Peter Marra ~ A Tattooed Lover Epiphany in the Bondage Freak Show

Devils Pact

true police cases

(Juicy
boo-hoo
babes. electric
toys
always wanting.
she was describing infectious
practices that she performed
in her
nightgown). there’s a new one in town.

deep red
tight stockings. wet.
she cried as
they
laughed. banged beauty songs.
taut. tight. dread.

of course i love you
she confessed in between breathy
clit-fueled exclamations
under the white-bloody-moon
corpuscles speak to her in the unknown lingo
as she lay down for silence
his eyes in her mouth
commonly known as
a sacred act of transubstantiation
she admired the spherical contraptions
that provided vision
she juggled and giggled and collapsed
on the linoleum floor

she removed a glossy 8” x 10”
of herself nude, seated, her back to the
camera, taken 3 weeks ago.
those sensual lips are so enjoyable. lesions.

ebony glass outlines the vehicle of her body,
a svelte illusion of pain,
doused with holy water by the libertines,
screams and screams from her sunburned torments
surfing snuffed at dead man’s curve.
a self-immolation for the teenage dream

she remembered the modeling session
her left hand was fondling.
her right hand clasped a crow’s skull.

silent secret activities that the
photographer had never acknowledged
memories of him touching her shoulder
she bit in ripped off a piece of the image
chewed and spat out monarch butterflies
that sang songs of promise

TV broken-all music and all images destroyed
the rape of desire and will is a crime,
inging about the teenage gangs
the symptoms of an acute absence of consent

someone’s fingers began to play
in rapid shadows drawn
the name cooled,
her nudity resembled a ripe synthetic crescendo
then fell down
dead. the soles of her feet burned as they were licked.

she knew nothing except the pain of holding it
oral paralysis
a final step down
the delicious are such a reward for the horny
of course i love you
amidst heaving bosom exclamations
the milky-bloody-moon

she managed to remain uncured and immobile
unhealthy, still reciting riddles
underneath the pulpit before
dousing it with gasoline – a slave to the
touching – a past action in real time
she lit a match
leapt into the audience for
a bang a fuck a whoosh of
odor and
of smoke

tongues caressed the mosaic face
that she presented

it was hers to give
just
hers.

crucified on a concrete cross
tied to it with leather thongs
she watched her victim squirm
she stood at the foot of the cross
she bravely attempted to induce herself to tears
but only succeeded in slightly grinning
“of course I’ll kill you.
I’ll make you a martyr,” she said
she was gathering so much pleasure
from the painful moans
slimy secretions for igniting war
she answered the riddles in perfect rhyme
etching deeply with a switchblade
into their skins taking
them from zero to 90 in
10 seconds to enter a new pain threshold

her lips so free
she looked tempting to be filmed
burned her flesh
identification seared deep

of course i love you
covered with trembling thighs exclamations
under the milky-bloody-moon
talking to hip hot street corner trash
twirling lollipops way down deep
one of the customers whispered into a
crack in the wooden fence
“i know who killed the black dahlia.
the suspect died by his own hand.”

reviled in the Garden of Eden
worshipped in the police blotter
singing lullabies to the obscene phone caller
hesitantly listening
filed away for a different time

no one there to say goodbye
just a vacant music box
with a shrill sound of glass dropping on concrete

“did you hear about that time beauty was
whipped until she collapsed.
it happened way down south.
on that street in front of that cathedral.
i know who did it.
he died by his own hand.”

twirling lollipops way down deep inside
she pulled it out and licked it
over / under until
she reached the
tootsie pop center

finished talking about the undocumented acts
that occur in whorehouses
loaded with heads consumed
with guilt and brine – thoughts that
tell the tongues to turn themselves back on
and feed from meditation texts.

as she waited immobile in the parking lot
assuming a lotus position
blankly staring at air and reciting obscenities
waiting to see the boo-hoo females
pressed against the glass in the tenement windows

she stood naked arms outspread a
dead sparrow in each hand
she stood naked. while licking her lips.
anointed with blood on her forehead,
she made an offering

dirty desires in the July heat. moist
skin removed. left to hang from the
backyard clothesline

gently gently waving in the nite air
gently gently she reaches up
gently gently

“unwrap me.
of course I’ll kill you. I’ll make you
a martyr,” she had said

Peter Marra’s writings explore alienation, addiction, the functions and misuses of love, the curse of secrets, victimization and assorted obsessions. He has had over 200 poems published either in print or online in over 25 journals. His latest published work is approximate lovers (downtown materialaktion) published by Bone Orchard Press. An e-chapbook, peep-o-rama (published by Hammer and Anvil Books) is available as a Kindle Edition at Amazon. Peter has recently completed a new poetry collection Vanished Faces
Read more of Peter’s singular poetry in DM97 ~ MASKENZUG
@
http://www.dansemacabremagazine.com

 

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