Peter Marra

The Unplanned Decay and Reanimation of a Female Superego

(The Passion of Mary Magdalene)

 

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Resurrection of the feeling during a dance of fetishism.

Her every focus was on creating excruciating poses as a phallic thumb disappeared.

 

I need another trip on the Dreamachine – pulsating white screwing up my brain forcing it into a relaxing coma. I need some more. I need something. Look to the cross. Whipping sessions in the background sans soundtrack. Spastic tableau of friends past and present as necessary.

 

She looked up, filthy sun, bleeding all over me. The skyscrapers made her sad. It was wet and chilly, a grey day in February. NYC filth at its peak – people going to work, she watched and laughed to herself. I’d rather do this than that. Rather hook and make dirty movies. What I’m saying to myself makes no sense. The time breaks apart. Last night I was fucking in a stranger’s apartment. He tried to be my friend; think he had a sweet spot for me – took him a long time I made him nervous. I left 5 a.m. while he still slept. Took his wallet too. Looked at his driver’s license but the name didn’t register. Tossed it all into the water. It’s floating down the East River right now. A velvet light trap. 

 

My snatch is itchy, the fuckhead probably dosed me with VD. Fourth particle from my dreams as I walk in beat-up heels killing my feet. 

 

Without a signal the puke came up and shot out her mouth landed right in front of her. Glad that’s out now. My shakes stopped. I was poisoned. She pushed herself up onto special interest events: Film pleasing tongue. She stepped into the alley near the Jefferson theater. Leaning against the wall, she shoved her fingers under her skirt so she could scratch. Feels good. I think I’ll cum now. It was a small one but very satisfying. Glad I got that shit outta my system.

 

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

 

Public Alchemist's delivery of toys to entice her mouth. She will stay empty my gorgeous doll, burning the Toyland castle in space.

 

“Never felt better! Alchemists’ dreams – the drugs are in the bag. A map to taboos included no charge.”

 

Crescendo of steel scraping stone crushing microbes, she could see them now, accompanied by a low drone of inaccurate silences.

 

Three more murderers eluding the law on a desperation drive. The twisted fever compelled her to commit acts for her pleasure only.

 

Random mutations syncopated soliloquies bop – bebop One breast exposed feeding her infant nature vs nurture vs  parenthood. Can’t control it.

 

“I go to sleep every evening with a lonely empty hole boring through the stomach – a concrete weight crushing my lungs. I’m drowning in the purple sky that bitch stole from me a female alien from the backside of Mars. I’ll suck her dry. I’ll make her suck me dry. The desecrated desiccated corpses will lie on 14th street, entwined - an exquisite puzzle for future generations. Throw remains on the discard pile. Catatonia absolving responsibility.”

 

“It makes me complete.”  A bloodied hand grasping a crucifix from grade school.

 

“Why have you been following me? You’re clean now? Any cop troubles? They bust us periodically, they don’t like dirty movies, especially now -  anti-religious, anti-patriotic.”

 

A headlight, the all-knowing oracle of rapid amputations 12/23/3 am. The cold hurt her lungs. The coursing fluid junk helped a bit.

 

“Who wears the cross shall bear the crown.”

 

She caressed thin shadows from grade school through high school, not realizing what she was. Not realizing what her place was. She could never fully grasp what made up her inside brain. Cars in flames driving down isolated rural roads leading into city streets. Burning rubber, oil, gasoline.

 

“We’re having a reunion.”

 

“The hands have been amputated – the tongue removed.”

 

“Who wears the cross shall bear the crown.”

 

“My stay among the cannibal tribes. How tasty that eurotrash was.”

 

“Don’t want to…can’t sleep…A discreet charm.”

 

“It’s God’s punishment. With God’s help you’ll be cured. Eventually. The priest wouldn’t let her in.”

 

When the priest attempted to administer Holy Communion, she bit down hard on his finger, drawing first blood. She fondly recalled the salty taste of the blood. Most precious blood. Later, in her room, she painted a cross on her forehead with a black marker.

 

“Ashes to ashes…”

 

Afterwards, she gave herself a manicure. By gazing at the Black Sun, eyesight is restored. She knew this fact subconsciously.

 

“I hope you haven’t forgotten me. The doors are closed now.”

 

Attack of the robots a senseless parade to celebrate nursery rhymes. Three pedestrians shot; the snow fell softly, quietly covering the cadavers. So exquisite!

 

Bleeding headlights, the automobile crashed into the marble statues. She recognized the faces. She removed her crown of thorns and quietly placed it on the dashboard. She could see the light of the North Star through the blood-flecked cracked windshield.

 

“Things can happen.”

 

She eventually opened the left door and stepped out. She was shaky and nauseous but felt invigorated.

 

A flattened world replaced by a photograph. She put herself in danger:

plans destroyed, return to Alphaville.

 

“Revolution for the discarded masses.” 

 

She wrapped the iron chains around her legs stopping beneath her crotch. The cool metal satisfied her tactile cravings – her skin tingled. She was awake now. 

 

“Sex and Death inseparable always. Money for the masses enjoyed by the Fascist Capitalist.”

 

“Fuck republicans

Fuck democrats

Fuck conservatives

Fuck liberals

Fuck independents”

 

Her political ravings were brief but intense, a mutation of her pornographic and punk rock experiences. Her thoughts and memories were intermingled with exterior sounds and interior guilt.

 

It was meant to be her self-punishment, but she felt pleasure, she was getting aroused – moisture between her legs. Labia shining and glowing.

 

Words: just sounds and ephemeral, material.

 

“So, I went to the concert at  the Ritz to see Jerry lee Lewis. Front row balcony. When I started getting off from the music, I realized to my dismay that my arms and legs were numb. I couldn’t signal for help or attempt to run away. I couldn’t bop or rock or dance or stand like everyone else.”

 

He told her, “As long as you’re asleep it’s a nightmare not reality.”

 

She threw the Iron Rose out the window. It drifted twenty stories to the blank black water, gone. Gone.

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