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 Amazon.com or from the author himself.