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Peter Marra

Poesie fur Merkwürdigliebe



morphinomaniac! (a study for formulaic bodies)


a cathedral of flesh and sweat

banned by the legion of decency

morally objectionable to all

that was our reputation

just searching for a jelly roll

joined and morphed by our pictorialism and narcotic-fuck

just a put-on


she had said, “why don’t you make me things for me to love?

my affection deserves better gifts.

it’s burning up in here. my eyes are rolling back.

see the whites? i’ll take you with me.

just to leave. just to leave.

that’s the whole point, isn’t it? don’t you crave me, don’t you still love women?

I’ll bend forward so you can idolize my sex.”



Some Background Information:


she considered participating in the party until the last of the toys was dead. it felt so good to keep herself going all the way to New York. this is what she had been telling herself. she threw her clothing at the anesthetized and achieved absolute freedom. disrobed, she was more powerful than perfection and she kissed the water as it draped around her, holding her close. absolute apex.


she removed the straight razor from her vagina and held it up to the light to relish the glint of steel. a sigh, a pause, then she placed the blade above her abdomen and drew a shaky oval around her pubic area. a tug, the flesh fell off and her new cock popped out, a new addendum, a new purpose. she admired herself in the full-length glass. vagina, cock, clit – she couldn’t be happier.


she had promised, and she had promised people every day of her past lives and the electric chairs offered her nothing at all. a monotonous simplicity soothed her burning mind as she plucked the butterfly wings from her bare breasts, gently kissed the sheer appendages and tossed them away.


her 8 x 10-inch negatives of a consciousness pulsating, viscous rhythm made her happy. memory of things gone. things to come. she had left her phone number on the wall, right under the previous graffiti scrawled days earlier: “please stop me before i kill again...” her footprints were unsteady, and she smiled every other step. silence is golden, she knew. a finger in her mouth. overheated. sweaty. a few wisps of hair, a face and a mouth appeared under the water’s skin in the bayou.


through flash-lit-black-circled-eyes, words didn’t penetrate or arouse recognition. the crimes had been videoed for three weeks straight - non-stop gigabytes of hatred. she rode the gusher as the door burst open. these images had been restructured to get the best possible result. they had been generated to minimize the effects of the white powder. fentanyl climax in the desert tinged with meth and blood. ferrous red taste.


the women incited the service to be used for punishment. she tensed as the fire within her spurted. the gentleman’s suit was set on fire and he squirmed as the flames licked. they probably haven't seen her pussy and the toy was hidden under the stained-sheets. the room had been locked a few weeks ago. muscles tensed as teeth clenched dental grinding resulted in shards of guilt.


she gently kissed the animal she had nailed to the chair, still shocked by their reaction to her hands that had been bleeding. a countless number of silver bullets had no effect. it had been two weeks since the females had arrived bringing burlesque music. they were asked what random pleasure had made her love into scratching and clawing.



Sequence of the Interview:


in a failed attempt to minimize anxiety, the subject used her

optophonetics to arouse her lovers (heter0-bi-pan-sexual).

she told the stenographer, “after each one asked

me to fuck them, i replaced the sexual act with their murder. highly satisfying.

flush with satisfaction. do you have another cigarette?

the sun is coming in my pussy! i was sky-clad.”


a frozen mouth was protection for swollen tongues.

slivers of shivers up and down the back. against her skin, eyelashes

causing the mutation of dove footprints, binding with the vertebrae.

leaving permanent inlets of indentations up and down the spine.

a crescendo, a failure, a collapse.



Good Friday (Eye of Tenebrae):


exterminated paintings that are melting while wax is clinging to her skin.

slight burning photos of tender eyes ready and beckoning,

resulting in rapid eye movement. during this time, she counted off

her orgasms as she prayed, during this time she counted off their climaxes on each fingertip.


degenerate art for anesthetic aesthetics held me to the railing.

feast on. feast on me.

the aura of swollen appendages.


this was the most important procedural control of the interview.

her body’s voices came closer yet closer as she ascended.

she lay across the sky, cumming. she was now the interview.

the orgasms stopped as she shopped for witnesses to the infernal act.

a perception of the subject by the object.


please leave us to our thoughts and our feelings of herself.


Erotica #1.0 (set-pieces twice removed)


reversal photo of the black moon outlined in crimson eyeliner

her delicately trembling tongue glided over

the negative space of miscellaneous sexual organs

faces twice removed or maybe they were shimmering in deceit


trembling fingers teased her lips apart

above and / or below didn’t matter which

it didn’t matter to her if the machines embraced decay


apprehensive at first i gently cried

under the veils she waved goodbye to no one in particular

hinged doves tongued her areolae then lay down to

transform into rabid clutches of desperate lovers


in the corner shrouded with the cries of delicate creatures

they recorded our activities using film and milky gestural abstraction


she spoke words without vowels and

rubbed red droplets between alabaster fingertips


she applied black eyeliner and removed lightning from her cunt

reserving it to be used for a mainline


white stains for baptism landed as musical notation on undulating objectified staffs

gently undulating sweaty flesh crackled beneath the black fluorescent light fixture


we tattooed our names as sigils onto our lips and under our eyelids

our lips were joined with a web of saliva as we

waltzed and crushed delicate creatures that were in the act of

filming in the furthest corner of the room

production was slowed down to 1 frame per minute

almost frozen frames invaded her previously twisted nerves


a reversal photo of the white moon was outlined in Revlon black Fabulash

songs of the abandoned torsos writhed in operatic fashion

moist wide-open mouths were paralyzed in still-life orgasms touching

saliva-webs eventually becoming a religion



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


His latest collection, Random Crucifixions: Obsessions, Dolls and Maniac Cameras, is now available in quality paperback on or from the author himself.





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