which was the only trait of these plants that gave her pleasure. Isis was in handcuffs and they couldn’t release her. The home medical manual offered no solutions; neither did the Merck Manual for Physicians. The moans coming from the hallway sounded as if the opium soaked physician was being flayed alive by former patients. The walls of this room are light green with an undecipherable adornment of stains; a soft light burns overhead to relax me. Dirty windows make me cry.

I had been swallowed whole, spit out in a confused state. The payphone in the hallway had been broken for 3 months and I was tired of the white rodents outside repeating number series. Too loud.

We had walked quickly to the heartbreak dance, so we could dance slowly then lie down, Beat, beat, beat. Always against a wall. That’s why I’m here.

She and I had escaped from home a long time ago. We supported ourselves by hijacking automobiles and selling them quickly. She always licked the fenders before sending them away. I always licked her lips afterwards. Obstructions weren’t a problem: they died under mysterious circumstances and were left to rot. The police laughed at us, then we set them aflame. Time is out. Time is off.

The walls twist frequently.

That’s it. The forest has everything. My skin becomes numb. That wasn’t her blood on the floor.

© 2013 Peter Marra

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 music – art 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.  Peter has had over 100 poems published either in print or online in over 25 journals. He resides in New York City and is currently constructing his 1st poetry collection.

 

Analgesic Beasts of Eve by Peter Marra

October 31, 2011 Comments Off on Analgesic Beasts of Eve by Peter Marra

The screen split. Moan.

Criselda entered the room. There was a stool in the center of the room. Five feet in front of the stool was a shiny steel bucket, the kind that professional kitchens use to carry sauces. Against one wall was a black leather couch set up to view the stool and pail. Criselda could smell the leather. A 1935 Philips radio (floor model) was in the right corner behind her. She wore high patent leather heels ca. 1945 and had an iron taste in her mouth. Her body was draped in gauze, her long black hair was slightly damp and above her upper lip was a thin line of perspiration. She drew her shaky fingers through her hair in frustration, slowly pulling out a few strands as part of the process.

“Sing. Song. Show.”

Overhead was a circular fluorescent bulb.

“Pale.” She raised her hand in front of her eyes. The light traced the capillaries in her finger webs.

She walked towards the stool; /click /clack as her heels touched the waxed parquet floor. She briefly admired the intricate designs under her feet.

She sat down.

She hummed a monotone note as she stood up and stood over the pail. Slowly a strong stream of hot urine flowed into the receptacle. When done, she lifted the pail above her head, continuing the monotone note repetition. After her offering, and with legs spread apart, she poured the contents onto the floor. The squiggly creatures (furry and moist) that were inside her Bakelite retinas became manifest and perched on the couch to watch. She stopped humming and sat down.

“My, my, gentlemen. A dollar from each of you please.” No release.

Something was vocalized from the love canal. She reached inside and thought awhile, looking up at the sheet metal ceiling and licked her black fingernails.

“A sharp tingle to overflowing.”

She screamed and bent over, begging forgiveness. The figures on the couch were silent.

The jury never had a verdict. The fluorescent flickered occasionally and buzzed slightly. Other females entered, naked and silent, to sit on the couch and watch the show. She had nothing to give them. The iron taste grew stronger as she darted her tongue quickly between maroon lips. The screen split once more and she fell backwards. The furry beings were on top of her, snickering and clicking as they took what they came for: pieces of skin, hair, gauze, so they could construct stick dolls. Figures constructed, she was barren.

Radio on.

The naked women touched each other and dreamed as their eyes rolled backwards, naked backs sweaty / sticky on the couch.

“The music is too loud,” the middle woman said. The woman on the left got up, walked toward the radio, switched the radio off, and then tasted her fingers.

The woman on the right smiled.

Criselda lay still.

© 2011 Peter Marra

Peter Marra lives in Williamsburg Brooklyn. Among his influences are Tristan Tzara, Paul Eluard, Edgar Allan Poe, Russ Meyer, and Roger Corman. He has either been published in or has work forthcoming in Caper Literary Journal, amphibi.us, Yes Poetry, Maintenant 4, Beatnik, Crash, Danse Macabre, Clutching At Straws O Sweet Flowery Roses, Breadcrumb Scabs,Carnage Conservatory, and Dark Chaos. He is currently constructing his first collection of poems.

Channels by Peter Marra

October 10, 2011 Comments Off on Channels by Peter Marra

I

The young boy sits at the kitchen table, not noticing that the neuron surrounding his home is stretched to the limit, but he senses something is wrong…Extremely wrong….

He likes the movies, but just for entertainment. He’s only 11, thin and geeky, not knowing how things really are, not knowing the experiences of sex and death. He has had inklings, but he isn’t exactly sure about it; isn’t certain if he is afraid or happy about this.    

II 

“Goddammitt!” his father screams as he takes a chair and smashes it and smashes it to the floor. The mother is upstairs yelling and nagging.

“Goddammitttt!”

The wood splinters dance in the air then settle to the floor. The boy keeps on doing his homework; if he keeps on doing his normal routine things will be okay. The Spelling assignment that he is working on requires him to make a story from the 10 words of the week. 

“This will be a good story.” 

The chair smashing goes on; the boy stops, leaves the kitchen and enters the television room. TV on. Watches and watches, drowning out the noise in the kitchen. The sound of the chair breaking, the sound of his mother screaming, drowned out.

It doesn’t matter what’s on the tube right now, just as long as there is movement on the screen. Every so often he glances towards the kitchen where the noise of splintering wood is continuing. It doesn’t bother him anymore, the television is here. He watches the screen intently. She moves seamlessly through the fog.

Suddenly the noise has stopped and a door slams. The father is gone, went out for a walk. His mother is silent also. The only sound is from the television. Pale and wan, the boy watches while shadows and images ricochet off the walls. He goes up to bed not bothering to see what happened to his mother or wondering where his father went.

He goes to bed and doesn’t dream.

The neuron band gets tighter. The white noise gets brighter. 

III 

The clown demon crept in during the early morning. Images of solace; the child obeyed and rid himself of the pain.  

Morning had come quietly and there was no sign of what had happened the night before. The boy walked around the house admiring the handiwork. The splintered chair was gone, the mother was gone and so was the father. Smiling broadly, he went to the refrigerator and took a box of Wheat Chex down from the pantry and had breakfast. Calm. He brought the cereal into the living room and switched on the television. He watched contentedly and ate his breakfast. When he was done eating, he left the bowl in the living room and went upstairs. The television was still on. He wouldn’t come down for awhile. The white noise grows brighter. Meanwhile the shadows he had left behind started to cry. They missed their son.

© 2011 Peter Marra

Peter Marra  lives in Williamsburg Brooklyn. Among his influences are Tristan Tzara, Paul Eluard, Edgar Allan Poe, Russ Meyer, and Roger Corman. He has either been published in or has work forthcoming in Caper Literary Journal,  amphibi.us, Yes Poetry, Maintenant 4, Beatnik, Crash, Danse Macabre, Clutching At Straws O Sweet Flowery Roses, Breadcrumb Scabs,Carnage Conservatory, and Dark Chaos. He is currently constructing his first collection of poems.

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