Peter Marra

Exposed! The Arcana of 7 Sex Queens

a dirty back room.

the vibrations and fluctuations that resonate make things less lonely…..

1. The Hierophant - Experience

coda/codex for

an idol of pornocracy

a describer of the profane becomes

a huntress of the lovers ditched by her ex-lovers.

soon the darkness. in ebony.

a creature spasmed on her legs it was

a creature with 8 legs it had a face it was

crawling away from a scorpion that

had pierced her with its tail

she burned the book

as people peeped through

glass

hard vision cracked

while the insane ones fucking took a hymnal

they still have it

and won’t give it back

2. The Magus - Manipulation

drain you dry…

masked insects positioned her so her opened mouth

contained some objects

pearls, glass, and saliva

she clutched peat moss tightly

while a bare light bulb crackled overhead

illuminating yellowed cracked plaster

the el rumbled outside her window

her apartment

her safe place

moaned

hissing passengers read dirty tabloids

while withering churches looked away

“i can’t”

“i won’t”

“be still”

“be between me because there are 2

talking about intercourse”

she reveled in

the smell of

dirt

picture this: it's a postcard of insanity

3. The High Priestess - Mystical Vision

life is ruined by their tongues

over her

she tightened them as a process

arms wrap around it

mumbling something

prayers overloaded

squeezing the reflex

felt like a very long body

truth was revealed as a result of the snakebite

received in tompkins square park

she mouthed the name

of the cannibal prophesied by bloodless tarot

sound of a rosy death and

the aura of her smile punishes

exactly as an individual human

whelping in the cold night air

an electric wizard posthumously

described the ending of

the preceding ghoulish events

 

4. The Empress - Sensuality

her eyes glazed as she asked the almost insane young

the night air where planes zoom to crash

violently shredding glass with skin rorschach tests of

plasma congealed in

mid air

crouching down

she waits

she

waits

elongated shadows slide past

her as she tries to remember why

she had climaxed

and what it really got

her

which justifies the hot pussy driving

as she succumbs to the following nothingness

hopped up girls finished with her

tongues

head pointed almost straight down

she rises up to slay the love merchant

rejuvenation wrung from loss

 

5. The Hermit - Isolation

hot young usually too drunk or exhausted

come play with her

the stops of lightning

sexually go slowly as waves

something you will be serving

your normal ideas yourself

whining right now

it’s lonely over here

rise up and go

knocked over

the drugstore fled with the dope

for her own pleasure

keep sexual

go slowly

that was her only recommendation

law as oral medicine as she was

squeezing the reflex

escaping the existence of

her already sex crazed body and of

her short dark hair

avoid the doors and windows

 

6. Queen Of Pentacles - Maternal

she became that thing that

she hated most

a cracked doll in a

peepshow

a thing

whimpering on the parquet floor

in a room with open cold windows

as white statues in black boots

burned behind electric motors

she had spent time always trying to satisfy

she had failed and lay in

anticipation

swallowed sooner or later your religion

of numbers

or other abstract concept

the absurd is her sweet mouth

or the

quick coffin

lay down next

to her

and beg forgiveness

melancholic and fascinated

 

7. Queen Of Swords - Sorrows

addicted to pleasing

waking up in

a new apartment

owned by females in stasis

semi fluid crash adrenaline

try to get moving

the tv is always on but no sound just pictures.

sometimes. sometimes no pictures just

sound. sometimes. sometimes the screen is

blue and her face appears

holding me in with

the squeezing clutch of her lust

pierced

pierced

“i can’t”

“i won’t”

“be still”

“be between my selves because there are 2

talking about intercourse”

that's the survivor

skirts flipping up

(she

has hands

that touch the

wrong

things)

coda/codex:

to sleep

to dream

in a nightmare alley

morbid saints dance

Reuben Woolley

two

no more straitjackets 

my head is overloaded

and i can’t understand what they say

it’s all tripos and trappers

that makes you the sab at high

altitude

                                   something else comes in

                        oh        various things                         the hair

                                   and fingernails                       of a dead body

bits of me have been asleep and dreaming

                        the matter suddenly becomes alive

                        and then          at death                       it becomes dead

                        a very wonderful transformation

                                   if you move

                                  

                                   the picture changes

                                   it’s easier

                                                                       if you stand still

--

(from)

the king is dead

 (iv)

the lightning exposes

the way people walk                 smelling of flesh

free birds eternally pull out more words

to inject into the skull’s dreams

                                             we

were forced into these colours

                                             the man

who cries      or runs            fails the existing spirits     who turn

to go first                             in the final procession

mother and i put out their eyes just before dawn

we waited quietly                   raking the earth

limitlessly                               fusing everyone’s plans

                                               moving

                                               was like a motion picture

so we severed the connection

you have a place to live           where

the rain brings new sights        the singer

is elsewhere                             finding it too much

to hold onto all at once

                                                he had heard

that the earth was round   and the exhibition of his shrivelled tongue

showed his guilt to the sundered worlds

                                               a frozen scream

                                               there was so much blood

                                               in the ritual song

in the sunshine crack

where the eyes and ears could live

sight died                             a raw nerve

was necessary in the shattered reflections

                                             don’t you see them in her window

now was the only time

in kansas jane     supposed a body to be of no importance

but then

                     the            

                                       old               

                                                            dead      

                                                                                       king

                                                                                       would get up

                     and step out of the sea

                                       and fly

                                                            with mercy

                                                                                       to the whole

                                                                                                                                                                                           world

                    

 and step out of the seal

                                             and fly

                                                                     with mercy

                                                                                       to the whole

                                                                                                                                                                                           world

                     wherever she may be found

Excerpts from 'The Origin of Manias' by Craig Podmore (Oneiros Books)

 

A mortal weakness overwhelms, the searing, scolding sun, suckling the energy, the sinister silence of the horizon pushes Blake into a mere insanity, one of which that derives from survival; the urge to scream with a monstrous effect, that of a primal desperation. A despondent baby, twitching, a ubiquitous cold sweat, shades of dirge filled skies roam the sphere, repressing the rays of the unbearable sun, mammoth mountains drowning in a darkness, the heat dying, evaporating, a deathly cold dispersing in the atmosphere, amidst the view of the never-ending road are the licks of credulous lightening strikes, their rage flickering in a haunting mute ballet of angry gods. Salvation starts to slim, Blake is faltering as dear nature and its affects, takes its toll on him. Anton is near dead, still and ghost-like, his lips are of an azure colour, Blake observes the brambles and bushes on the road side, his thoughts are of a morbid decision to perhaps leave dying little Anton behind. He ceases to walk any longer and falls to his knees, a melancholy shudder pervasively overtakes his will, a single tear descends, his dead wife’s carcass rots in an automobile tomb, alone, in a bloodied mess, tangled in scraps of metal and man-made machinery, Blake negates his tears and ascends from the warm camphor of the concrete.

 

--

 

After the drivel of morning prayers, we perform the sign of the cross and tend to our breakfast. I begin to feel sick. The intense visions that I often invoke eat my nerves, the chomping of hungry jaws on their cereals exacerbate audible chaos, the visions are often like clusters of blurred colours yet the shades take form of figures, figures so vulgar, so vast and frightening. I turn dizzy, light headed and cannot adjust to a state of normalcy:

A rage of voids raping each darker soul(s), rummaging reds in a vomit coloured orange, figment of brain in cold purples and neon stabs of aluminous stains forming the beauty of eyes angst in a mortem of a frenzy ferociously cascading in a reign of fire, sparks of cries, vessels of flesh bruised in an environment of a violent happening conjuring an organism of something vigorous albeit furious and confused. A rigour mortis convulsion of feeling; an awakening of existence, a realisation – a sharp pain in my guts as if my stomach morphed into a mouth of a hyena, an indigestion of bemusement, Jesus on the cheap cross looks like nothing disembodied from its primary meaning, my cereal feels like a torpid obligation, people are splinters left behind of a failed design like the zebras in the field and the building we are in is the crocodile hunting under the surface of a muddy, diseased water.

 

--

 

Violent azures, seizures of genital red hues and headless saints, protests of messiahs scream in distortions of invocations of the sun, dead ash, dawn eyes slit open by blade of a reality in stasis, mother’s voice like that of a monk’s, praying, flaying skin, rosemary beads in the flesh of ass, sweat and piss, their cloth shed, naked, vile beasts, a godless god born in nothing, sexual acts, car crash of piety, deity murder and cremation of virtue. Pain like electricity from my backside, the making of blood elicits a hunger; Christ watches this freakish fair, applauses on cue, 28 hits down, Eros lives in my cerebellum, plucking the nerves in conjunction with my penis and subconscious, not a tear, not one, shadows of necromancy inhabit the vision, ululating, dancing round a fire that is the violence of my true nature. 34 hits, I see mother, she bathes my feet in the urine of my excitement, this transgression, this carnal manifestation wholly due to the flagellation of my torturers, I cry but not of discomfort but of desire, an awakening, a summoning of a belief found in the abyss of my spleen. Ennui crucifies with each blow, 38, 39, 40, Erebus ejaculates…

 

--

 

I awake and find myself strapped into a chair. My vision is blurry, a great comprehensive confusion distils me, a table in front of me, full of dirt, torn fingernails, a jaw bone, the odd human finger, portraits of Himmler on the walls, tarot cards strewn throughout the room, ripped pages of porn; their sexual parts scribbled out with a fierce biro, there is a pervasive smell of death here and even though one finds comfort in that, I am afraid, it’s what appears before me, a silhouette, large, brooding and disgustingly visceral. Light shines on him, I see him, he looks as if he’s the inner me: the turmoil, the violence, the lust, the perplexity, the colossus menace that consumes me.

“Anton. Idiotic name. Weak and unhuman. How did such a stubborn mess come into this world?” Blake converses with words of condescension.

“I guess I wasn’t invited to this world. It’s unfortunate that I have derived from your sickening seeds.”

“It’s unfortunate that I did bring you into this world…”

“Only because you think that this world has only room for one omnipresent being?”

“Omnipresent? Gods are for children’s books my dear child. You strip away all of that philosophical afterbirth and we are nothing. Just evolved animals bound in flesh and blood. Do you really think that the ape thought of Gods and monsters before the inauguration of the intellect? No. We’re only as real as the blood on our hands, the victims we create are stains of our existence, that’s truth.”

“Yes, you are an animal. That is indeed truth, personally, I am not of man, I am devoid of that. I stand beyond every single one of you.”

Blake laughs, belittling I.

“So, you’re a God? Son, you lived in an orphanage all of your childhood, you began the age of adolescence with Newton which is, suffice to say, a fine introduction to psychopathy.”

 

'The Origin of Manias' is available here