Peter Marra

Poesia di luna nera

{Black Moon Poetry}

 

 

 

A Parable of Parasites and their Lust for Indecent Objects

 

1.

hurt

hurt against a

soundless atmosphere

 

She etched her tattoo onto obscure flicks

She wished for a Bloodsuckers dance

Someday we’ll look behind us and we’ll laugh eternally

because of the inhibited car crashes

and the caress of the smell of her hair

 

(the receptor was supposed to do this

but we were left alone as usual

craving objects behind cracked shop windows)

 

Love is sometimes merged together

There is a certain effect that we cannot

begin to understand when bodies of flesh get joined

by immiscible threads

The wires of lust stretched

 

Rivulets of red sweat moved as trickles

Petals were drained of colors

paleness intermingled with earth

All is as it was done

As it looked as it worked out

As those behind us were asking for permission to retrieve what it yenned for

 

hurt

hurt against a

soundless atmosphere

 

2.

We seem to document by photography that

which was never written

 

She entered the room to see the present-tense that

had been painstakingly constructed

Rebuilt as a shapely seductress with shadows of

handprints pulsating over

blushing skin

She was telling lies to protect her-many-selves

 

She traced these handprints carefully before their removal and

kept the reproductions in the portfolio close to her heart

Her model whimpered as the handprints were removed

Her model sighed as the handprints were

burned onto the skin as shadows

Nuclear fallout tends to have that effect

It’s a byproduct of minds gone so sour

 

3.

Their abhorrent skeletal details were embraced within

the gaze of a pair of strangers

Only touch if you want to get burned

 

(she had a sex thing for implicitly violent images alone

being replaced by the image that was once cinema)

 

But she identified the crime in the second case

and was completely obedient to

syncopating the stories in and out

Bursting the blame and fabricating alibis

Consuming or creating storylines

 

She was ground into her and the space absorbed more

As they knelt on the beach at sunset clad in red latex

waiting for the leather moons once again

 

(their society dissolved but

their figures remained)

 

waiting for the leather moons once again

 

 

 

Sudden Fear:

The Creation of Animals Which do not Have Real Human Counterparts

 

No one here.

 

A silhouette of feminine form

sequestered in the alley smoking lucky strikes

Polishing a switchblade

Just a little more dry blood to remove

Monotone whistling

Hiding the blade in a black trench coat

Licking her lips

Not enough sleep

 

To change things

i spent a day viewing decayed film

until i found her hiding near a cigarette burn

we removed the frame

tender and rare carefully spliced the

reel back together (no one will notice)

(no one will care) her face trembling turned

around became alive

vibrations slight trembling our

sweat stained the lenses

(no one heard) our licentious

inclinations ripped the

sheets that

kept us in bondage

every action she performs is Film

 

Minutes passed out

her thighs clung to the shadows behind us

slamming back assailants

she shuddered (no one

tasted it)

at the taking of the animals to

slaughter

psalms were faintly heard and the trees trembled

the book she was reading slipped from her hands and

she smiled as the binding broke and

pages were wafted away

she managed to grab one back from the clutches of god

gleefully read its contents:

 

Cannibal recipe #69

 

Ingredients

1 Perfumed touch

1 aspiration

1 lick of the lips

1 fingering of her pussy

1 yank of a penis

1 aborted fellatio

1 freezing cunnilingus mix with the blood of 4 buxom female houseflies in order to achieve the Renfield effect

 

Cook up in a new stainless steel bent tablespoon

Using a new hypodermic draw fluid gently through small cotton ball

Once syringe is full tap the hypo gently and excrete air bubbles

Remove cotton and rub over clitoris and cock

Tie up shoot up flush out needle

Savor flash/ bang

 

She said,

“these sins make my tongue tingle. These

transgressions will never be forgiven. Enjoy…

enjoy…de Sade only knew part of it. Because I

let them. Because I let

them…in.”

 

 

an alphabet that was crafted out of

burning acrid vapors

joined in the dance of

numbness that had invaded her space

she expected it and she laughed… and then

she hated the fact that she gazed up through

silence drowning

 

Her paralyzed lips kissed every hole in the floor until

eyes opened between the black lines

in forgotten or forbidden rooms (she didn’t recall which)

she suffered the licks of accusing memories

fabricating new creatures to eventually cast aside

 

she told everyone who would listen that it’s best to live with our sins

while savoring the texture of evil hidden in our memories

she had been accused once too often and been excluded from the feast of archangels

the driver's eyes drifted

drunk on advertising media

while she slept in the back seat

 

 

 

Pure Music in the Warehouse of Photograms

 

They took good care of the patient

until they released her into the air

floating drifting

 

cruising cursing NYC downtown

rising disease

clutching veins

twisting

 

petals of blood were added to the flow of the breeze

catalogued atrocities were but whispers of thoughts now

 

the vortex of the hour for sinning came

quite unexpectedly for our heroine

unsatisfied.

 

her cravings were equated with the lepers enjoying

their blood-drunken rage.

 

an abandoned new building was shuttered from the inside

you can’t take it away from her

her nails were imbedded deeply

 

the addiction removed their cures

replacing them with indelible faces frozen in horror

the growths became circular in nature and the

musical notes formed crowns that pierced forgotten skins

the vacuums didn’t squelch the endless noises

 

then she said her.

Prayers.

Then. again she

said her prayers

this time. perfectly

this time.

this time. our

time parts. of

the mind were. Gone.

 

in time.

brushing away the insects that controlled time.

 

My journey ended. Our journey started.

 

her hands cupped her throbbing vagina and she felt her wet clocks twitching

wrapped in a faint sketch of timid longings barely satisfied

never to be out-vamped by the fallen flesh of Liz Taylor

she painted a fresco of her fuck frenzy on the chapel ceiling

 

twisted

a nerve twisted cock.

twisted

faces. Bent happiness.

 

with much laughter

she tore off the numeric dials that

had been tattooed on her legs

 

you get all this for you only

tick. tick. tock.

just so your eyes can see me

no down payments

just disjointed music

just laughter no smiles

 

it’s all so dirty out there

not filthy arousing not like in here

not like pussies glistening in silver August moonlight

 

your presence is detected in me

your presence is reminiscent of our differences

your goal is to make the rusted iron shatter

 

in a fractured alchemy turning base metal into

a rose of acid that blossoms then

clings to forgotten tombstones

etched with graffiti epitaphs

written in the blood of Isis the original

necromancer who once

revived Osiris with her skills of the blowjob

 

while inspirational cadavers sing falsetto in

golden October moonlight

providing more information

about the failed experiments

we held each other closer

 

They had taken good care of her

until they released her into the air

drifting or floating through tubes of black coral

our petals of blood added to the flow of the breeze

 

 

 

Violated Paradise: a new Mask of Ecstasy

 

this document description:

short dress, no panties

switchblade in her left boot

achieving freedom through becoming dominant

grabbing another dopamine high

 

The slits in the sky opened to reveal additional

slits within

contained in protoplasm

writhing hands

through the act of fellatio under a dying sun

she resuscitated her victim then slaughtered it

throughout the first breaths of autumn

a singular pain dwelled

pale blue neon eyes

ozone flashing

layered in caves

slicing

slicing

in an attempt to grab the headline,

she sent a brief email to the local papers

scanned images were attached

a simple expression of her lurid love

 

same dopamine high

no single primary sense organ

she followed and angels created a sexually charged disintegration

 

these will be the instructions for a private performance: 

1 Model surrounded by seven 2-way mirrors

like those used in police-interrogation rooms

through the glass she’s viewing pale cue cards engraved

with albino words

the viewer grasps halogens 

(burnt skin

burnt hair)

the viewer gasps in climaxes

(shallow hot

breathing)

she sees herself mouthing words

she hears herself scratching her skin

as professor Moriarty licked her ear

she was content that a syringe always

functioned as

promised by the guarantee

 

She reclined in the lounge of the torture exhibition

adjusting the monitor reception

poised between 2 pornographic channels

if she got the calibration exactly right she was promised

multiple climaxes and the ultimate consumer experience

 

the noise of flesh being regurgitated in rusty machines

in distant basements unsettled her equilibrium 

pills restored her composure

 

The glass figurines were missing smiles now as

they ingested multiple images of

the by-products of Corporate USA

deep down twisted inside

Hi-Def portraits in rivulets of brain dreams

trapped in plastic screens

fabricated by plastic people

 

outside the tinted glass enclosure,

miniature creatures slept

outside in the street bodies writhed

 

eyes dilated

had she tasted ebony pupils or

disks of pain buried in car crashes?

 

(as she watched, progressions

became progressions in and out)

 

Words of spastic cobras were accusing her again

Their tails were whipping breaking skins

 

She smiled slightly

 

hair wet with thick fluid she set herself on fire

melding with the radio waves they crawled inside her and told

her the secrets of the bastards

cum shots shocked the spectators

 

Another document description:

her manicured fingernails parted her lips

she inserted a black orchid deep down

removed the flower, smelled it, tasted it

then held it up to marvel at the bloodstains vibrating

in the late afternoon sunlight

 

Becoming more accustomed to the forbidden room,

she fell asleep and the sounds began

 

these will be the instructions for a private performance: 

1 Model laced tightly in a corset of

forgotten romances waist

sculpted until she becomes a hysterical nymphet

accusing her outcasts

while furiously fingering the orphaned creatures

choose 1

 

 

strangled deep moan under waves

fingers tapping on a transistorized clitoris

 

suspended from the skylight

she waved to the people below

contaminating all who saw

 

She murdered the moral outrage

in the 16th divine and social order

simply figments of denied sexuality

a room without healers

only the chronic disease of a slave made sense now

 

Never tell anyone what happened

you’ll never achieve beatification

all the doors are shut now

all aglow glowing now

going now come back to me

juju and voodoo please touch me there slowly

 

addiction knew how

 

ghosts unzipped inviting her, manipulating

she began to respond immediately

the soundtrack was missing, not blank, just absent

 

Her legs buckled as she heard the static of 1000 nails

driven deep until there was no sound

wooden sounds

she ripped their mercy

 

These will be the instructions for a private performance: 

shards of missing window panes will capture the effigies

of lost wives talking to absent husbands 

 

the Model will smoke cigarettes and

grind them out in the faces of her captors

she will pause, then inhale deeply

her stiletto heels will sanctify the night

 

She ran

reported missing

removed her clothes and functioned as

skyclad freedom hurting

 

these will be the instructions for a private performance: 

the Model will initiate another brutal weekend

and hear confessions in the Church of Skin from 2 to 3 am

 

a ravaged body was left on her doorstep

a flickering recognition

 

 

 

Anatomical Diagrams of the Plastic Lovers

(Victims of Well-planned Criminal Activities)

 

1.

the warmth was constructed out of the comfort of a small room

the warmth was constructed out of slashed vacant souls by eternal parasites

 

(buy a ticket to see the sweet agony of the observers)

 

Please tune in to Channel ZERO                                 

Where Experiment Number 7 was unveiled,

the show with the claws of reputation

you are in the shadows of freedom,

your silhouettes are embedded in the web of sweat

 

we had never experienced our eyes locking in this manner

our tongues licked back

the eyes accused

the monster-mothers were there. Unannounced.

different eras,

featuring different versions of us for us alone,

her infernal divine nature gnawed at me

the medical journals had lied once more

 

Cloisters of solitude and lust just made her closer

so nothing existed but herself

she went back in time and silently hallucinated herself

entertained herself with thoughts of

ancestors who had assassinated her relatives

 

from now on she will allow her body to morph as

she spreads her legs for new visions of

god in an unnatural state

while humming she enjoyed the low shocks of

electric labia permeating throughout the evening at 3 a.m.

 

we experienced symptoms of the clandestine operations of

the spasm known as the Mary Magdalene effect:

the tensions of climaxes of twisted offerings

clamping down hard on screaming mimis

the whimpering caused by jerking off jujus

clasping the hands of prayer for twisted offspring

 

Being herself she’s all raw and aware

by herself she’s an ozone crash

shoving a blowtorch into eyes of the holy

indulging in the aroma of after-rain on her fingertips

draw closer

come near

 

bodies entwined while bodies were hiding

under glass brakes screeching

outside the deep purple windows were

scratched as she used her tongue to carve dim

messages in words incomprehensible

 

her legs twitched as fluid cascaded down her thighs

it’s time for one more sacrament

 

The fruit of a bitter melon was useless

until it was used in obscene behavior.

Now it was more satisfying.

 

She licked herself raw lost in thought

unable to focus and slightly touched with outreached fingers

lifting herself up from the gurney

she reached towards and inwards at

the back-screen projection  

 

The mirror behind my head slashed the skin of my face

the mirror in front of my mouths opened the

cavities where she took refuge

it was just another chance for us to disappear

 

A mask of animal skin was hung beneath the portrait of

her parents’ wedding

taken at that hotel located in Brooklyn, NY 1956

everyone seemed so happy then

she clutched their hearts

they were finally hers

 

skulking in alleys

glancing  

pollinating  

then the destroying the gardens once again

the women’s eyes generated more forms of torture

 

without windows now

they're coming for us

masquerading in their new roles of submission

and new flowers will remove our eyes

 

the warmth was constructed out of the loneliness of a small room

 

2.

have you been…

lens too fucking close. pull back. too personal. it hurts.

 

roll camera. take #3

sew the words together: from 2 dimensional make it 3D

us remaining with no one here no money just sex constant contact

we saw the bodies in the boxes and they were us now

 

sleepless as the night was stitched around us

but we knew nothing

the spiders sing in low tones almost never heard whispers

providing a backdrop for our sinful actions

 

hours. tick. tock. the passage of time is a disease.

 

fingers cloaked in a shadow dripping of her scent

lasts forever.

moist earth can’t rub it away

 

venial sins graduated to mortal sins

 

some say words. say some words.

our eyes

our faces share the same pain overlooked

once over one translucent climax backlit

the cast of the silent opera gathered shells on the

coastline while clouds funneled in the distance

while engaged in this activity she frequently became aroused.

 

left her faith healer to burn under the lamps

onward christian soldiers

she removed her gown and giggled as it slithered into their

night tide to be devoured by 3 mermaids each hungry for a possession

 

the machines had started

they inhabited that dim region between the vague forest

and the inconsequential oceans

slightly tasting the salt of her hearts

 

behind glass she saw them

fingertips grew cold at the attempt of a touch

she held vigil all night but no one arrived

 

“i must tell you but you must never

confess my sins to anyone else, our twisted ideas are my plague”

 

stigmata of Her

raining through clouds of nerves

silent endings in cold

water sequestered in shoreline caves

missing descriptions leading to cul-de-sacs

 

“now what should i say,

it made me happy for a brief time i was wrong not

understanding you. I was blind to your lust and to your soul.”

 

she asked to be dissolved so she

could breathe so she could shed her

skin and indulge in random baptisms

 

“i’ll anoint your eyelids with tasty poisons

manufactured just for us

they’ll devour us now and we’ll smile. It will hurt for only a second.”

 

ebbing

ebbing

 

faces beneath a skin of a tidal pool washing the

narcotic flesh of fetishes

 

our love-tides drown us beside the unused beacons of sin

 

 

 

Peter Marra 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 (Hammer and Anvil Books) is available as a Kindle Edition at Amazon. Peter has recently completed a new poetry collection Vanished Faces (a performance of occult infections) to be published in 2017 by Writing Knights Press.