Peter Marra

Giallo Poetry

 

 

A Tulpa Rising – A Twist of an Object

 

(tulpa - noun. a being or object that is created in the imagination by

visualization techniques such as in Tibetan mysticism.)

 

gestures. with no warning,

they came quietly. reality things. a tribute.

time passed through her mouth

everyone was there. are the women staying?  

touches of moist lips and broken dreams counted out randomly

a blast inside her sentient other

it was leaving her now,

soon to return with grime and blood under her fingernails

fingertips smelling of unknown secretions

important shooting. one blast inside.

 

humming naked cars, whimpering frightened men

walking, hearing, laying down, trying to rest

she adjusted her halo in the cracked mirror

that was missing some silver

low guttural sounds were far behind – she wanted to scream

they were all around her – twisted ethereal things

slamming into her, her eyes turned backwards

she saw what she had generated

while peering through the window

she noticed a slight trembling and acidic taste

 

it was pushed into the evening

shifting in and out of panic

just translucent white linen images wrapped around her mouth

the head of schizophrenia’s fist

the mind had nothing left

she adjusted the barbed wire

it was too tired, too parallel

then again and again, jolting to a rhythm

dug up from back there, buried in her brain

above her, anemic masks were changing places  

faceless females sneaked a peek through the shutters

of the decaying cottage carrying sex-disease apprehension

it was an environmental fright crawling up her spine

“you’re soaking in it!”

 

her faces shifted from side to side, the flesh had subsided

at the sound of the visualizing tendency of ludicrous lovers

she relished getting them off in pain

rabid leather thongs were pulled tight by shattered teeth

she screamed because of their hurt

eyes straight down, two forms of her body touching her

her eyes rolled back, crazily but lazily

gazed, transfixed, exploding mantis jaws

a blood spatter crescendo defined her purpose

the unknown thing made her feel too guilty

 

she inhaled the intoxicating smoke of

the matchstick women and men that she had set on fire

 

why did you come here?

why do you hear me? I have nothing more.

blasting out different degrees of orgasm

panting in rooms devoid of color

advertising gimmicks to show her clean pussy

lips stretched out - crystalline daggers

one horrible movement – she squeezed the heart dry

 

“My name – it hurts to hear it,” she said,

“the audience viewed me doing things in the forbidden area

 

yes, it was in this position – a body lost.

ghosts frantically circling and searching my womb.”

 

 

 

The Caravaggio Atomic Vulva Complex

 

1.

 

She had a blackened soul

She wore a leather mask

She was proud of her pouty lips protruding though mirrors of shame

 

she had a soul associated with nuclear power

contained in a cervix simultaneously sliding up and or down

 

she administered a few tongue lashings that soothed the pain

offering chiaroscuro sins in bold relief against

the collapsing buildings

 

The people were aglow, she couldn’t hear the applause

 

2.

 

She had arrived and serviced her outrage

a private whipping for public servants

skin ripped under burning cloth for a blood-clot-cling

severing light with shadows

 

On her haunches she was regal

as her eyes bled and

her teeth cracked from the grief of the hypodermic

 

as she saw herself painting sigils of faces on throbbing slaves

their milk was stolen and sold at auction

to feed just one more habit

 

3.

 

(assume the placebo-fuck effect)

 

One design etched over another deep into the skins

so she could achieve salvation

 

standard variations on the libido extracted in the basement

that had been hidden inside the cracked drywall

left there to contemplate the transgressions

 

she moistened her lips in manic despair

over and over

 

4.

 

In this style / Good Friday  

God went mute

then she went deaf

sitting in the luncheonette,

abstract silence was not as intriguing as random acts of violence

 

rabid and gun crazy

 

she ordered two cups of black coffee

savored each (good to the last fucking drop)

 

she watched the politicians eviscerate the victims on the news

she arrived when the throbbing started in the head and between the legs

when she was awakened she had slaughtered her fellow diners

 

seven in total

 

In this style / God spoke to her

 

5.

 

“Lick me while I paint your portraits,”

she ordered the vanishing (so feminine) figurines.

 

“I’ll hold your memories between my lips.

Spit them back at you. You’re cured”

 

6.

 

After lubricating the distended muscular torso,

 

(ecce homo)

 

she grasped a straight razor with a trembling black-gloved hand

etched a fine line from the groin to the base of the sternum

steel severing flesh

excruciatingly white-hot

 

she spread the cut while spreading her cunt

searched a womb and burned down the room

photos were taken and filed away

 

the people were aglow, she couldn’t hear the applause

 

during melodies of slick blood

and symphonies of muscular structures torn apart

 

her hand penetrated the void and withdrew 2 sacred objects:

• a hand-painted porcelain miniature facial expression

• a framed polaroid of her parents taken many years ago

 

kyrie eleison

 

she licked and kissed them, then tossed them away

she was a fragile remnant of things gone sour

 

Singing in slow reverse sound

 

“God let me lie down in Hades and sleep.

Give me the taste of red and purple, light and darkness, black and blue.”

 

 

 

(an Imago for Revenge)

 

(i·ma·go iˈmāɡō,iˈmäɡō  noun

1. ENTOMOLOGY the final and fully developed adult stage of an insect, typically winged.

2. PSYCHOANALYSIS an unconscious, idealized mental image of someone, especially a parent, that influences a person's behavior.)

 

The exorcist of a dark factory

Severed his own tendons so his excruciating pain would make her eyes see

 

once or twice.

the flesh is getting moist

folds of delicate touch

lining the mouth of the purple iris

a scream hidden in the back of her throat

 

Out of pleasure

Out of fear

Out of anguish inside her multi-layered hearts

 

an opening stretched behind the dulcet sounds of dying music

the Theremin’s tendrils snaked inside and around her openings

flesh twisted under wet leather caressing the sounds of the friction sky

 

she held her close to me and made me watch repeatedly

or once or twice

folds of delicate precision touched another opening for the purple iris

a scream.

once or twice.  a cut.

 

a visual atrocity

 

we quieted darkness.  that was done for yourself.

a taste of tumescent flesh oozing juice and

rabid-action lower slum dreams.

 

“a picture for you you always want the same thing.

please uncross your legs. so ashamed as the noises droned on,

as the desires started to fade. rub. out. or abide by the needle”

 

another victim grew smaller as the shadows grew larger

you always say the same thing

 

her trembling index finger traced heart shaped figures on her cheek:

“I don’t make love…not anymore…i just fuck hard…my filthy proclamation”

 

slowly at first then quickly,

when she’s bored with this aktion she twists her pubic hair

she’s so splendidly seedy she needs unrequited love.

 

slowly at first then quickly,

memories of violence from another century hiding in her retinas

random discussions about the seasons of cannibalization

liquid washed over her rapidly during the next burning of the forests

she enjoyed the vacuum generated by being picked to be pleased

 

trail 1 reversed direction, syllables were used

new broadcasting developed. we walked over and memorized  

their parts so you can repeat them perfectly.

 

the twisted hand touched her and communicated by way of radio waves

a light touch here or there,

couldn't transmit audio & began broadcasting

as the room swelled we had become jigsaw puzzles tonguing each other

in the corners of unknown rooms

 

using their faces as placeholders for texts,

the waves excited figures of lust and despair

 

the aftershocks of her frequency grew as she mounted one after the other

fluid was splashing in all directions microphones indicated dead men.

 

opening scene was repeated as a wholesome pastime

these activities elicited a low cum-flashing-burn-burn

 

an electric eye in her cunt saw all I wanted,

but what she couldn’t.

she hides. he flees. cum. then be sad.

 

these are victims. the lights. everything took me. everything was wonderful.

 

start talking now, my lovely

please move your fingers and trace vacant obscenities

in random airwaves

 

taste the aroma being generated from distant accident sites

the crimes you committed make you an object of desire

throw your victims onto the electrified landscape

 

she watched and counted the writhing silhouettes and gasped

as the number increased

 

upon entering the chamber, she was bombarded

by the smells and sounds of pleasured souls hidden in obscene cubicles

complimented by the sharp click/clack of her heels on cracked linoleum

 

distant moaning enhanced her climaxes

she reached down and caressed leather clad thighs

 

and issued her commands to vacant eyes

later she sat quietly in the corner

while vanished faces provided sound clips of random razors in action

 

“It would be charming to explore your mind…”