DM
153
Peter Marra
Poetry in Quarantine
A Rabid Female under a Yellow Moon – Her Pornographic Love Affair
Colorless before the absent women
rippled water – reddened, now a crimson stream
backwards flame of her heightened obsession
a medusa believed the images seen through her partially closed eyes
there is no evidence of our mutual oblivion
thunder of pain reverberating through the routes of her brain
she had to sit down, catch her breath and think – so nothing would move
sitting beneath a parasol:
regularly repeating fluctuations of her moods –
not sure whether she was content or morbid
she inserted an object deep inside
her moist vaginal walls hugged and screamed
she stared at the crotch and silently wished for happiness
as the vehicles passed and the optical waves became twisted
perusing the scene:
while viewing the blade of an anthropomorphic guillotine
she folded her wings and started a routine prayer
the well-known type of monotony she stole from the nunnery
as a milky-white stallion, spattered with red, collapsed
on the absent beach as her fingers disappeared deep inside herself
paralyzed with lust - the twist and the moan
7 minutes later the lunar moth whispered its secret,
“it’s necessary to savor the pain of the others”
satisfaction guaranteed:
the criminal wife spoke freely of her hobbies
the activities that pleasured her
“I actively experienced sensations,” she stated for the record
“The nuns fled the Emergency Room,” she continued with glee
“O Suzie, you spoke of weird experiments, didn’t you?” she asked
the slayings were perfection personified
she loved to fuck in front of the camera and do
anything else they wished to record if
she was the center of attention – just like on TV
It’s only a movie….
It’s only a movie….
It’s only a primitive heart encased in red crystal - mirroring the lust
throbbing fever escalating
can we use the demon laser to guide us?
A catechism of her cravings was prepared while
Johnny Yen fucked her slowly
she wanted to learn why she always followed this course
leaning against the blood-stained door
sweaty back – flesh on iron
she carried the glamor of Hollywood Neon
transporting to the other side of Jupiter
behind her retinas the gods would die, leaving her alone
a simple entity tracing a unicursal hexagram above her crotch
licking a finger every so often wasn’t sure of their origin
“Tell me you love me…. Taste me.”
she paid no mind to random words
The shock of Hollywood dying made her laugh again
panes of purple, black and silver became merged with her albino skin
her lenticular eyes accused me
as she slowly removed my skin + heart –
it burned
it burned
she waited for later magickal appointments. the Air was heavy with blood.
A Dream Funeral, a Tango into the Dark
Ganja: If the shadow of the cross is on our heart, it'll destroy us?
Hess: But the cross is only an implement of torture...its shadow is the darkness it casts, you see? ...nothing can survive the shadows.... We've got to learn to let it go.
-Ganja & Hess, 1973 directed by Bill Gunn
Palm Sunday - twisted dance
the virus of her bloodstream
and the addiction of her memory
the red vein of the moonbeam
Good Friday - somnambulist cravings
the random nude feminine figures swaying
under the gibbous refractions
she reacted to the fingertips by shaking her head slowly
she had become a creature preoccupied with knives and TV
and the silent touch of an invasive tomorrow
Tenebrae - anticipations of exquisite pleasures
the neon dames walking the circular streets didn’t pay attention to her
or the hidden smile between her legs
or the rattling of pill bottles
or the forgery of numerous prescriptions
it was needed so that things could be complete
so, the screams wouldn’t hurt anymore
rolled back in her
she stood quietly as she hid the note describing her sins and resolutions
great surfers of the alien brains watched her intently
she was annoyed at the attention and craved so many things
a fuck
a drink
a smoke
some blood
and some flesh
she had passed time between scenes and inter-scenes
internecine battle between the ID and the Superego
face obscured by a nylon stocking tautly stretched over her face
leather trench coat hugged her svelte body
a trembling right hand clutched an open antique straight razor
she knew style is everything
something to remember tonight as her moans grew wider
accompanied by the broken violins – so quiet. be quiet.
no plan to return to normalcy
her heart smoldered as it was touched by the crucifix’s shadow
making her climax as she passed through pulsating glass
one behind the other
the sounds of gloved hands stroking invisible skin
vacillations of life after porno performances and stripping for $
magickal inscriptions of neon in the decaying city’s evening
schizoid woman of love and lust and anger
a taste of her electric pussy tantalized many tongues
savoring of milk and amoebas cascaded into her mouth
a heaving of the goddess’s breasts as she disrobed on stage
and her lungs filed with the aroma of a gentle spring evening
drop 2 coins for the curtain to raise
5 minutes a peep – no refunds
every customer satisfied
as she frigged herself to scratchy 45’s – her favorite hits
the audience’s mind flooded with pictures of the lost world
random hand signals guided her
the vendetta of a lonely female
no voice – speaking
no nerve endings - touching
blind eyes - seeing
(smiling at numerous customers)
the obverse of the interior visages became unhinged – skin exuding sweat
as she climaxed multiple times in front of 1,000 dead cuckoo clocks
she purred so coolly
she purred so coolly
looking to exercise her claws
her heart smoldered as it was touched by the crucifix’s shadow
she relished her climax as she passed through a leather window
an opiate fusion of her heart and her soul
Contagion Onboard - Polaroid Empathy
(Triple X escapades
a mental exercise)
a twisted burning for
a critical mass upheaval.
another iteration of the Creation Myth.
La Papesse arrived, the same meat screaming through
her triptych of facial recognitions of fear;
an unqualified disaster before her slavery.
(fuck. until the pain is numb. but still present.)
she climaxed successfully as a stunt for media purposes,
a throbbing pomegranate in flames,
a plaintive noise buried in a cell phone call of her mythology.
the pain flowed in a traditional sense -
an epiphany was discovered in a statement from the nudie models.
she shuffled the cards once again – the deck with the burlesque stars
Candy Barr and Lili St. Cyr provided no relief.
her tortuous narrative continued.
“I’m not entering that building,
they were lined up outside, masked and bound.
The orgasm was amazing wanted others to follow,
without that sinking feeling - my pastiche of guilt – I soared.
Of course, I slaughtered the cops and any other pigs.”
slivers of a past reality arrived for a haunting as
their obscene leader pointed out her errors.
she splashed into the camera lens capturing
castoff images of the disturbing variety.
she buried these feelings by getting her hands busy,
capturing the forgotten visages and events in a
second-hand Fisher-Price video camera.
blowup up to 16mm,
get the grainy effect.
captured frames developed in seconds.
getting affected by the random disease,
fever brain art creations.
she had become the last rock star –
she had recorded the sounds rattling in her mind.
captured the images traipsing through her mouth,
a cruel picture of a laser tongue assaulting her predators.
“I experienced a sense,” she said, “walking through the decay.”
“I felt sick and then elated, - a glorious hallucination.
When I starred in those films –
I felt better – everyone could see my body.
I was free.
Finally.”
Her tarot reading of premonitions, “Fuck the World.”
the simple act of grasping mementos of her pornographic career
heightened her brainwaves.
several essential fetish totems were necessary:
composed of leather, jacquard and vinyl,
neon electric silk and pain.
lacey panties barbed wire crowns,
corsets in flames and gloves entrapped.
loaded hypos and hallucinogenic climaxes.
spurts of pain punctured the night sky.
“Make a choice satiate your fear”
at Holy Mother Federal House,
they hosted a money-laundering dinner,
as she continued to slice open authority figures
nothing cooler than an efficient bloodlust.
(Female Adjusted)
in control of her feminine tricks just for revenge,
last dollar for a dildo, creeping and shaking.
a release came but no relief just a yen growing stronger,
scampering away into oblivion.
hand in velvet hand, blackness over the sky
surrounded by the same excuse ad absurdum.
sinuous coils stretched around her shaking limbs,
swept her smile away.
snarling, she demanded “drive me wild”
of the crisscrossing whores in the Fifth Sphere of Heaven,
true warriors of the faith.
she was finished with being humiliated,
mute and gorgeous she played the cards again.
crude beginnings for another recovery
she was an assassin with a lizard’s smile.
Mercurial Phases of a New Moon
A gesture, a touch
Static noise
CLOSEUP:
Very soon the tender lips of the moonbeams
would touch her eyes and massage her mind
caressing her
transporting her into the land of dualities
where creatures of magick and shadows of transparent lovers
would tell her their forbidden secrets
she knew her lover would be there
composed of glass
hiding in the electric cave of desire
whispering urgently for her to cross the threshold
Inside the Hellenic Garden
she decided to rest
from her place she viewed the wet rainbow
encircling Venus
the aroma tantalizing, beckoning for her to come home
a sacred song repeated endlessly
fingerprints of radium imprinted on the clouds glowed gently
two figures watched by faces pinned to the ceiling
laying on her back at the seaside
fragrant and inviting
late at night
she counted the images and
the faces of the viewers
living deep inside her satiated body
the subtle visages stored in sacred places
were wrapped around her naked torso
coddled by the leather fingers
seated near the atomic jukebox
kissing her naked flesh with
whispers of memories and long forgotten truths
she merged with her lover and recalled tender thoughts
they hid beneath the lunar eclipse
lips pressed firmly together
joined by a web of saliva when they separated
nothing existed outside of their frame
“I want you here forever. Touch me now.”
Peter Marra’s writings explore alienation, addiction, the misuse of love, the curse of secrets, the pain of victimization and the impact of obsessions. He has been scarred by his past quests into the pits of Rock n’ Roll, sin & flesh in NYC’s East Village and Pre-Disney Times Square and he has been manipulated by trash culture and fine art. He is the bastard child of the films of Roger Corman and Russ Meyer, the works of the Symbolists and the underground. Originally from Gravesend Brooklyn, Peter lived in the East Village, New York from 1979 to 1993 at the height of the punk – no wave music era.
Peter’s work has the ability to unnerve but always has a purpose, as stated by Anti-Heroin Chic Editor James Diaz: “I have to say it's quite unlike anything else I've ever read, the chaotic No Wave NY energy certainly flows through your pieces in a unique way and you manage to tackle sensitive, dark themes in a way that many botch or do unnecessary violence to, your words instead feel carefully planned and precise, they bear deep purpose, not just shock for the sake of.”
Peter has had over 300 poems published either in print or online in over 25 journals. His published works include approximate lovers (downtown materialaktion) (Bone Orchard Press), Peep-O-Rama: Sins of the Go-Go Girls (Hammer & Anvil Books) and Vanished Faces (a performance of occult infections) published by Writing Knights Press. His newest poetry collection is Random Crucifixions: Obsessions, Dolls and Maniac Cameras (Hammer & Anvil Books).
Peter’s latest work is a convulsive surrealistic giallo novel, A Naked Kiss from a Broken Doll published by Hammer & Anvil Books.
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