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Peter Marra

February 2, 2015

dialogues of billboard suicides



a pair of infamous thighs.

random sounds, mismatched desire.

it turns her on by catching the most sensitive and private danger or fear.

the beast compressed her smile as her hands performed a dilation.


the legs of the hot brunette were duly recognized and photographs were taken surreptitiously. this made her happy.


just some women of the landscape were in a background.


as her object was stifled, red urges caused it to whimper.

she grew more and more content.

continuing on this path for a long time, she wished to douche,

to rid herself of them. wash hands.


a sculptor of flesh and a molder of forgiveness were clamped

together in front of the full length mirror that

exhibited black patches that

had once held



musky and salty odors filled the auditorium.


miscellaneous ecstatic applause.


there was bodily harm.

there was a torso of flesh encased in leather,

wrapped tightly as fragile notes from their sexual acts

adorned the musical staff.


the room is bare – oaken floor, white-washed walls.

the ceiling is high and contains a fresco of the female faces of the elders.

laces were wrapped tight, tightly around

her olive-skinned appendages,

barely moving to the music source that was now plugged into the wall outlet.

12o volts ac.


in the left corner, a stained glass window

depicted acts of drug abuse,

of sexual perversion, and

of forgiveness.


she craved acts of water. her eyes moved slightly to capture one sight then quickly back to capture another. she recognizes nothings. a figure knits a ceremonial robe in the backyard. there was bodily harm. there was a razor thrown to the floor, deep red traces kissing the sleek blade.


“i can’t bathe, the water fucks up my skin, feels like… blood electric.”



through a range of tricks and techniques her touch had been eliminated, an incendiary explosive device took out the circus tent and the chapel. the silence afterwards left her with an uncertain feeling as she tingled. she had decided not to report the incident, rather she would take matters into her own hands, as they say. a bell. heart. rising noise. she walked to the  mirror on a slant, her heels generated sharp click-clacks, incising the humid air. she let her black robe fall to the floor.


in an entrance there it was, a machine. a flapping sound. she stood in front of the glass and bent her smile. bending over,  she spread her ass slowly, her pussy grinned as she inserted the large instrument deep inside her anus. her desire was fleeting. couldn’t capture. her victim.  her skin became clammy as love slowly made its way in, excruciating, a kaleidoscope of craving and pain – it had taken her 45 minutes – see the clock – to work it deep inside — and she was grateful there was no blood this time.


the sunlight that she had hallucinated hurt her eyes, like she always imagined it would. this action had so aroused her that her cunt was dripping and she had to masturbate furiously to relieve herself of the symptoms. a large crimson steel dildo offered up the methods of rejoicing. she licked the discharge off her fingers. “stupid animals,” she said. when she came the 7 tarot cards that she had been holding between clenched teeth, fluttered to the floor.


it was a virgin’s song that she had censored, it was a virgin’s death that she had celebrated. she would send out invitations, all were invited. she thought about these things as she slumped to the floor. a bell was heard. the second of 3 punctuations. limp and pallor, these symptoms portray attraction and betrays a want.



later that evening she shaved her head.


“i need moisture,” she wrote this statement down on a piece of paper. seven minutes later she burned the note and swallowed the ashes.


later after that, she burned off her fingerprints with carbolic acid, then gave herself a new manicure.


nail polish ( 1 part red & 2 parts nighttime).


her mouth licked the wall, slowly drawing its tongue up. excruciating swellings and the taste buds were dead. flesh slightly sweaty as it was watched.


the whistling hasn’t stopped yet. she remembers the stretched full feelings in past time. licks. lips and sighs. the television is gone now, so she can’t replay the images of herself. no matter how often she tries, the barriers endure.




she opened the tiny wooden door and spoke through the screen. myrrh crept in and down her airways, filling her lungs. she spoke to a collective amnesia. as she spoke, she counted the runs in her silk stockings (time for a new pair) and adjusted her garters.


“he wouldn’t pay to fuck me because

he knew my husband.


just didn’t understand.

i was hurt. i still have his blood on my blouse.

he said he felt bad, that he could help. i’m, sad now.

i can’t bring him back.”

she crossed herself rapidly 7 times and kissed the screen.


hollow banging in the hall.


she left through the side door.


“you agreed to follow all the memories, now flitting away,” she yelled, “they’re gone now. they didn’t like you when they were alive. in death they hate your guts. false selves and semen. a kingdom.”


voided words of pigment hanging off her shoulders

biting down deep “no waiting. no appointment. no escape!”


to cry as the slight figures hurry through the july drizzle

hiding among the odors of pleasure and discarded hands of flesh


“you are the characters from all of the sentences.”


the television is gone now, so she can’t replay the images for herself.


fingers pull from an application of holy water.


she will discover the laws of her lips.



the silhouette disengaged itself from the whitewashed wall (rough plaster flecked with body fluids). it walked slowly towards the kneeling odalisque. they both craved music.

lips locked. the drapes have been closed for days. teasing smiles were gently opened. two faucets in her mouth, structures and codes not defined (see the role of signs for her craved stuttered forgetting taunting stuttered its meaning). all can be deciphered by just looking up at the advertisements. a happy life for you. you would be home now if you lived here… and a million ways to die! the lucky ones were the first to die! she mastered the platform of concepts, methods, for the next smack. indirectly recovered her breath and held it for a long time. she performed the action called “craving” so perfectly. a discipline beyond human communication shifted. fingers ached from application. fingers burned from anticipation. slick with juices, twisted to a boiling point.


like needles inserted under translucent blue skin, image is everything.




A native New Yorker, Peter continues to reside in New York City. His earliest recollection of the writing process is, as a 1st grader, creating a children’s book with illustrations. The only memory he has of this project is a page that contained a crayon drawing of an airplane caught in a storm. The caption read: “The people are on a plane. It is going to crash. They are very scared.” A Dadaist and Surrealist, Peter Marra’s writings explore alienation, addiction, love, secrets, and obsessions. He has had over 200 poems published either in print or online in over 25 journals. Peter’s latest published work is:

approximate lovers (downtown materialaktion) published by Bone Orchard  Press:


Peter’s e-chapbook Sins of the Go-Go Girls, was published in 2013 by Why Vandalism? Press:

peep-o-rama available as a Kindle Edition at Amazon:…/dp/B00GVM4QQU

His published work may be viewed at



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