Peter Marra

Poems

nsfw

 

 

(Hush Baby Hush): The Tragic Confessions and Passions of Eve

 

she flooded her brain with pornographic images

adoring burned out synapses - no relief

flooding the brain demon. innocent analgesic.

the true culprit of a sex act.

“i waited for the cocks and cunts in varied vigorous

activities to convulse, then

atomize to become part of

the stratosphere.

true satisfaction,” she said, “is a smooth transition.”

 

“on the brink of it again.

i can’t remember.

i do this while

other wives crave to be born in the lusting hour.”

 

the animators traced live-action movement

(in the lounge)

referring to the process elsewhere.

her tone of voice was never fully defined,

she spent time sending prayers as

advertisements over the web

to crash and moan.

 

she waited for the responses.  

(something:

a dormant attraction  

as the sunlight warmed her crotch) 

we were worked into a misdirection

(as her fingers manipulated a smoke screen)

behind the mirror she displayed herself

as a looking glass attention.

 

distractive – attractive they

were sparking explosions of occurrences.

they charged admission to see the buried tongues 

as the Blood Duchess purred. 

 

she was standing out

just begging 

just noticed

just felt something as they panted heavily  

she started with the rhythm kiss and

some thoughts in Japanese rhyme.

 

get me home. they kill in summer.

they’ll copulate in December. get me home. 

designs existed already but were created by hands that

mapped the broken routes they followed, 

pausing slightly to distract potential predators.

 

time is picking us out to take us out, 

we’re living proof that crime pays.

the engineered bioluminescence of my open brain wound is

saying sweet nothings to us. 

 

the sacrament of Penance owned

a scarlet robe 

she. 

dug her nails in slowly sitting nervously

taut and upright by the heaving figurines

 

she. 

dug her nails in slowly

 

sexual gratifications were promised on the other side

returning from the past clothed in slinky costumes

 

clinging

clinging

 

she. 

dug her nails in slowly. lovingly.

 

she pulled her heart open displaying seven chakras 

with various new ones evolving  as

women created images on violent canvasses 

by slowly moving through sucking noises

some paint on flesh rolled on paper 

at the sight of blood with surgical precision  she laughed

with survivors’ humor she used the Chinese fans to remove their sins 

 

flexible under bright lights causing  sweat to

pool under their toes 

(black paint taste) 

 

on each cast iron bench sits a man and  a woman

extended and overlaid by a rope lattice 

their eyes connected lazily to a razor mirror in a box

 

holding a tray of white powder 

hemline Demerol mainline

fluid spurts out a solution of thirst

causing accelerated breaths and numbness on the left side

fuck blood rising in her. and she accepted it.

 

these attacks are using peace to destroy the household,

it's intimate and not fully clear.

why am i laughing? 

her hips enforced a system of control

let’s see if we can find something more happy on TV. 

 

now. so. so. nice. 

the pictures have fallen asleep and the water torches are boiling

slippery figures on cast iron benches savor the

taste of  iodine on their tongues.

 

they’re everywhere

clothes slip off 

 

bulbs are burning  (they are too bright) numbing nighttime

tells us stories - a mind churning concoction 

this caused amazing arousal of her heart 

to be sold on the happy street 

 

we went outside to pay a visit to the infernal sculptor

accompanied by offspring we were in a car without a driver

laughing as we threw empty cardboard boxes out the window

they bounced off the trees and brush

no one was driving like I said before

you’re not listening

 

the other side took over 

I banished Lilith 

just gave a name and a form to a disease

just demanded people obey

I threw her out and I have regret

she wanders and she

watches

 

we went to see the infernal artist tortured by

neglect and secrets

bathing us in Klein blue 

I wore my leather jacket and a torn skirt

that hid many things:

my heart and my knife for example and

things forgotten about. 

 

we were lured into the room 

on the table top sat the model of the house 

it was curving in motion and lit up from inside 

interior scenes of slow images of

furniture and walls collapsing were displayed,

then pieced back together. 

 

his female models appeared 

their flesh displayed curved scars 

 

posing

posing

posing 

 

“Lilith wanted my menstrual blood

that’s my reason 

the remains of broken parts cascading in her dreams 

waterfalls in black and blue 

his female model appeared 

her flesh displayed curved scars” 

 

posing

posing

posing 

 

I consciously dismissed her and her stimulation:

along each scar-line were

written  words from the scriptures

 

“here’s your headline:

I search for violent delusions to make me whole again.”   

 

 

 

A Crippled Mariposa for Criselda Heparin

 

Phase 1: A Beauty Museum

 

interleaved.

a touch of pain between sin and sweat

rapid fire flesh

touching water drops slippery

redemption she can’t let go

schizophrenia was the maintenance

pressured by the censorship. it went so fast

 

she ran

she could barely breathe when

she found out about the deep inside flesh secrets

 

don't worry about events to cum,

how about beginning to travel downtown

pornographic activity is expression

she was fueled by pain and mutual sobbing

and olfactory satisfaction

 

interspersed between her love and

the squealing hate nailed to the wall

behind her were random masks from the random

encounters in dirty painful bars and frequent sideshows

clothed in the throbbing pulse of the underground

 

pinching off the time between pincers of hate

i can’t face anymore what you’ve become

your mistress removed the clotting factor so the lust

could flow freely. are you holding?

 

the orgone moved inside latex sheaths

and convulsed 3 times on Sunday morning

spread for her pussy's pleasure

 

all the while the trees were bathed with her hysterical laughter

 

so minute in size

so vast in effect

 

she whispered, “i fucked Jack the Ripper last night.”

she whispered,

“and i came so much. we loved us.

let’s fuck Jack the Ripper again tonight.

let’s live a little.”

 

Phase 2: Liquid Flesh

 

whisper.

intertwined.

 

the adequate stimulus was presented

with losses of sensation

we touched the air between us and

laughed with water and blood

nerves were bundled in her control system

it was a clear evidence of crowd control that she so despised

she tongued the mechanism as a form of revenge

 

she opened her legs

she opened my legs

 

this enzyme release is used to transfer

secrets

 

get the picture? yes we see

 

Criselda suckled on red milk

as the black orbs spun

 

eyes rolled up

lids fluttered under opium kisses

bullets ripped the halos

 

shattering fantasies

always overlooked never to become real

 

can you fix me?

must you fix me?

can you touch me?

 

the structures within our inner bodies were immobilized

 

she has learned that the neurons become permeable

chewing and swallowing,

further flailing all about

a special request for tonight

the same brain level unquestionably getting turned on

she knew behavioral response

then she officially sought asylum in the

throbbing structures

 

i love betrayal and its sound

a supply of exquisite finery

a round of Electro-Convulsive-Therapy

reducing baptism. she knew about the UFO’s

summoned to rest between the two walls.

their flesh was given to her,

they were gradually sliding sideways through the panels of nighttime

 

eyes hidden

 

“when this is over we’ll go to meet the Wild Boys.

we’ll finish the crucifixions we’ve started,

nailing faith to the broken glass skies.

the religious fanatics will be skinned and their

shadows buried under the assaulting sun overhead.

 

we’ll fuck and we’ll fuck amidst the screams of the righteous

we’ll fuck and we’ll fuck until the earth is

off its axis and things have settled down.”

 

 

 

Medical Anomalies from the Book of Revelations

 

the dirty lightbulb hung from a cord

punctuated far outside the emotional context,

it swung back and forth so melodically

carving a stuttering touch that graced the air

eyeless dolls were sequestered in the sand dunes of Death Valley

randomly giggling and praying for rain

 

(the random acts that had occurred on the ranch burned in their memories)

 

personal acts of love and chance

kept them going against their addiction to each other

just ordinary life settling down on them

just ordinary life hurting

makeshift plastic explosives

split brain receiving messages

we're here/ over there

 

she and I are caught in between the lives

so no one sees us at all receiving messages

reading her sociopathic signals

she licks her lips

she licks our lips

she tingles

she tingles

 

for a few low slow whistles

for a few dollars more

triple dense blackness tinged with gold

under a blood moon

she found the razor wire chairs once more

hidden behind the doors

 

she's thinking of crucifixes again

and the eternal suffering of a savior

the machines have started

it's shown on TV in between infomercials

what they do is the absolute truth

she is the most wanted criminal

I saw her on the FBI advertisement masquerading as a PSA

 just before station signoff (local channel)

 

the serial killers were embarrassed

she led them out to the swamp so scorpions can fuck

then she'll dig up the afterbirth ripe and prime

tasting it in her own special way

under a canopy of pinpoints

filled to the brim with objections

touch

touch

touch

always keep a freezer-full just in case

just in time

 

beneath the shelter rain burns

and umbrellas are opened

for the faded executioner

always keep it wet

 

mundane applause for her acts

the ones she had committed when she didn't know why

she was gorgeous and throbbing

slick hands controlled her lust

 

her instructions stated to cut off the hands

too soon too soon

please play please play please play with me

 

I just moved here I'm lonely

humor her

remove the spirit

 

premonitions of tormented clouds

spoken about by the dominatrix superstar

embedded under pallid fluorescent

flesh needles in the eyes of the moon

weep a single tear for the shadow of a crucifixion

 

no sign of murder  as my Circe sighed as

she kissed deeply and no longer felt

 

burnt by her anger

burnt by her fear

burnt by her lust

 

and…they loved…each other

 

 

 

True Dirty Stories: Babylon Blue and a System of Assassination

 

open void. a room. bare. lightbulb.

codeine tongue lashes from a vomit spurt in some undisclosed locations

 

NYC 1964 World's Fair.  

pietà in a glass cage. conveyor belt. people watched.

smooth marble skin. creamy white torn strained flesh gone away.

she quivered. passing by the specimen box.

 

under the liturgy of relational memory

an albino moon casts judgments

under the taste of cross-hatched iron plates

pale guilt was sliding down a black glass plane

plain faces cut to shreds

the next room is sumptuous with the pain of

rosebud passion, tethered by hooks to

a ceiling that breathes – its breath has the odor of

her precision flesh, organisms desired, then rejected

a figure masked while spastically running fingers gently on a keyboard

she hums a tune only noticed by her ears' aural tendencies

she tastes only with her mouth's oral sins

 

friction red.

compartmentalized pleasures.

indecent diaries that were offering up a mouth. slithering black. one more time.

it needed to be done. one more time and then maybe finished.

just for now.

 

a tooth broke from clenching

it was similar to  a sex act of self-immolation

just like a Buddhist monk

similar to a winged mammal fucking another

very close to abnormal

there was amorphous flesh present

the windows bent and cried to see such sport

figures were suspended and

the backs of the trees oozed

crying occurred and tears dripped through a sound non-specific.

 

i'm not going to hurt them anymore.

i'm not going to hurt anymore.

 

motherfuckers of the fevers looking down so silently

filmstrip /no soundtrack

 

clenching rods until they break

wasting in wait for a bottle of the black medicine

dry-scream-heave of the nuns in color

hiding in a cube that displays snuff films

 

Mother's Day brought more

hieroglyphics detailing ways to satisfy yourself and

acts of treason to populate the rogues gallery

most wanted posters

public enemy #1

under each image of sacred pornography

lay a graphic sex act multi-layered multi-lingual versions of themselves

 

she gently sliced her tongue with

an antique straight razor so

she could articulate on paper the targets of revenge

an archeologist translated the mutterings then

put his own eyes out converting text to prayers

 

start mixing the primary colors

(running into a slick wet sound)

these are some of the benefits that come from religious performing

 

"i frequently neglect to analyze my reactions," she said,

"and i frequently neglect to analyze my actions.

 

draw the hypo up out slowly

and joybang one of my veins.

 

glistening drops. see them?"

 

tracks burning black and blue

 

hackneyed violence of humdrum love

 

wrapped in asthmatic sounds: her scent hung under the

shadows of winged non-things. under the trees her flesh spasmed.

 

she was gratified to find out that her body left an impression in the soil and sprouted stems bearing leaves of her flesh.

 

this body had become an outline that people would finally notice. this had never happened before and her fingertips tingled. she had set fire to the structure that she had created out of flesh and chemicals and love.

 

she was certain that she was someone else now. behind the garden walls the others were playing. they made sounds constructed from the squeals of decomposition. her nipples stood up with a tingling similar to that in her fingertips. now confused, her eyelids fluttered under the light from a clock. she felt like the property of someone else now. there was a fear of objects and sounds.

 

she had come to the garden for one last time then smiled at my response. she stopped in her travels to make a sacrifice. this was widespread across cultures. she wanted to walk a short distance on a plot of land that had failed miserably. decay caused wetness and reminders of bondage from a few days ago – it had mutated into a torrent of fluid. the automaton that was present remembered very little.

 

"hard," she said. a question as flesh easily slid out her mouth. "harder?" oozing and shaking, while moaning, she decided to commit murder and she climaxed when it was over.

 

"i am the healthiest," she said. "i know. i am." every Aztec warrior would have to provide at least one seduction. she was covered in veils of moss, her head facing forward, her slick wet sounds still emanating. the esteemed Kali of the Hashishins. she showed her inner purity. these mistakes are not perverse desires. she showed her pussy clean and marveled at its reflections.

 

coming closer /squeaking. overhead/ a bat glided spreading its wings. these were the wings that displayed the hues of stained glass tattooed with images of long forgotten saints. her father had read such a story to her when she was a child.

 

she thrashed her brain for the finale. she wanted to do the same. the tattoo artist's needle would burn and etch her arms as only the faithful craved. she would be just as exquisite. the pain would be better than sex.

 

she cooed, "i still need something between the here and the real. i want to be open and take it all in. fulfillment. don't care about the costs. filled. fulfilled. I must travel, if only in imagery. not real. no matter."

 

we gathered up a collection of eyes that were plucked out and submitted them to the laboratories. splinters of the sky were inserted under the skin. the steel wire pricked the skin, then popped, fluid booted out/in. the tests were inconclusive. waves of pain wrapped in spit. limbs removed then re-attached like they used to do. she imagined herself dancing. she clutched the bat close and begged for more. begged for secrets also. planes were crashing in the distant field spurting red and black. narcotic angels sawed each other's wings off.

 

film additive. addictive films. later after the tattoo artist had finished his work she wiped some blood off the throbbing burns of the images. she wiped her bloody palms on the grass and observed the blades wilting, then re-sprouting. better than sex.

 

she tasted thunder under her fingertips.

sacred pornography: flipped a switch and pulled out the Kodak. shared for free. there was blood coating the dashboard. 8 x 10s were taken. the characters existed beyond the image, her passion exists beyond the murder. this was the crime that constantly fed her.

 

she was an odd one, difficult to place at the scene of the crime. she was desperate for revenge. the slutty birds and nymphomaniacal butterflies prayed for her, that's why she was still walking free and shaking her ass at the obscene jury. stick figures darted in and out between the drapes and cracked mirrors. after confession time, a priest called out for help and became an abstraction.

 

i could hear nails being driven into wood. three nude women clad in moisture, all shiny, worked on a fictional reconstruction: sweat cooled their ardor. this was full-length instead of short clips, similar to folk art but more daring and transgressive. some figures in the reconstruction screamed, others were place between two large plates of

 

glass and pressed so that their reaction could be studied. tiny rivulets of pleasure entertained her at last and she climaxed behind her eyelids, flashing black and blue.

 

a victim stripped bare by her conscience, even.

 

the springtime darkness smelled mildewy sweet:

it had developed into a soup combining aromas of earth, vaginal lubrication, and ozone.  it was now in the process of nestling under the sodium streetlamps.

it was building a nest that no one knew about. a seductive wink and some image manipulation.

 

many still barely exist.

do it over and over.

 

"marry me please," she said, "and our children will devour each other."

 

open. room. bare. lightbulb.

codeine tongue lashes on a vomit spurt in some undisclosed locations

 

friction blue from pornography's

subconscious statement of

compartmentalized pleasures.

indecent diaries. offering up a mouth.

slithering black. one more time.

it needed to be done.

one more time and never finished.

 

she was gratified to find out that her

body left an impression in the

soil and sprouted stems bearing

leaves of

her flesh.

 

they got undressed and

assuming a prayer-like posture

she took the photograph under

the pain of the camera restraints.

 

pleasures of the positive from the negative

"not real. no matter," she said.

 

 

 

Peter Marra’s writings explore alienation, addiction, the functions and misuses of love, the curse of secrets, victimization and assorted obsessions. He has had over 200 poems published either in print or online in over 25 journals. His latest published work is approximate lovers (downtown materialaktion) published by Bone Orchard Press. An e-chapbook, peep-o-rama (Hammer and Anvil Books) is available as a Kindle Edition at Amazon. Peter has recently completed a new poetry collection Vanished Faces (a performance of occult infections).