DM
153
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.