Peter Marra

Cinque poesie

 

 

The Virology of the State of Pain

 

A body is fondled and manipulated to enter through a door. A vacant remnant of previous civilizations. A morbid memento of past flirtations.

 

She squatted, repeating “Please fuck me!” numerous times. They indicated the DNA of her natural origins – torn from light and darkness. In the Theory Lab, screams were muffled, barely discernible. The eyes of beaten men accused her with a wave of guilt.

 

She kept her heart underneath the floor. The sequential logical order in their sexual relationship had been dismantled.

 

The iconography of the failed state decayed in the background as 2 lovers  engaged in obscene aktions in the foreground. In a suburban backyard many years away, smiles were annihilated. It was worth the price of admission. Copulating figures of unknown allure as imagined by the blind became apparent. Slowly spreading and deeply stretching. Nerves were massaged deep inside the peepshow. The activities of the Flesh Cousins were amusing. Barbie was born and destroyed in suburbia, burned on a stockpile of detritus from Walmart. 

 

“Later for that fuckin’ shit,” she said. “I want. I crave. So many things, so many things that I never had.” 

 

We had passed the Show World Triple Treat theater yesterday. V. Wanted to perform there. “I’d love to show them my pussy and do an act that hasn’t been done before. Something deadly. Shoot metal objects from my cunt.”

 

“Propelled towards the audience?”

 

“Exactly. Should be renamed - Triple Threat Theater.”

 

Destiny scratched at her face and arms. The drug itch rearing its claws. She needed some speed today, too fucked out, drained.

 

“They found a body on Saint Marks last night. It was cut up into sections. I’ll never forget that stink. I think it was a Puerto Rican. Wrapped in several green garbage bags.”

 

Thick Fear at Sunrise

 

Shadows remain of those we once loved, searching for bolts of electricity. Eking future obsessions from random occupants. A demented former Pin-up model who once graced the walls of many forgotten street-losers, awoke early this morning. Shaky.  Shaky in the early sunlight, she held her left hand up to her face and inspected her long fingernails. The first 3 were adorned with flecks of blood. She was confused and somewhat bemused. She had escaped from the Law and had hidden in a basement, where she cataloged each lustful thought that had brought her to this situation in time. 

 

Trembling again, she had knelt on the filthy concrete floor. Heavily stained, but with what? Numerous past transgressions had made her incredibly happy. Knees aching from the grit and the grime, she searched for her Pornographic Messiah.

 

“Fight my way out of a cesspool scratching, kicking, screaming.”

 

It spoke to her: “I leave you my soul and my spirit writhing in the translucent moonlight.”

 

A starving  Capitoline She-Wolf came to visit, bringing mayhem.

 

She pumped harder to eradicate lonely pain. “Right there. Right there. A sense of whispering and attempt to visualize a fuck. My flesh swallowing yours, ravenous kicking and screaming.”

 

She now understood the function of her mouth and eyes - to give and to get. The others were getting undressed now and she wasn’t ready just yet. “Need more plans to create pain and loss. Need to bury these cravings. I’ll get them. This encounter will be sensual, please caress me. The filming has started.”

 

They were watching intently in anticipation of a punishment. An ordinary crucifixion. 

 

And she said, “I am your psychedelic vixen, your psychogenic  hellcat, our lysergic harlot – you know why, and you know me.” 

 

“That’s. The. Key….Wanton yet yielding.”

 

Her Burning Bush, an Ektachrome Delusion

 

She situated her perfect ass on an aluminum bench in the 4’ X 4’ room, smiling as she basked in the glare of a pornographic loop – new release, just yesterday. Entertained herself by watching the events unfold and repeated her prayers 70 times 7, counting her discretions. Some past aktions were hard to recall but she was presented with forensic evidence. One, two… three, four, five – hatch marks of depravity. So proud. Right there, marked on the right wall. Her gaze never wavered from the show. 

 

If she wanted to replay at home she was informed that copies were being sold under the counter at the adult bookstore (one of many mildewed caverns on The Deuce). Too extreme to be displayed with the other color 8mm wonders yet, it fascinated her. Overwhelmed, her eyes brimmed with fluid. Overwhelmed, her legs felt weak and shook a little. Her extremities had become rubber bands. Her vagina had become a jigsaw puzzle. Her heart and soul had become rabid.

 

“And lead us not into temptation but deliver us from the evil one.”

 

A beguiling faun rode the white tiger trampling the black dog. Saliva dripped on linoleum floors, reflecting her face and several others. Trembling, humid flesh. Behind her eyes the back projection of 7 crazed porcelain figurines created a tantalizing tableau. They were watching a woman collapse in the last stall in the Ladies’ Room. She did not feel the machinery or the Viruses with larger mechanisms. 

 

She noticed the faint noise of cellular parasites. A journey deep down inside the Electric Filth.

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Revenge of a Tulpa

 

A body was always a canvas depicting tales of the erotic and horrific – tales from the underground. Word made flesh – rampaging wildly in forgotten zones. Psycho woman handled with restraint. She knew sounds had colors. The atmosphere was dangerous to breathe now. Diaphanous thoughts had become concrete. No evidence though.

 

“I’m just indulging in crowd-pleasing. Got out my baby doll or maybe you’d like these thigh high stiletto boots? Got them at that store on 43rd around the corner from my bodega. I see you have crucifixes on your wall. Do you believe that jazz? Shit. Did you know that when she isn’t waving her paw, Maneki-neko jerks herself off? Does it all the time as she waves her other paw up and down. That’s real good luck.” 

 

“I know my voice sounds loaded and shaky – that’s the methadone – went to the clinic this morning – some tranny puked right in front of me – missed my new shoes by an inch. I took some black beauties too.” 

 

Thoughts became animated physical forms. Lapis sky holds her faces. A secret for us to see.

 

A Revenge for Miss July  - A Tower of Innocent Madness

 

A mourning dove whispered, reminded our heroine that she was a depraved immoral female, she was proud of it. This is what she had mutated into after walking block after block illuminated by sodium lamps and neon. Early dawn repetitive voices accentuated her shortcomings. Her tentative shadows swirled in opposite directions. Block upon block until the sidewalk hated her. Bit parts in past films of erotic discord. She looked in a store window and laughed at her reflection. Sliding into dive bars and flea pits, she felt solace and comfort. The faces of the patrons addicted to thrills that no longer satisfied gave her a feeling of superiority.

 

The photographer was fascinated by the unique, yet twisted way she fondled her pussy – an open neutron star – without care or worry. Her lack of a smile revealed much to the interested bystander. Her black hole sucked them all in. A break with sanity after the film was produced left her on a couch with a past reality, some madness, and a few hallucinations. No way to turn, so many escape routes. No guarantee. If it were by loaded gun or razor-sharp switchblade - she would get them soon.

 

Claustrophobia and paranoia were on the tip of her tongue as she worked the fleshy parts until completion was achieved (then she could leave). Her life was an example of her choices – she could not go back now. 

 

Once upon a time she would sit alone at the kitchen table after high school classes and peruse the movie ads in the Daily News, especially the last couple of pages where the pornographic films were buried. 

 

LIQUID LIPS -  ALL NEW! ALL COLOR!   WHATEVER HAPPENED TO MISS SEPTEMBER?  THE FLESH GAME 

 

Afternoon sunlight hurt her eyes as she read the text repeatedly. She had tried to grasp the meanings and became disconnected, transported out the kitchen window into a layered atmosphere that held her safely. Blurry questions in the looplike universe were never answered so she took it upon herself to search and destroy. No longer a child of the American Myth existing in comfort, she was now searching bombed-out buildings and depraved alleys. Here and there. Here and there.

 

SPLIT BEAVER GIRLS  B/W THE FILTH SHOP 

 

“Ghosts of my paranoia…liquid love.” A roomful of unnamable perversions.

 

Peter Marra 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) (Writing Knights Press). His latest poetry collection is Random Crucifixions: Obsessions, Dolls and Maniac Cameras (Hammer & Anvil Books). His novel, A Naked Kiss from a Broken Doll, a surrealistic giallo was published in 2019 by Hammer & Anvil Books. He is currently completing a collection of prose poems, yet untitled, detailing more surrealistic journeys in The Deuce.

 

Peter is a longtime friend & generous supporter of the Macabre. Maria Lisella, Queens, NY Poet Laureate, remarks: “Peter’s work is crazy and demands leaps of faith, but I know his writing will take me to places I'd never go otherwise and isn't that what we hope to do?”

 

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/petermarra

Twitter: @Angelferox

Instagram: peterdmarra

Website: www.angelferox.com

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