Peter Marra

Cinque poemi

 

 

a theorem for sensory deprivation practices

 

blindfolded.

 

the next picture:

orgone beats the electricity of her touch.

she coalesced with a medical device:

serving primarily as a stimulant

not knowing that the breath was a caress,

all systems were there

provocatively imagining her tied to all of us while

inspecting the physical sciences,

at ninety miles an hour in the throes of  coitus reservatus,

just to get her attention. 

 

the next picture:

the knife wielder held a special silence

a registered trademark

a projective test of personality

eyes locked in a torrid embrace that

burned up the screen

 

the next picture:

they were becoming inert matter

as they told their stories through accidental inkblots

as noises grew faint a camera panned down to

the next torture, analyze the responses of waste

consumption purging pleasures in an hd tv

touch the screen with a remote pussy

disembodied euthanasia

pornographic actions of eating

piss out $

 

nipples erect milk spraying

first screaming at

black noon under canopies of

hanging flesh while lasers describe her form

a single droplet on each

ebony fingernail licked away by

a punishing tongue

watched through blue lenses

counting sins to re-do

shock-value-juice-excretion dispensed

in the arcade ten bucks a pop for a glimpse of your sex acts

ante-up bitch-punk

to punish yourself

don't scream. her heel is in a mouth.

 

 

 

The Epigrammatic Aesthetics of Sin, Etc.

 

this

publication

will destroy

 

"i'm about ready to go," the smooth mouth said.

the beauty of her appeared

through the patch

pubic bones glowed

 

she beat herself as the lizards were possessed

see the effect of each thrust

the heart has stopped

beating for life-years

subject to harm.

 

videos were diagnosed as cardiac or

as brain dead

the room that amplified the wet was open

she stepped back and made

these cuts in different ways

in a wriggling and squirming polka dot bliss

 

bent double so the

tongue could taste and see

advertisements for the frustrated and cold

willingly let her slide

taking a body standing over me

 

a legendary

a favored

decorative theme

eyes blood/shot ecstasy

eyes blood/slash see more

 

jarring light under the tongues

bolt flash into her womb

and welcome the new beginnings

 

stockings, cum, pain later in the week

deeper and deeper down from dirt

her heart was the product of vintage illustrations

she knew this and she bit the seams

ripped the threads out

until the flesh spread apart

sleep baby sleep lullabies perverse

 

sped up,

over me,

cutting organs,

phone ringing background noise

tendons stretched

filled to the brim

(lost feelings)

 

go to sleep in the abandoned pornographic

movie house and remember the last

shreds of our humanity, beating breathing moaning

 

(lost sensations)

collapsing under bloodstained concrete and

flesh smell

rancid sweating writhing male/female

 

(licking fingers)

figurines against the glass

against the sound of projectors breaking

burning governments and nailing

popular American folk heroes through the eyes

stapling tongues to the billboards

 

(sigh of relief amongst tears)

they have no panting in front of

them including claws

she loved it. gangbang of machines and electrons

putting an arm around me, a good look at electric boobies

 

reached the bottom of the floor and lay down beside them

raids of words and dreams falling flat

her dress was pain her dress was lust

stained in colors of black and red

 

it became a seesaw between legs

living on the streets as she planted bombs for a daily

break from boredom

sleeping between the griffin's hind-legs

every death sentence is an

injustice of nights of intense pain

"Let the party commence!"

she ran her fingers down the side

the debt is paid

 

 

 

A Twisted Thing: Intimate Apparel for the Criminal Element

 

she gave her something that I could never offer: (a blood orgasm. a new way of hurting. no thoughts. no thinking. a remnant of a zone-out overdrive. a common symptom of the paraphilia. figures disappearing). memories of her odor and of her taste jolted us back.

 

they said she died yesterday

they said we died yesterday

under the drilled-out daily routine bore. we wanted to have exquisite nice possessions.

 

the removed silhouettes are accentuating concrete with blood and steel. the cops arrived as shadows sometimes do. they eventually found the body in the trunk of the cherry red '68 mustang convertible.

 

he had been shot in the neck. the eyes and the sex organs had been removed with surgical precision. the corpse's clothes were color coordinated. as an itch rapidly reached its limit, her favorite reality had become a habit. this was the routine of watching a loop of an endless blowjob.  this gave her solace (from 3 am to 4 am). in black & white or in color the after-crash was always the same. no variation. that restless thing was biting into her spine, digging in so that it could find a passage into her brain

 

and re-tell all the fables. cummy cum red stained latex gloves rapid redux pain. she felt an arm around her waist. the sweet memories of pain were the result  of a transplant of  organs or maybe of a flower made of chains. either aktion inspired her. their bondage was designed as prayers for open monsters. staccato moan of any climax scared them. the drivers (back from vacation) were skinning the lovers, running over figures (lips torn from faces). flung to the brick. she remembered the torn dresses while listening to endless sounds of phonetically half-formed words that were later inscribed on her flesh by her freshly manicured nails. a flash of Haiti underscored the grinding of bone under her heels as she walked over meat. the taste of  pins inserted deep into wax became the type of Kama Sutra that she had hallucinated. she had read the fetish/wear catalogue avidly, folding down the corners of her favorite pages. creation was almost

 

hers now. screwball eyes were watching insane tongues in action. she thought about female sexual arousal before she took a few lives away. so fashionable. so stimulating for sexual desire. a tease for the tomb. weird little creature. a solace for the womb. these players on the street had become expressions of their own sexual frenzy. it had become their only satisfaction. the receptors weren't functioning properly anymore. the doctors had been afraid to make a diagnosis. it had become the twisted thing that was burned

 

deep down inside each lonely membrane. the glass was being broken outside by the youth gangs. it could be heard through the cheap leather windows. again. again. over. over. she furiously worked the parts until all was raw and bruised. there was a surplus of fluid, but not the kind you wanted. the figures were desiccated. drink. drink. enter here if you just want to see dirty pictures of

 

what happened yesterday. we have some videos too. click here. filthy. his pain informed her mind. in new clothes they hid and prayed. she participated again in the routine of watching the loop of endless blowjobs.  this gave her solace (from 3 am to 4 am). the next journey took her through the door to the home of the whispering insects. these bugs possessed sexual organs composed of plastic interspersed with iron filings. the iron filings conducted electricity and as they passed the high tension wires the insects would often pick up a jolt. this burst of energy would cause a flurry of sexual climaxes that would often result in fatal accidents for the lucky ones. the unfortunate would just fly monotonously until they reached home. once home they would imagine passion plays that would hopefully get them off. hold your fire. they admitted to frequenting the glory holes at the pornographic movie theater.  

 

murder was used as promotional material. this blocked the exhalation completely and he relished the lethargic coma more or less. this intrigued her, she considered it more cute than masculine.  she was successful at first in selecting a new wardrobe; high-end designers were consulted, forcing her to consider all possibilities. bodies had become

 

very important to her. narrow eye-liner. full lips bled. black leather sweat. subway doors separate them further. craving corpuscles of lust as silver black stick figures copulate, fueled violently by the 3rd rail. on the wall on Tuesday a stain appeared. on the wall behind the bed, we all love little sins. this was a derivative of past relationships posted and displayed for vicarious pleasures. new skin can hide us. a corset and heels composed

 

the image. opera-length gloves were tightly burning, squeezing arteries and veins, a thrombosis of the faces that accused.  pausing to select more appropriate music. parsing her love knots. I feel deadly and please kiss me before I run away to kill again. hollow stretched voice. extruded tongues lapped furiously. murmurs came next and we reverted to the poisonous edge. I can't touch it anymore. that stuff carries the sin of addiction. the

 

teeth of light burns my skin. in numbness. in stillness. in liquid. gulp. fragment. spoiled. touch. graze between her spread legs. pussy glow burn. mucosa cocktail. new movies have been created depicting the totem of the lunar moths, the mouths of desire and the subsequent illness hidden in the protagonists lair.

 

once they split the projectionist open, both women caressed his internal organs. the smell and feel was incredible to behold: warm, sticky, smooth, just like a great fuck. the credits unspooled violently. the eyes that had been removed were kept in a mason jar on the shelf beneath the mirror. she had filled out the label very carefully: date, time, original owner and the manner in which the sample had been obtained.

 

dark hands smiled slowly as they were dragged across the full-fashioned-stockings that were soaked with her sweat. the seam up the leg back delineated her lethal cravings. her pussy shimmered, an occurrence that aggravated her agoraphobia. the move from celluloid to digital caused a deep ache in the bones. it was an unnatural act. something was trickling down her cheeks as she rested in a wide spot of clear grass. shards hurt.

 

 

 

The Closely Mimicked Hands of the Whispering Doll

 

throw photographs of lost subways

at people long gone. left. escaping.

taste the guilt of long ago. zodiac night.

 

movie set buildings have been constructed,

these will be used to film disorderly

conducts of happiness,

 

as too often happens in real life.

there is an inexperienced desire for showing

us how to be, in order to be true.

 

gulped. grabbed. desire manipulated.

they'll set the hounds of love on the scent

as second sins become second loves.

 

as two hands stroke not-present atmospheres,

as sexual stages collapse upon each other,

as policemen die violently in burning stains.

 

she kissed in a catatonic stupor of shrouds.

thrusts. small grunting. unachievable bliss.

around the theater in row Q,

 

in the balcony, odors of mucous visceral bliss,

snatched from the screen and made concrete.

no eyes rolling as they escaped with the bodies,

 

secretly rising to the provocation, to make her story.

(a moment of hesitation for a shady character)

Medea rising in the malls of America,

 

lying relaxed and fucking as blind as she vanished,

as she caressed her sweating brow then

announced the punishment of girls in exile.

 

melting into wives dumped onto the floor.

let the cool summer air blush as their stepmother

voiced her intention to kill them all,

 

and kiss and fondle the current media situation.

she systematically killed for you,

murdered by their DNA results.

 

forgotten and cast off lovers and its creations

set out all by themselves so nothing

would go wrong this time.

 

but the aberrations of romance touched on the bed

that was left in the forest on the other side,

joined by sweat under clasping cold hands

 

she said she cried out

lust coursing through

involuntary grinding immediately

 

"the vibration in

my cunt in real life,"

as she referred to it.

 

we put a cover on the drone, which

grabbed a marker, lining it up into autopilot mode,

communicating the same to each other all night.

 

the handling of toxicity is not close enough.

 

 

 

spasms of 13 women in the living room

 

exoskeleton clash and climax

deep inside herself she trashed memories of development and beauty

reminiscing about the sex scandals that she had fostered

it was over. a black leather hand removed parasitic lovers

brass zippers shining under neon

a process that they call molting. she was breathing heavily.

he was breathing in a shallow manner

as he drifted slowly away

"you can't cum until you make an excuse"

 

heads nodding slow dope rush

wasp larvae gorging

tarantulas don't use webs today as women had previously described

rose tattoo bodies lie in the corner

secretions in an adjoining room

spinning a trip wire catch some more

hazy mental delusions always lead to more creation

we have a few natural enemies hiding behind the sofas

copulating by using mirrors and guns

"we're accomplished nocturnal predators and we wait at ground 0

 

you can't stand the thrill and

the women  planned on marrying the remains

one nearly took my breath away

i presumed it was only lips"

 

she physically injured his eyes

and wiped the room down

he couldn't see anyway and we watched the

silhouettes collide spastic pleasuring words destroyed

the thuggees were drinking fluids from the accidents

in celebration as torment

a last supper

she admired the shade of deep red on black leather and

she wondered what the combination of the two would taste like

 

 

 

Peter Marra writes from Queens, New York. He is the author of Peep-O-Rama (Hammer & Anvil Books, 2013).