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8/30/2017 Poetry by Peter Marra she detests the side of caution (the tattooed vulva complex) they are growing things in the garden behind her house. so beautiful. they hide angry faces constantly judging me. i first noticed them in July. the black night heat stuck to me and wrapped itself around me. obscene yet thrilling. so beautiful. She’s so beautiful. Black crippled fingers of the evening forced their way down my throat. She had her dreams stolen. One more confession, tales of neurotic love affairs: we exchanged dialogues. no one was sure of the identity of the narrator. we had our dreams stolen. that’s why we fell in love. hard crash. rising, spitting out ashes. sometimes we can’t explain our own wants and/or cravings. she felt ashamed and couldn’t speak of past actions. her fingers trembled every time her favorite thought resurfaced. her mouth was dry and the shadow behind her laughed when it appeared in front of her. “aim slowly and touch me. Wiggle your ass and they’ll tongue it,” she said. “the bullets missed by a hair but they still missed and i’m here to watch the assailants die slowly. laughter is my favorite thing. interior monologues of the unbalanced. damaged goods. guilty parents.” Magick words or faces were imprinted deep inside her. they transmitted messages of unknown origin and hateful consequences. our pain was perfect. it’s strange to hold something like that. rapid shots. darts of pain. sexy specific. she pushed his head through the windshield. in this forest, no one knows. my sexual fantasy is her mouth, her soul and her shoes. we exchanged knowing looks but his eyes were blank. under my eyelids, cracked mirrors appeared. glass reflects in double negative. a blur of speed puncturing the brain. She fondled Time as she dangled it in front of her eyes. “get the purpose of her touch,” she said. Raised Skirts: She Adored the Famine Caused by her Return she took an oath: “tomorrow night we’ll kiss during the ceremony derived from the ancient religions, so old that no one knows their origin.” pierce the flesh of the heroin soaked sky did you know she died from a broken heart? she needed Bipolar Disorder everyone watched the movies of me and her erotic eyes blank vomit please open the cell door. I want to leave No one believes her the acid is burning through my head Another inauguration of a pleasure dome she spoke again: “please bless me later the sand dune harbors pools of gore upside down chalices black in nature plodding puddling clotted read the news on the teleprompter we’re staring at the Holy Land” she stopped talking sequestered by the benevolent shade of the monastery she licked the leather figurines that we will worship tomorrow next life unknown until now after the mirror was shredded she compared a mosaic of her own face to mine she kissed the visage 7 times (magickal) she saved one shard to contact god she painted her fury with accents of gore self-immolation was the only way out to be free of possessions and people a slight reward for so much pain (she earned it, she thought) random acts of kindness recorded digitally: scarab beetles fuck in raw moonlight then carry the sun away before they enter the vaginas of origin faces of rage smiles of death atropism dilated pupils kiss the belladonna Vegas showgirls slowly fading no messages. this time. our home is pain. the silent enlargement of previously defined organs was the delirium and delusion that she felt growing under her leather skirt a rustle of vengeance between her legs she adored watching pornographic images or taking photos of the others until her fever pitch resulted in self-fucking or the creation of unknown artistic works a fractured violin suspended from the ceiling resonated from her panting and moaning when she woke up she sensed something under her fingernails: some raw flesh and the love she had gouged out of his chest keep quiet she told herself. just another disappointment. no one must know about the miscellaneous twining plants and tendrils the rotating odors that emanated from revolving orifices. the things she felt guilty about. the loss of self. I don’t have friends but that’s ok She executed the rites of Ablution- symptoms: a difficulty. have no conscience. the ceremonial act was performed – she washed all parts of her body. locked herself in a sacred container. while inside. she. ran her fingers, freshly cleansed, through pubic hair freshly trimmed. the wings of the lightning bugs were illuminated the thick air caressed her face -relentless meditation – she let forth a golden shower from her urethra then kissed the rings of lunar sores her urine – a cold light of golden ecstasy- was used to create new palettes of color she sat between a wrecked auto and a slaughtered television set licking her fingers, she lied to the magician as he engaged in self-surgery – trepanning is a difficult task- she made razor thin slices of his face paper thin deli-meat suddenly he was no longer alive suddenly she felt alive as she never had before please open the doors to the slaughterhouse. I want to see them inside. No one understands me. Victims whine too much. pangs awoke the crown of thorns was snug dancing warmth of blood droplets a single scream of 3 minutes’ duration bounced off distant trees finally becoming embedded in brick walls a cat-o-nine-tails that she carried lacerated a quantity of skin this caused many orgasms. 90% were her own. afterwards each flagellant attempted suicide. all failed. bacteria were donated to a local church. the penitents removed their loin cloths and kissed the footprints of the nameless women he removed his mask (it tasted almost human) and deposited it in the nearest open grave. fluid burning. smells like semen. vaginal machines running overtime were heard in the distance. another death in the toy factory. urethral manic mutterings. a study in depravity. orifice panic. open the door and here are the people! Chuck Berry finally died. his harvest was smuggled in. sequestered under her flaming leather mini-skirt and deposited in front of the eyeless gods panting for the taste of fresh grapes raped by piss how good is the sex? when you have nothing else to say we’ll tear up the newspapers and brand ourselves with the headlines i know i’ll die alone as the burning orchestra eats itself and the patrons of the arts retch at the stink of their own cum she viewed more explicit crimes or took photos of the others until her fever pitch resulted in self-fucking or the creation of unknown artistic works a limbless torso suspended from the ceiling resonated from her panting and moaning there was a rustle of vengeance between her legs we’ll visit the graves of the fascists and shit on their monuments and slit the throats of their descendants we’ll perform necromancy on their crucified victims just another worthy cause: the paraplegics will amputate their legs and walk once more walk once more no. not always. the faces of the cliff served as a home for the mortal brides who were laughing because they got fucked without their husbands’ knowledge the sacrament of cuckoldry caused their exile. now they’ll fuck unknown figures of random shapes and sizes the peacock was raped next to the marble statue that was holding an iron rose used later to pierce the flesh of the heroin soaked sky she felt her female face and caressed dilated full lips and tasted mascara she felt her male face and detected dancing lice and parched lips she lay down in the oasis next to the chanting hookers she eviscerated the card sharks in the casino royal flush of blood and cum. if anyone moved she twisted the knives until she heard the sickly squish this will be our night this will be our love did you know she died from a broken heart? in the backyard one could hear monochrome words describing her passions she was mummified and the moon was hurt she closed her legs carefully under a photographic negative of a dog panting under the sun insects made a slow journey along a trail of embryos the buzzing was lovely and incessant echoing voices my sounds of my mother frozen mouths in agony she removed more flesh each slice paper thin alarming witnesses and an alarming wetness between her legs it was obvious esoteric intricacies of sexual intimacies the monkey gods dictated a rhyme of pleasure voices silence voices broken glass mounds of flesh kneaded by blind ancient languages veil of touch ebony haired bloodless flesh red lizard red lipped spurts woven into walls of pain skin wails stop fighting lay down to please her she said “i’ll nail your hands to the wall if that helps.” good people die slowly under parental guidance (in the landscape) paralyzed eyes all. sins are counted. then distributed equally. we went too far for any solace. kiss me quick. they all have that disease we spoke about when we were hanging out in the park behind the church it’s the familiar odor once more. the one that makes her drool. she ran off to play among the trees. she limped back all smiles, all red-wet. tresses all damp sour smelly “they have that disease. you know the one we whispered about behind the peepshow. the priests were watching. but they’re silent now. fitful slumber.” the raw meat of her visions cooled into a black rainbow. she began to oscillate. I need Bipolar Disorder. I need Schizophrenia. I need her paraphilias. A serial killer will seek enlightenment any way she can. did you know she died from a broken heart? “Please open the cell door. Bring me the heads of the jailers, Make sure their eyes are removed so they can’t see me as I fondle them.” did you know she died from a broken heart? there is nothing unusual: post traumatic shock and the benefits of its aftermath a slip of the tongue or of knives of love and some objects that are misplaced. this latest estimate suggests that’s just how the world feels at the onset of schizophrenia. her sensuality condemned: just inject some more pharmaceutical preparations, that fixes the problem with (beneficial catatonia). neat and tidy. try not to gag, my lovely. it’s coming back up. kick started. the rooms breathe, then walls whisper to each other. they speak of the woman who cast no shadows. her eyes are scarred, then scared. then removed by her own hands. she will describe herself without sound as an entity apart from ourselves. she will live a life of pleasantries, being held in the wet jaws of a synthetic mongrel. “let’s do it now” the clocks stopped. “please join her in the attic” up the stairs. “watch your head.” she felt her hands delighting in humiliating, cruel, and objectifying behaviors, avoiding trauma-related cues as she gave a poor performance in the war zones. they say it’s a little bizarre and to take it slow, slowly, but it will go away. the cancerous hurdy-gurdy will convulse as we mate. this will be the culmination this will be the mutation of our elements of love that will have come to pass, taking up residence in the mausoleum of a diagnosis. /a cell of diagonals with broken circles break my mind with the slash of the mirror/ break our circles crash our cycles generate a prototype of decaying style: 2 figures in opposite corners of a room that disappears. latest symptoms of a pattern: people exacerbated the psychotic motivations, as sexual aromas aroused her dopamine. the fear latched into screaming flesh. nails digging deep as the body walked away, abandoned the reward and pleasure centers. the numerous appendages were clawing at iron gates, leaving the soul bare, leaving the soul nailed to a pane of glass. iron piercing air, tasting guilt. go to sleep. cover it up. go away. screams from the back of the throat are mixed with the remnants of last evening’s saliva. the surgery didn’t help. the trance didn’t heal. these generations will die and the edging of her behavior just taunts her purity. neon nightingales carry our hearts away breaking the chains of restraint never to return. the vixen screams before initiating the chase, while porcelain mannequins lick themselves furiously, under the watchful eyes of the theoretical nymphomaniacs who hover over the moths aflame. (Sensations, Unsteady Hands: Multiple Episodes of Shock-O-Rama)
a trip on the bad ship lollipop (a child’s introduction to Charles Manson) hiding in a ‘68 Oldsmobile that obscene gas pig just like my dad owned the shit-car he constantly bitched about a product of the Detroit auto industry at its finest in the front seat while speaking to females seductively situated in the back seat the father next to me disappeared. Sweet thrills shooting up the spines As she and I celebrated our delusions of grandeur (3 women, disappearing. left me…left the car… i passed out tattooed as abandoned… white medicinal… caused clear liquid puke projectile i left…my body for an undetermined period of mucous flex-time came to i punched the accelerator with my left hand and in the process, fractured a couple of digits) Alpha 60 satisfied its reproductive urges: cold wires of computer circuitry LED’s flickering rising in a convulsion as lovers often do rising up to massage heterosexual flesh remnants becoming a hoarse voice declaring its love for the unmistakable smell of female the final Strange Adventure of Lemmy Caution we went in reverse tearing through leaves squishy noises felt soft bodies crushing underneath car stopping with a thud she was peering up through the windshield heavenly creatures rising from the last apocalypse they used pussy juice and other excretions to coat my face and eyelids “you are so sweet baby baby” me intact glass intact a whirly noise from flames in the distance through an obverse puncture in a failing picture window we can see the driveway chain-link gate off its hinges those figures are coming towards me again their purpose was not to help but to hurt “your pain is so sweet baby baby” neighbors buzzing their wings were pulled off fire now low in between the flight patterns of masturbating bees they were speaking and telling me to hide lonely people go to live in huts in the snow now there’s an audible touch of snowflakes but she can't feel them because there are no windows we cannot fabricate both stories in a weird garden touch the black irises of words and the emotions that strangle the peeping toms attach a wire and please hoist me towards the plastic blank moon (chemical teens redux) savages fucked and spit out children in suburbia behind the expressway and near the department stores they created their destiny of the knives while parents sipped wine laced with iron filings the amoebas stood up and became her new cunt fur as it approached the magnetic zone wrap yourself in the American flag with added gun hole ventilation better than a Fedder’s Air-Conditioner spend time screaming at the cenotaphs Uncle Sugar crashed into the L.A. trip Lady Liberty drew her tongue slowly through the fields of dead grass August 10 1969 NYC Daily news headline: “ACTRESS AND 4 SLAIN IN RITUAL” These words terrified a 10-year-old in Brooklyn, New York mommies shook their heads in disbelief daddies sucked off .44 calibers because it was the day the American paradigm shifted Satanico Pandemonium Go-Go girl crucifixions were becoming popular entertainment while Cielo and Waverly Drives panted and writhed run your nails through it: sperm-shot-cunt prime victims for prime pinups became apparent lining the landscape etched into a skyline that was turning paler by the minute true desert getting further away under the acid-morphed glare of the leader of the garbage people the fabricator of a family for those abandoned “The Love and Terror Cult The man who was their leader The charge of multiple murder The dark side of hippie life” Life magazine panted and drooled. split it. Spit it. Bring it down slow we’ll take it better than you the red stuff on the walls and the words misspelt accusing existence neurotransmitters that have been spinning or swaying for this fractured moment of a delirious movement jacked vertigo into position licking the remnants of the My Lai massacre with their secondhand tongues trembling news footage B&W and color push it up and in and twist for a self-fulfilling prophecy "now baby" became Satanic on the home stereo system, just like me or you. love comes toward me. delusions of grandeur just simple switchblades walking through the brain’s thin rivulets creating moments of pain or pleasure incidental madwomen licking their lips and sharing translucence under the drop of the methedrine snowflakes this is how it will be after the cameras start to roll and the performers flagellate themselves for the motley pleasures of a condemning public felicity burning under a mesh of black nylon napalm dancing caged women Shindig Sunset A: becomes Sunset B: lose the clothes and lose the keys do not disturb beats beating beaten She holds light under her tongue She holds the sweat in the back of her throat Thank you, darkness for hiding me  Bio: Peter Marra’s writings explore alienation, addiction, the misuse of love, the curse of secrets, the pain of victimization and the impact of multi-obsessions. He is in love with the Three Mothers that sprung from the hallucinations of Suspiria de Profundis by Thomas de Quincey. He has been scarred by his past quests and he has been manipulated by trash culture and fine art. He is a byproduct of the films of Roger Corman and Russ Meyer. 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) and an e-chapbook, peep-o-rama (Hammer & Anvil Books available through Amazon – soon to be re-issued in hardcover). Peter’s latest work is the poetry collection Vanished Faces (a performance of occult infections) published by Writing Knights Press.
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