Peter Marra 

Cinque poemi

 

 

a haze of belladonna for a self-portrait

(parallax view/Lizzy Mercier Descloux)

 

Shhh…

 

he was totally in love with the women who sipped blood 

the vampire girls

 

she had the aura of International Klein Blue:

soft and cool

smooth and liquid

stretching vibrant fingers outwards

towards goals of unknown satisfaction

 

she had the aura of film noir:

razor sharp, fog poisoned by evil

unsteady, tense 

killing vipers in the darkness 

With dilated pupils, capturing her prey

reciting her prayers near the broken closets

 

the texture of her thoughts caressed

the telephonic telekinetic proclamations of her love

those words that she had hidden inside

the barriers of false childhood memories

blood/brain flow was blocked in a pictorial sensibility

 

the void reigned supreme

craving the sun to be wrapped in steel cords

at the theater where the moon lay on wet soil

to replace death and enshrine it in a frame of blood

she had seen the show many times (no need for a ticket)

her aluminum heart was teleported to other beings

to the creatures who had been her lovers

they had been transferred to a mirror’s other side

trapping polished scenes of her past affections and/or copulations

 

plastic keys opened the blood flow

from doors that had been dependent

on the existence of prior human beings

Codeine is synthesized from the Echo

she began humming the music from the fallen beauty of New York City

 

Babylon sanitized, senses dulled,

her tear ducts burned

as she stole the soil from the parents’ garden

as she made a bed for her new floral arrangements

as she lay on top, spread-eagled 

ebony hair fanned out, hyper drive

pure glory: a timepiece was shattered

the unique paintings hidden under her closed eyelids,

they told her their secrets and occasional lies for comfort

 

Shhh…

 

burn the papers of the 3 madmen

leather coated in sweat

while singing at the violent eclipse like i taught you

(a rock n’ roll nurse was slaughtered on 10th avenue)

 

caress a throb of a remembrance enshrined in clear laminate

 

kiss. blend into us. kiss. the death toll climbed. kiss.

brush blackened lips against roses while petals are fingered.

 

 

 

Abjection or Nourishment: A Golden Book of Chemistry Experiments

 

(the Vapor wrapped around

them and pried them apart)

 

Something was missing.

with an inferior hand she tattooed my declaration

of love for her across the face of God.

 

she was deciding whether to be a form of nothing

or a characteristic of a system of disruption

(suck it to feel the effects)

 

as usual she sunbathed while thinking about the values of

pornographic material that always alleviates our pain

from the act of enduring the USA political system 

enduring an overload of guns,

vomiting up a ton of shit-food 

smelling the death-gasp of the educational system 

 

tired of praying

 

tired of seeking the 13th identity of a woman

who knelt and prayed

 

the fan blades overhead sliced the humid July air

thick pieces of zeotropic effect,

illuminating shadows of copulating couples

 

bikers on smack fucked behind damaged magick lantern slides

it was a translucent throbbing exhilaration

she lay on her bed and tried to look past these images

as she trembled in arousal

 

clipped hair

snipped clipped

snipping here and there

humid air darting between her legs

cooling the burning as she was offering prayers,

as she moaned under the weight of electrified mannequins

 

working with acids:

she knows the importance of chemistry

it is possible that she was permitted to work at the kitchen table

(when it was not in use)

 

you'd be so turned on to cum so hard

offering myself / her selves like that

she held her fingers to her lips and spoke softly:

“taste me; lick the pure shadow that we’ll broadcast at noon”

 

injectables caused her enlightenment by disease

new prescriptions for new minds

relishing the smell of the environment

the lurid memories recounted in song.

 

She whispered:

“when I climax, they will be dead.”

 

making apparatus for experiments

a dull entertainment for a Saturday night

constant science retro vintage rage

 

in the basement of her parent’s house,

locked in the corner with flasks and beakers,

illuminated by Bunsen burner,

she concocted new emotions to replace the ones

that had been ripped from her

 

she had become the mistress of vivisection

she left mommy and daddy writhing on the kitchen floor

 

working with base metals

complete destruction was a partial distraction

these things kept us sane

 

the stars in the film have merged into her celluloid eye

the sprockets have ripped

merged into digital overexposure

 

data encoding of black & blue

 

bleached out faces displaying pitch black irises

blind women copulate to regain eyesight

using olfactory guidance,

you’ll see that your spirit is right behind us

 

they weren’t moving

blank eyes stared at her lying in that bed in the rear

(under the burning sheet)

 

remember what you told her: words will be sacrificed

glowing stiletto heels will become fetishistic sacraments

 

she became its sacred servant:

“please remove the ones marked by depravity in God’s name

please grant me original sin. Amen.”

 

something missing: (sweet pain).

or the external caresses of my lover’s lingering

layering lips upon lips upon hot skin

 

warm fluidity passing through fields

pressing into darkness

 

she tongued torsos or she kissed eyelids

she was the only one left alive

she was the only one

attempting to sew herself back together

 

 

 

Another Trail of Blood for Miss Lonely-hearts

 

1.

she said, “see? the heart is still beating in my hand.”

another triple murder

another simple act of sabotage

another sound of screaming

another absolution

 

some more eyelids fluttered out of control

she spoke of the skeletons of our dreams:

she’ll wear these around her neck

as she cradles a single throbbing heart in her cleavage

 

we were rolled back again to tomorrow

as one single tear from the right orb

trickled down a pale cheek

 

the heart of a female relaxes and

resolves predatory political pain before murdering police officers

(which she did with glee)

then smoked 3 cigs in celebration

 

the audience admired stunning colorized photos

of psychological factors

of moving arms

through a perverted crowd of human formed libidos

 

insane asylums had mutated into passion pits for degenerates

speaking words without color or definition

viewing photographs of symbols

 

one mouth per month went by

everything was found

this time she told herself things would be different

just this time. once more.

 

the associated neurotransmitters of constructive terrorism

had been temporarily abolished 

 

liminal forces conflicted

libidinal waves sliced through water 

this served to emphasize her loneliness

 

the Sexual Informer of no experience banged its head against the wall

while speaking of razors and blind felines. the reason was operating.

 

she grabbed her clothes as she found the will to create her new face

 

“you bit me, didn’t you? what do poor people eat?”

 

it’s difficult to get there, to create the guidebook for a fledgling assassin

another cookbook. another instruction manual.

 

disbelief displacement. her jaw dropped.

she repeated the mantra in a meaningless fashion

in this way, she reaped its benefits and embroidered a net for our use

out of relics of barbarism, came a replacement

 

flesh pressed against bone

 

quietly biting her lip in an over-the-top public demonstration

that included showing unknown parts of herself

 

the other figure snorted blood through its nose

uncontrolled gagging unknow rapture in undefined lust

she said, "how completely aroused we are.”

 

some more eyelids fluttered out of control

skeletons of dreams: she wore these around her neck

“how completely aroused we were.”

 

2.

her image had become a tornado of sweat and grime,

her face merged with her previous state,

rapidly switching from lust to climax to pain to joy 

wilted irises were strewn around her.

 

“what else do you want me to do?”

 

she retrieved one of the flowers and quietly prayed for resurrection

 

scrambled list: the third movement of the second sinister female

 

(coming soon)

 

behind her, the walls were streaked with grey

the crescent between her legs squirmed out of control

a burning white atomic splash

a puncture in the celluloid void

the cell structure was changing behind the ancient city walls

ears bled, her fingers trembled, she caressed the stainless steel

 

Music appeared, at first ethereal, then guttural,

then dominated by the bass line

it grew fainter under the floorboards. it hid as a soft throb.

 

another song from the fractured women ranting

a throbbing slow pulse of the sounds

of a bloody knife hitting the oak floor

 

blood clot aroma

 

a taste crept up the back of her throat

her eyes were tearing because of revenge

 

happiness was caused by forced immersion in hallucinations,

happiness was caused by involuntary penetration in nightmares

happiness caused friction between the lust partners

 

a new image, the house of the dying sex maniac,

was back-projected in scene 7

 

move in closer move in closer (she has a secret)

 

much later her thoughts were stronger than evil

she wrote down a reminder:

“I can feel sick later in the room –

my presence of me staring at me outside of me”

 

3.

“I will call again,” she said

 

her prayers worked her into a frenzy as her tongue vibrated and spit out symbols

her mouth trembled as she suckled the breast of a

living creature anointed by those planets not yet described

 

a hatpin (from her grandmother’s boudoir)

was inserted slowly into each eyeball of a doll

it thrashed in the corner as she applied black eyeliner and mascara

 

I, Makeup.

 

spinner of lies, fabricator of truth, she pulled the covers over her head

 

cold-sweat-trembling-ashen-coughing-wheezing-corrupted

 

she suspended the face on shards of glass inserted into the plaster wall.

who will remember anything about this night?

 

“tell me your problems, i’ll make it better”

 

a touch of her flesh:

she left an imprint of her spine, outlined in sweat,

against cold cracked walls. she began morphing into a mute figure.

 

we knew about the hidden submissive figures in black leather and silver

 

what she saw and what she didn’t see were just about the same

kaleidoscopic catastrophic clairvoyant

a droplet of blood inserted into a flesh hole

a handful of dirt pushed in a random mouth

 

hide everything in the house

 

“so scared now, always have been (actually)

growing weaker by the minute but you don’t know

that god speaks to me and tells me what i did wrong”

 

in my hidden confessional i knew i was wrong

 

my hands are stained my face disfigured by sin

i ignored the rules

 

i love my guilt. i’ll feel better.

 

(an aroma of leather the taste of spikes)

 

she inserted each into each fleshy object

they squirmed.

she laughed.

we left.

 

 

 

Versions of Judas as Described by Her Selves

 

Things to come. Image by image.

Slight delusions of grandeur.

 

Stamp it out quickly.

 

a large portion of the Inquisition will exterminate this series

the Devil will describe a slightly different approach

it was a fantasy she'd visited in the Tarot 

card after card, deck after deck,

this made her scream at her remote spouses,

"fuck me deeply in those secret places…right under

the floorboards of our old home…”

 

she had gently caressed a potential mate’s face

before christening it with a straight razor

before stretching it before skin was annihilated

before stabbing it in the back and then slicing it open

done to reveal the myriad faces whispering her name

 

these possessors of eyes of rubies created

a brand-new species out of the love of the trolls

they evaporated into a new form that offered her

the affection that she required

 

this stain. her heat.

 

she was aware of the molecular quality of flesh

when their lips touched fusion / frisson

her partner's limp soul frustrated her

 

under the fabric of nature,

the organic things writhed in a unison of disappointment

the words that were created were hollow

and the knife edge was dull

the physical attributes of the monarch butterfly

vibrated the atmosphere as its wings fluttered

as it crashed and burned

 

she adjusted the black veil that we attached to her mask

she consumed the holy Eucharist

which caused her stomach to twist

and projectile vomit the sacred words

 

The wager had been blessed by many lies

the oath was untrue she knew

that Lucifer had infiltrated the church in 1917

but she had neglected to mention it

her heart resonated in a pure style

hidden beneath layer after layer of sheer animal skin

 

the Tesla coil embedded deep in her cervix

caused her to generate images on the cracked plaster walls

the silence would last forever now

crime enlightened her

another non-existent picture-show

 

the sick lazy day lay on the seashore

crawled towards a neglected sand dune

where the topless female bathers 

cloaked themselves in oil and blood

taunting the locals

 

lift your eyes towards 7 crucified women

illuminated by the drive-in movie screens

their neon smiles proclaimed her innocence

marble dust was washed away

as the red tide described sins of unknown origins

 

Medea awoke at 4 a.m. when the wolves pant

and start to gather near the player piano

 

she hid the bodies in her sacred places

these were unknown to the cops

 

in each mound of earth, she embedded a tarot card

ethereal touch. her fingers trembled.

she stroked dirt on her face for pagan linear satisfaction

 

truth be told her fingers trembled because she was so free:

her pussy and breasts and the rest of the body caught the breeze

cool at night in the ozone odor

she walked towards the drive-in theater

with knives hidden beneath black leather

criminal activities caused her epiphanies

 

 

 

Monochromatic Lapses of Memory: Our Lady of the Window

 

this 3rd personality is capable of much more

(as defined by the FBI)

 

in the ice palace of inequality that was clothed

in an albino blizzard, she stumbled in snow-blind and empty

 

stained glass faces captured Her soul

their claws deeply embedded in her heart

entrails twisting and her nerves starting to burn

 

kneeling in front of transparent etchings

of long dead burlesque performers

tasting the fluid of a distant sexuality

drink the tears of Lili St. Cyr.

 

belladonna and holy water were injected in her spine

as the saints smiled in a twisted way

admiring the birds of unknown species

that emitted sounds of obscene music

beaks dipped in black ink etched

forgotten alien words on her belly

never-forgotten symbols of intolerable pain

 

trembling, she transcribed musical notation in new scales 

she admired the blood droplets in the holy water 

as her stigmatic shivers were ignored by absentee lovers

only seen by the blind offspring

 

she fell in love with the ritual of confession 

and the noise of prayers

and the comfort of lies

just because it fed her static lust

 

perfect images in 35 mm

“make it grainy, make it black and white motherfucker”

 

she knew about the unknown bastard sitting on her bosom

attempting to steal her drama

raw light injected subcutaneously

to make the soft tympani underscore the corpus delectable

to stir up primal affection for distant discreet distinct creations

 

lick the black/red flames, count the droplets of red on the snow

she said that she had trouble with the ending

she couldn’t create a point from where the void began

lusting after the Snow Queen that licked the tongues of the solstice

they proclaimed their love as mere perception

 

These rooms will to continue to breathe

they whisper to each other

they speak of a woman who cast no shadow

her eyes on us, on our god

her eyes are scarred, morphed to scared

her breaths are tainted with

the faint odor of blood and bitter almonds

 

they frighten so easily. so sacred.

 

I will describe her without sound

She’s not for myself,

she will live off a life of pleasantries

being held in the wet jaws of the synthetic mongrels

 

let's do it now

 

The clock stopped. step up into the attic.

watch your head because the mute harpsichord will convulse

and create indelible markings

more commonly known as scars

 

this will be a combination in the mutation

the elements of love have come to pass

taking up residence in the Museum of diagonals and broken lines

break mine break our soul

 

“remove these mirror splinters from my eyes,”

she begged of the stolen figurines

a prototype of the alpha and omega

“it’s stale”

two figures trapped in a corner of the room rapidly disappearing

I'm surprised by the number of killings

astonished by your murder skills

 

make your introductions until she stares at you

make your excuses before she dismembers you

 

hurry up. dimensions of unnerving activities.

it’s just a few miles away, can we handle it?

 

kiss the blood she deposited between my legs

just the remnants of the bad notions hiding in her cervix

before she did that aktion

before she degraded herself

before she depended on them to handle us

before she hid myself

 

after a soft harmless creature disappeared

after her aktions were dispensed with furious rage

 

“the shadows will protect me,” she promised

“she promised me she promised.

she will satisfy my longings for the limpid pools of black and blue.”

 

a fluid was thrown onto the street

pearls were shooting from her love holes

the size of the lickerish maidens

floating towards the left hand

to pierce the eyes of the Magdalene

to pierce the eyes of the moon done in 3D envy

 

go to sleep with a headful of emptiness

 

she wiped her hands clean 

(erasures)

she wanted to be removed and take the flimsy evidence with her 

burn them on the pyres of her newspaper clippings.

potent tastes of mistakes of affection

caught in between the eyes. reminiscing about pain.

lasting effects from the riot squad

she took her companions to the ancient ruins 

kissed them among the cenotaphs.

markers for past beginnings –

 

reaching into the drawer retrieving the ankh symbol

bloodstained and tasty red stains on a white fur coat

only served to illustrate the violence that was present in a past life

 

“tell me my dear why the moon is black and why

your eyes are bloodshot.”

 

up late waiting for the Snow Queen

her breasts are present her legs her sex her odor

the things you never question except the knives she used to cure our sins

when we knelt at 4 am when things were born and/or died

and tried to renew ourselves

 

the timepiece can be heard far away

as the snow queen bucks and moans.

 

crouching low over squiggling faces

her face displayed the great relief undercut

with the undercurrent of a growling, growing, glowing climax

 

piss cascaded over their rabid eyes

generating steam and flowers of fury

 

the one-all-there-is

rebirth masculine re-born feminine

the bare hearts were fondled

then sewn back into chest cavities that contained

rampant music created on prehistoric instruments

following musical notation from planets of unknown structures

 

anyway, she could caress herself without guilt

so, she could shift

so, she should cum

and cum once more

 

finalizing the reason that the setting sun licks the face

of the moon in gratitude

 

a beggar plucked the tarot card from the cervix of Lilith

to service the patrons

 

count the droplets of blood on the snow. listen to their harmony.

 

 

 

Originally from Gravesend, Brooklyn, NYC, Peter Marra lived in the East Village from 1979 to 1993 at the height of the punk / no wave / art and music rebellion. He has had a lifelong fascination with Surrealism, Dadaism, and Symbolism; some of his favorite writers being Paul Eluard, Arthur Rimbaud, Tristan Tzara, Edgar Allan Poe, and Henry Miller. Peter also cites Roger Corman and Russ Meyer as influences.

 

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.” His parents were always disturbed by that 1st book.

 

A Dadaist and a Surrealist, Peter’s writings explore alienation, addiction, the function and misuse of love and attraction, the curse of secrets, the pain of victimization and the impact of multi-obsessions. He has had over 200 poems published either in print or online in over 25 journals.

 

His published works include Peep-O-Rama: Sins of the Go-Go Girls from Hammer & Anvil Books, approximate lovers (downtown materialaktion) from Bone Orchard Press and Vanished Faces (a performance of occult infections) from Writing Knights Press.

 

His latest collection, Random Crucifixions, is forthcoming in May from Hammer & Anvil Books.

 

Website: www.angelferox.com