Peter Marra lives in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. Born in Brooklyn, he lived in the East Village, New York from 1979-1987 at the height of punk– no wave. Peter has had a lifelong fascination with Surrealism, Dadaism, Symbolism, and Horror. He walks and daydreams. He would like to be an adjective.
Bouffants and Razors
While the desert bleeds
she takes a walk and hides her tracks.
Like the werewolf in her throat
(with a sigh in her eyes)
she has time to lick the sky
and walk slowly home
where it’s waiting:
a time to dance.
The comfort of bars,
smoke womb sleaze,
Sitting on her favorite stool,
longing for the long steel crash,
she spits sharp knives
at the mirror messiah.
Taste the broken glass,
straddle the shadow miles.
She lies down and feels the sun’s
rays on her legs.
She cradled me,
a radioactive pietà.
It stayed warm just for us and then it was gone.
Run Baby Run
hisses in the sunlight.
The creatures are
hiding in the long grass.
Behind the trees a silhouette is laying down to rest;
Wet dirt against naked skin – they saw her.
in a scalding wind arriving
from further on
down the dusty road,
where the farmhouses
wait to be torn down.
They wove plastic sin and the webs shook
a soothing resonance – vibrations from
the core to gently rub her skin,
taking her away forever.
She doesn’t want to return.
She nailed the cell phone to the trunk,
laughed as the electric fluids spurt a stimulus,
the damages made real for a second.
Her turbulent vaginal dances gave direction
while the earth wove the sensations.