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Wednesday 8 February 2012

Peter Marra-

sex kitten in a frozen room

human anatomy means
a collapse.
a bikini slide fear tells stories about
a womanized victimized by
the foundations of her blessing.

bland silence carried between teeth.
a slide down / a slide away
a song of fetid dreams that they all sense.
slash. a slanted canvas.
and remove a face left
to taste a taste. a plastic saliva / scream.
surely / politely / misdirected as 
a melancholy baby gazes softly at
a sky scarred inside
a day scared.

i’ve been trying to pray all day.
possession. help me.
a slow dance in a fertile garden
broken headlights enhance mildewed translucent
females nude creatures screaming.
abundant shadows touch and draw pain from foliage.

a photographer smiles at the waterfall:
at a chilled flesh that gives pleasure briefly
before escaping into a field with
screams of a yellow night.

the smell of rubbing alcohol the touch of hypos
an odor touched with concrete odors.
a bouquet that causes her nostrils  to flare.
save yourself.

the line of her memory erases his smile -
an escape too brief -
his tears so silently cascading. headache.
couched in dark glass
crouching in plastic silence
clothed red delights push

always a slight nausea
a slight anticipation of flowers bursting
and fluid coating her hands and her chest.

my desires and fears.

possible faults:
sucked the juices denser
rich with pollen
she talks about extinction.
the disorder will be present.

Peter Marra is from Williamsburg Brooklyn. Born in Brooklyn, he lived in the East Village, New York from 1979-1993 during the rise and descent of the punk – no wave movement.  His poems explore alienation, sex, love, addiction, havoc, secrets, and obsessions often recounted in an oneiric filmic haze.
His work has been published both online and in print.

1 comment:

  1. Now – SEX KITTEN IN A FROZEN ROOM has your signature on it…I hear your voice from your previous works more in this poem. I have a feeling that it is playing with a similar theme as he trio piece above….that struggle with self. Some of this piece, though disguised beautifully in your prose, strikes me as a frustration with expression (writing)…
    …but “she” is there with her memory and her reality, your desires and fears.