Peter Marra

Poemi della fortuna

 

 

Chaos Theory: (Emanuelle meets the Random Nymphomaniacs)

(Note: Emanuelle with 1 “m” is Exploitation Cinema’s naughtier sister of the original soft-core Emmanuelle. She was usually portrayed by Laura Gemser.)

 

She chose her games carefully as Death City danced

She decided to attempt experiments

With leather lace and iron

She hid behind the hospital curtain

And watched as the machines pumped deep inside her

 

Fighting it off, she failed as she moaned

Her eyes were swirls and her lips were blue

She wanted to cum some more as she begged to be in control

 

The people with masks waited or watched

behind two-way mirrors

she climaxed once more in the pale green haze

all the glad mouths were drooling

 

ungrateful voyeurs searched for a miscellaneous fuck

Demoniacs pulsating to a backbeat as

she used a whip to shoo problems away

 

My baby, my dear

she exposed a plasticine teat

and winced as they suckled

The veils were removed:

she was exposed to the television cameras

 

This newfound evidence supported the situation

three were gagged and moaning

searching for their elusive sins

poking deep into sequestered veins

She bent backwards and stretched her arms high

a wife was slowly dancing

a daughter was breathing shallowly

 

she was enjoying it

her face with hers

they could brace themselves with their hands

becoming a true group

they were assigned to worship the cancerous jukebox

placing females on the Shock Table

 

Emanuelle raised her head up while wiping slumber

and said, “If I leave you, it won’t be for anyone else.

It will be for no one.”

 

she sliced open a vein

dipped in her index finger and created new sigils on her skin

a vision just for herself, these creatures spoke

 

“I need to rinse you out of my bloodstream.

I’m slammed into orgasming. I’m

going into that weird strange space.”

 

in the simulated prison,

the dead meat spoke in rhymes never ending

the investigating bystanders grew bored and walked on

 

while fingering the pawns, caressing the queens

in a dead-straight line until dawn,

Emanuelle spied on the activity

and photographed it for posterity

these super-imposed victims for her own amusement

and her own fears

 

breaking the sex of the lineage of influence

fading in / fading out of submission

she had no logical choice

Emanuelle’s lips flowed over questions

licking sets of photographs depicting past sexual conquests

as cocks throbbed and pulsed, her strength grew

as her pussy grew wet her desire for murder exploded

 

“If I love you, it won’t be anyone else - ever.

It will be for no one.”

 

 

 

The Symptoms of Sexual Positions

 

an omnivorous woman kneeled,

her buttocks rested on her heels

 

pray for me

 

delicious roundness, electric shock

she prayed for one more

she prayed for no one now

“let me be unreal, now,” she said.

“let me be filthy. let me cum.”

 

this is what she thought – she was no longer complete.

satisfied – no longer.

no longer in fear.

her sweat anointed my face,

her saliva anointed the stars

 

she would use it as pain

she would use it for revenge and

she would smile always - twisted sardonic

 

the spiders that she kept for such occasions,

wrapped gauze around us – clinging black net

so they could whisper to us,

clandestine activities that gave us release

 

she fed a prurient interest to become a mistress of Fuck,

delivering satori between her legs

offering it to God free of charge

 

the blowgun of Lucrezia Borgia

that she hid under her leather skirt,

between her legs – solid/secure

 

deep in the unknown yet undiscovered universe

a flux that shifted every two minutes

until people couldn’t discern the result

 

bleary-eyed they walked to the seashore,

so they could weep in peace

finally relaxing under the black moon

 

her memories of this time are vivid

when she would hide in the peep-cage and

wait for the curtain to rise

 

“i’m afraid of what’s out there –

of what she holds deep inside

of when she leaves me

of when she bites

of when she loves me”

 

draining away, she’s shivering. her eyes.

boring through the window’s cracked glass

 

APPLAUSE – the skin was perforated

white light exited through pinpoints of her lips

slippery faces composed a mosaic

pairs of lovers / split /ecstasy

 

back at the damp wall, she looked upwards

salivating, salvation not coming,

chest heaving, flesh wet, leaving imprints as she rolled

licking her lips at the slaughter of random auto-crashes

 

she plunged it in 7 times

 

spying the new mutant on the other side of the glass –

humiliating them for her own epiphanies

 

for her own pleasure –

she fanned herself with the crime scene photos –

“had to cool down,” she said.

 

 no motive.

a murder car followed her home, slowly without sound.

 

just like the tarot predicted. be careful.

sirens wailing in the distance

(moaning)

 

mirrors revealed the murder in progress.

silent form under a blood moon.

shiny shiny blades

screams were halted. sounds of flesh.

 

“it’ll be alright”

 

they’re hers forever – keep them close.

 

an omnivorous woman stood up,

her hands were red, her heart pure

 

the female prisoner of a blood-stained butterfly:

a delinquent without a fantasy.

 

 

 

Gorgeous Monster, Sexpot for the Love Units

 

she is a gorgeous monster

skin. skin -

glistening with sweat.

bitter.

 

aroma of vaginal spasms - drifting towards oblivion

a tongue piercing the eyes of the aether

we stood on cracked glass, naked

as she prayed for more to come

 

watching, barely coherent,

we kissed in a black moonlight

pale and shimmering,

 

her skin cloaked me

and protected me from our sins

 

she is La Papesse.

female / ethereal – pulsating / transcendent

 

she shared love under blacklights

while nothing appeared to be

 

we were watched by the infernal police monitors

electric bolts shooting up our spines

this occurred in the back of the

basilica

 

(where it had all started)

 

two additional human sacrifices of no consequence.

 

she is an exquisite throbbing narcotic

blood. blood -

beating with pain.

sweet.

 

vulva explosions in distant deserts

where she once occupied a cage

in a naturalistic neo-plastic horror show

 

her fantasy mutated as she had planned it

tickets discounted ½ price today only

 

she started throbbing deep inside her sweet smile,

as her tight body spun out of control

 

then slowed to a barely perceptible twinge

amoral horror entertainment,

sharing the spoils of all over our bodies

 

the gods appeared fucking her from behind

(another game of “If”)

meeting at point X

 

she relished the Grand Guignol aromas

once deep inside,

the shock of possession was revealed

 

she is a fiendish fucker

eyes. eyes -

flooded with lust.

sweet.

 

we watched each other

as one became transparent

the other slid inside

as the touch melded

as the heart burned

 

evolving into the allegory gallery of copulation

(i modi metamorphic erotic new instructions

for punishment / fucking)

 

We removed the multiple lives from each other.

The portraits changed.

The lust had mutated, transitioned into

blank celluloid burning in every frame.

 

 

 

Shear Ecstasy: The Madonnas of Insatiable Appetites

 

two on a mirror, one before the other

two sides layered on three sides

revolving behind the thirteenth strike of a collapsible moon

sliced close to the edge, dancing on the blades

 

her lips were louder under the burning kliegs

once. twice. one more dance step

hither and fro caressing the lips

30 buttons were undone as

 

the corset exploded mid-drive.

a lubrication for the erotic motors of

her long-forgotten hallucinations

back once more

 

deep inside once more

2 indistinguishable female saints

XXX confessions – 10 dollars a peep

on stage she asked for the removal of sins

 

the Church charged 20 bucks

and assured fulfillment, forgiveness or enlightenment

they promised: no more pain, no more hurt

she discovered her fingers were caressing what they shouldn’t

 

the neon blue highlighted her mistakes

she discovered her vaginal muscles were pulsating when they shouldn’t

but she longed to perform forever

she paused to polish her tarnished halo

 

then flung it towards customer current 93.

the official verdict announced by the DJ

remained in question

she wailed and ripped her costume in fire

 

voluptuous figurines clothed in perspiration

scraped off with a blade

isomers were added and a little blood

they partook and metamorphosed into the clergy

 

she made a face in Risus Sardonicus

it was described as the raptus-optical of the ravenous women

it’s a mundane felony – she knew the taste,

she licked her terror while drowning in black-purple

 

she climaxed at the 13th strike as a jukebox wailed

as the machines played her favorite 45

lovers of the afterlife blurring incoherence

a brassiere soaked with sweat and blood

 

a by-product of attempting a crime scene cleanup

she was pushing her gorgeous ass down onto Salome’s prize

in front of Gem Spa. rolling into ecstasy and filmed from multiple angles

“I’ll take you all to paradise,” she said, as she polished her leather.

 

faces etched into window panes

painful to endure, ecstatic to watch

“I can’t eat or drink anymore,” she said.

“Just a poke here and there: one in the arm and one in my cunt.”

 

She was charming in her own way.

“We’ll release it on DVD Blu-ray someday.”

solar zoomed, they were watching online

she knew it with fear, huge and filling

 

a shock of cunt, a laugh of despair

“I’ve done nice things before, I need to eradicate all.” she said

a camera zoomed in on the Gone-Gone girls or

the tragic assassination of the seated audience viewed online

 

voracious, ravenous, subtle and charming

gnostic words engendered moans and squeals

 

out of the site of entry, she was hidden behind the door

her eyes rolled back to show only white

 

 

 

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 first 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, Vanished Faces (a performance of occult infections) from Writing Knights Press, and Peep-O-Rama: Sins of the Go-Go Girls & Random Crucifixions: Obsessions, Dolls & Maniac Cameras from Hammer & Anvil Books.

 

Peter was Danse Macabre's 2018 Artist-in-Residence.