Peter Marra

cult women expeditions

a squirming breakfast table portrait

a man facing 3 vinyl clad women

feeling skin sliding wet

female pores in stasis emerging from a night

3 silences that watch a crucifixion.

there is a picture window behind them reflecting

the shine and the heat but only the female faces are apparent.

looking through leather glass out onto a hallway

he sees the stained parchment that

functions as a wallpaper.

figures enter into the hallway through red doorways

surfaces red and cracked

the figures all alien:

skin bled-white crazed ceramics

these will function as maps

a guide to later trace a journey.

an umbrella to burn

his father who wanted to be a priest

beneath a cassock to hide

holding sincerity to be burned at dawn.

slim dreams convulsive breathing

asthma – shadows slow & wild fresh pain

clutch the sun and strangle it

with a dose of epinephrine while

she grabbed the burning cassock.

tore the bloody vestments from the wall

giddy with glee from the rock n’ roll

she orgasmed at a destruction

plain black robes – hands stir black water in a well

someone howled – clap clap clapping.

a penitent’s lash will last another few years

on the first day of spring when

lunchtime brings mary from the dirt with

the industrial cartoons that will intimidate the wives

and their rebellious daughters while dancing on concrete.

examples [edit] game situations

i pussy

i took

I lost

as a state of forgetfulness

never the winter

i turned

the growth sex was just a

test: was she the society?

her diary:  ignoring reality by miracles of future

several months

felt so warm after sex

self kink

that's one when

we had it

and the other things

sick minutes

the sea beat aspects of waves

played on the video

she would lie there thinking but it was

no comparison with watching

breathing deeply,

regulate a world

handcuffs with leather buckled and played

on the scratchy audio track

reclaim to re-model

her diary: whatever i choose we make up. mass media

broken fingers strum

hard flesh spears into

a state

i breathe out and give a little

scares me to death

the smell of her mere strip of skin

she’s next as borrowed

she’s on fire as sound

she’s waiting as silence

stripped of trust

things feel scratching her

getting so turned on that brain!

finally dripped onto an immune

response to last much longer

so purple

any stranger whose

pussy warmed up was content and she

pointed out the camcorder under it.

the healthy cells extracted

from this violent song

her biggest turn is to the

very edge. on the edge of continued shouting

“i'm actually the autografted skin

transplantation in my pussy. actually openings”

she wanted to scream and look distastefully

the first successful drugs - legs wide perversion (her term).

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