Peter Marra

Poemi orfani

 

 

A Litany of Lust, a Dance of Death

 

Incommunicado:

intermittent red stains from our

plastic victims lined the hallway

 

gradually she was out of touch

gradually my grip was weakened

(taste the cold searing aches) in

a burlesque of brainwashing

 

a tableau was constructed of her wrath and bad drugs

 

in one lonely nighttime

we saw an angelic frozen visage atop a body

the mannequin of pain and pleasure

the body snatchers were titillated by the smell of

fresh flesh hidden in covert songs of

obsession and desire

 

pain and hot pleasure had gained control of

the Dog-Gods once more

she first became aware on January 1, 1901

and she continued through each generation

 

the same evil came to visit her daily

embellished with the lust of the established order

under the werewolf moon she fucked the beast

drowning in its sweat

as politicians raped their citizens

simulcast on CSPAN

while violent tongues cleaned up the mess

in a reverse void of motionless sound

 

screaming cunts lit up the sky

no words had meaning

scripture was written on mildewed wallpaper

under the watchful eyes of the bleeding saints

 

one more evil came to visit her

one more sin of the established order was revealed

our passion was doused by the

black sperm of the religious fanatics

 

a mental vampire was embedded in her spinal cord

justifying its existence by sucking

life out through two holes

a still life was twisted beyond her control

she was becoming invisible

waiting impatiently decade after decade

bottles and vials (technical

marvels)

all filled full

with the mistakes of the forgotten

 

she had his death in her hands

she sent photographs and postcards that

had been torn in two and re-matched over once more

trying to find one more connection with

an opposite of her lover

hidden in one more black painting by

an artist forming a coven

of the disfigured or a collection

for the depraved

 

panting blood pressure rise:

he had told her in between laughter,

“they also caused pain because

they loved staring at you."

 

she experienced herself as a null canvas

she was under the direction

it was her decision to start

the faces of madness these beliefs

are frequently discovered in other unions

 

she was always enjoying an encounter

she was ripped out at

the moment of birth

experiencing the generation of her persona

standing naked in the puddles of the internet

thrusting as a neophyte becoming

experienced in murder

we watched the politicians on TV furiously

castrating their mutual sex organs

as each blade descended the crowd copulated

 

the most brutal passions she transferred from herself to me

she yelled and nothing was left

described in a brief outburst while

facing the liquid flesh of splintered glass

 

her perfectly rounded ass ignited the

walls of the hotel room

her vulnerability was

imprinted under my

eyelids

 

my sins twisted her lips down below as she

transfigured into a redemption

 

her excessive makeup covered

sexually stimulated imagery

she pushed a knife into the celluloid

she kissed me deeply

 

her boots were peeled away from her calves

her corset was removed from her torso

her skin breathed freely as she levitated

 

kissing the hands of the gods

whispering excerpts from unknown literature

unseen undecipherable

while my love cascaded over the balcony and into a

platter of black leather

 

blood on snow

sweat on the foreheads of beasts

a gasp of blue-red-black—

an ornament held between the legs of a topless dancer

as she tongues the switchblades

– a gift she had received from the empress of a red-moon

caressing the skulls hanging from her belt of flesh

 

fade away:

is it still love?

Are we still functioning?

 

How many can tell us about the love of our pain?

 

send postcards when you get there

she lines her calf length boots with the sweat of forgotten lovers

before she lacerates the flesh of the cameraman

 

many weird sounds emanated form the lips of the mob

in a mercurial merciless mood, she shoved

her secret deep within

 

a cervix not owned by her

held the lightning bolt that burst

 

a grinning hole in celluloid:

“i can feel it. i can’t. i’m lying!”

 

the inside of music rips the landscape

manipulated by the fear

obliterated by the festive slaughter

 

lovely lonely flesh under leather crying

with bad memories of childhood and

ruined holiday diners

 

“where are you where

are you taking us?”

traveling in the darkness of dank holes

 

my grace is gone

 

she lives on now in the dark

waiting for the prey reciting prayers

i don’t know where i am

not love not love

squeal + squeak

 

“show me what you have

where you live. hold me now.

no questions”

 

“habeas corpus i need it

so badly

 

bruised flesh - i told them about it

i took it without permission i love to see

myself enshrined in the police blotter”

 

grey. sigh. convulse. climax

 

slick

tongues dragging through sweet crevices

comforting the blind faces

 

wet leather on fire

leather or gasoline

 

1 eye found closed

 

Mary Magdalene dance please

our mutual lifetimes melded and transformed

 

 

 

Victims of the Eye (Enemies of the State)

 

Saturday 2:43 pm, a removed recollection:

dirty window, ripped window screens, torn shades.

a shudder and some prayers

something floating in there.

 

a wife of perfection views

forbidden wives as they rip the sky and

tear it into minute fragments.

the pieces spastically flutter against a

the convulsing landscape.

damaged goods pray to the black tarantula,

dancing slowly, move to quickly, move to collapse.

 

sour vision skin lesions grabbed

in the meantime, I sold my heart and

my eyes to some runaway wives.

we were victims of the suppression of passion.

 

in the time delay between

they left me their juice to cure my illnesses.

sloppy fantasies categorized nasty

 

(she liked to use a tongue to get fucked

because no one would hear her. they were watching.

she was awoken at 4 am when those things left the premises.

 

squirmy)

 

tight grease categories tasty

 

she said: "the one back there. I don't like this vegetable we

bought in Chinatown. too bitter. Fuck me! I'll slide it in my

pussy cool/ cool. my teeth hurt?  The third section,

hear him enter. stretched opposite. slide them gently

over. undemocratic philosophies. the State.

Come! I said. the uppers made me sick. it's in me really deep."

 

a sane response. was it

a position to embrace the head and legs

or push them away?

decayed mindscape

 

the eyes of the beholder. taste bourgeois flesh.

hostages engaged in the orgiastic love of commodities

banging souls against the sky's window

 

bitter. bite. bitten.

lustful hats with veils attached to hide

the twisted visages of sexual craving;

 

opera length black satin gloves hide scarred forearms

a smooth touch for the triangle below;

 

stockings hide deep brands

black patent high heels complete the females' ensembles.

no other clothing.

 

the only sound is the click/clack of teeth as

a counter-tempo to the clack/click of heels on linoleum.

 

shadows of ladders are in this b & w background;

they can see themselves back/projected on

a translucent overhanging screen

they smile as dedicated scientists are slowly crucified.

pussies get wet at the sound of hammers pounding nails

 

no redemption

no halos

just sins for the captive government employees.

 

she said: "then school brought us to church for

the instruction one afternoon. I was looking at the

color plates in the prayer book. each station of the cross.

ran my fingers over shiny paper. the images of whiplash and

agony and a little blood. droplets. aroused me.

a little blood. droplets. I started itching.

I was guilt. felt powerful. I watched the broken light

shine through the stained glass illuminating dancing

dust particles. I had to do it. it was all camera.

kept pushing until…in for a treat now; first slowly, then faster"

 

lights out! sounds of kissing.

this movie was done for free

we both watched as sentences broke apart

grieving widows fade

laughing windows cracked

the phone started

 

(after a heroin skin-pop,

strolling the sleaze pits,

communicating with random

females plying their trades,

just to see if a hard-on

could be achieved)

 

afterwards cigarettes and coffee are served

afterwards skins are collected.

 

she applies her makeup with precision:

pale white face,

dark eye shadow,

explicit eyeliner and

excessive mascara

no lipstick. she wants no distraction from her eyes.

 

she said: "the one that tastes bitter raw it's green and

long I'll slide it in my pussy cool and dark green,

pockmarked skin. you're such a sweetie, I think

the uppers made me sick my stomach is

queasy I like this Asian bitter melon I have no 

gag reflex this music makes me wet.

My pussy sometimes literally gets…"

 

the mirror sighs when she is done, it climaxes

then cracks to allow an oozing of clear liquid to

be collected in a broken tea cup that has

just enough capacity for one cum.

 

"I won't. You will. Any name? my name is...my name is Fuck."

 

tears exist just for us

"why do you hate Hollywood?"

afraid of missing her

 

Lizzy Mercier Descloux sings

a music burst from gentle waves and

a feminine scream in silence

 

she said: "I make dreams. I make dreams. put on gang of four

I like to listen to that when I do blowjobs, the first side /

the first album I don't know why I love doing this.

I'll drag my teeth gently over the head. take off your

pants and now lay back where's that Chinese vegetable

we bought on Canal Street?"

 

around her head it went and she pulled herself for a few minutes as

the bourgeoisie existed to exploit Francoise Dorleac's Renault 10 frozen

in between seconds at highway La Provençale

 

it's the birth of cinema,

the first time playing a part,

an element of seduction.

tears mixed with mascara running

into her mouth; she licked. she was in

a cyborg's frame of mind.

 

nude descending,

shot in the back

tumble down

crack

over and over it

 

at the climax she finished with: "I can't count how many people

were executed in each capitalist economy. too much.

that's it – right against my clit. numb. the ringleader of

the terrorist group kissed me in the corner."  

 

theories attempt to explain the slaughter 

mouths and tongues all groan

ignorance, mass panic, guns

jammed it in between

 

final act dead gone one

over her body

and her mouth. I could see her driving.

the incident of the year was at the brain's center

(motor) tics and process

losers hunting for grieving widows

her ear to the door

 

” you killed something inviting me in…"