Archive for the ‘Peter Marra’ Category

By Peter Marra

an audience noticed the birth and the splices
as funny as her brain
as amusing as the trials that she lives for

a one-handed scream
like they taught in the criminal schools
with lessons of using your eyes
with lessons of telling lies for fucking

you’re a camera
and you should walk away from the manifesto
her pitch black eyes fight it’s
a spectacle descending
you’ve given me “film grammar”

she responded to maintain a want
happy to realize that the sun was none
but out there were such slick sounds
sucking up the silence
splicing faces
intercut sounds
literally translated, as a pedestal burning
choosing obscurity

she folded up the tripod and went away
on the next train
to the next town
“i screamed with me,” she said
she relaxed

“wow, the bodies really heaved up
it’s a natural color for america
eschewing bourgeois concerns.
he pulls out, what’s going on?”

she grabbed it, interpretations of
conceptual films
by a would-be film director
a prisoner of stop-motion

as she snorted and spewed forth pain
they spoke of camera positions from1894
as the breathing increased at a faster rate,

the arms have been removed
dusty springfield had an answer
blonde redemption behind the cracked building

a flickerfree duplex
a patent leather shrine to the home of her childhood
wanting to display her legs,
she lifted her skirt to the breeze
exposed her lips in a swirl
and celebrated by herself
by dreaming of her new tattoo
and a subsequent brand
that she would receive soon
by herself for herself
it was small for a commercial film theater

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all through the house

By Peter Marra

Christmas break.

aged 13, a boy,
on 86th street in
brooklyn, ny waits
under the el

(where they filmed that chase
scene in the french connection).

twilight hush light snow

a tall woman
walks toward him

black shiny boots stiletto

in the store

slight flutes
playing in his head

she smiled a wet smile
as she passed by

and the girlie magazine
he had hidden

under his coat made his
chest / stomach

contract fall.

her silhouette and time
sliced his mind

train rumble scream,
fired fierce through and through

then she was gone

time to go home:
where daddy rips the
lights off the tree

because mommy bore a
hole through his brain
earwig drilling

wishing to slice from ear to ear

fired fierce through and through

neurons ripped and
discarded until tomorrow

He lay down on the bed
beneath a blanket of tarot cards

becoming one with Joan of Arc
as she listened to the angels’ call


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Entomology School

By Peter Marra

torments always.

i hid and didn’t want to talk to anyone.

A long bus ride to and from.

Shaky shaky in the shadows
Sneaking home with porno mags
And hiding them in the attic

True friends and lovers.

The insects came for me and
the spiders carried me home to take care of me.

evil people.
can’t make sense of it

faces come after me and tell me what i did wrong,

religious pictures and
hercules movies (with women whipped)

and television screens
black and white

cracked and halted and dead

tight things rising up.

And in my reclusion my comfort was strangled.

and i hid it
from mom and dad

mantises in lace
chasing quiet monarchs

they knew and
they hated me for it
and i ran away

time for the bomb

left me naked to fend for myself


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