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Saturday 15 December 2012

Peter Marra

night slaughter of the whisperers

an element of ritual initiation whispering
became painfully obvious
to the non-believers of sound

So blue, so go-go crooked
Descending into violence and threats
Honky-tonk desires
they make their way inside
An empty gun
a non-functioning piece for protection
prepare the bastard to my right

Speed Gang Diary written as the
Gang Girls Talk of
girl-girl blood
laughing as they
swallow fluids

She adores one filming her
with stretched out cunt
her skirt riding up her back
the shows play in a loop
inside a building that once housed
a museum of violence they look at the
mirrors he and she see what had happened
trapped faces sliced wide open

tongues flapping branches hanging above them
mildew and incense
snake into their nostrils many
failed attempts at orgasm
tableaus short-circuited in a search for brief comfort

the real thing is never as much fun
as the pre-recorded data played over & over
inanity drooling

a grave in the future
a deep touch
a deep sound spoken gently

women left to their own devices
lift their skirts to take a photo while
clad in moonlight
they’ll take a photo of a victim
consumed by lust and pain
Her skirt was up
revealed her huge smile

a young man clad in a used motorcycle jacket
plays acoustic guitar
sings in echoes and
jumps to the tracks
as eyes upturned
bloodshot whites
witness the actions

the swollen tongue of the sun licks
each and every one of them

sick with apologizing – they’re not sorry
slick with want they claw and laugh

catch a soul and kiss the switchblade

summer is here
summer is hers
an erasure

naked females lie spread-eagled in
the fields as the grass turns brown –

they’re giggling incessantly / teeth chattering
silent milk droplets wash the sweat away

as they beckon the moon to lick them warm
with its throbbing tongue

praying for the sun after its
image has been tattooed
on the soles of their feet

we’ll start at point 1
with the clinical hard push

of a celebratory dinner of secrecy and deceit
until the sounds that torture are erased

and go to a vanishing point

pleasure captives b/w creature features

Side A:

no silence
no sound
no walls
room empty
bare floor
bare light bulb

time recollected from
when she was there.
shivering fear going out into a world
they chased her down.

collapsible new faces grant
a touch of the air,
a time for the skin exclaiming for
the mantra reclaimed -
the thing that gave her purpose.

the one that she lost
when she took a spouse.

the bodies are
buried now.
the fish scales covering her want
are nursing the fear,

preventing the coldburn,
a burning with lead,
an overcoat of obsession as she
breathes and sinks.

Side B:

electrified we walk out
into glass shards electrified.

collapse - she said so
she said so
she said so

she liked the skin
as it slid down, then off fully,
with all the moisture
clinging clinging
the time is hollow.

touching the sky
pierced by spikes from heaven
fingering the moon.

petrified clouds hang in a heavy fashion.
she touches them once -
a collapsible fusion.

a laugh

then a fall,
silently embarrassed
by what just occurred,
a new way of feeling -  

it’s a pleasure that she
doesn't recognize.

last night she slept in a field that
projected green cooling skin sizzling,
as she negotiated for the arsenic dreams
that made her stronger.

toys that were so accomplished
entertained her for days

serpent handling: an additional killing in the boudoir 


the final test
her love of screams
her love of laughter.

at the table:
a nude female
diner transfixed by transubstantiations
seen in 3-D through the View-Master
reminisce about a childhood toy.

a miniaturized
woman falls through the air
arms rigid – movement voided
face adorned by eyes frozen
mouth decorated by saliva emanating
silver tears mercurial in nature
a touching,
a caressing of skin.

her nuclear shadow
(etched into the molding
near the termite holes) was
aggravated by fast breathing,
now a labored screaming function.

they amused themselves with
a giallo desire to be destroyed by knives
and left in a clotting pool while the director wept

her mommy told of madness
and tales of the snake-people,
cobra dances and reptile prayers.

her skin felt funny in the shower
water didn’t feel good
(it’s all fucked up).

the preacher didn’t help.
no help from a soul used up,
venom makes its way through her blood vessels.
behind the eyes vacant smiles

she brought warning signs
to others: 
our life-blackouts 
your infections
your mood swings.

the shower won’t cleanse
her skin was raw.
she turned on
she turned over.
the switch shorted out
a case of ungrounded plugs.

she counted two circular electrodes running scared
then she was more comfortable with the situation.

contact & control was a way of existence for her
the charge slowly mattered to me
her pussy lips pouting - so provocative.

“i think she was a second timer to the receptacle  and
she’s still there”

they  changed her face.
it was inside then it was good.
years of commercial use had forced a change.
she went out leaving the room of odors and pain
clad in black fishnet stockings –
to do some posing on the
black sand beach.

it’s where the rattlers were handled with no thought for safety,
where words were said with no redemption,
creatures charmed by the rabid snake-charmers.

she was deconstructed at 24 fps,
vibrating water washes her ankles,
removes sins.

afterwards she sat down with a wet plop,
smiling as bullets ricocheted.

this was a done dream, dear, dear me.
by the beach.
inside the house,
the maidens screamed for
pleasures they had lost.

a little game gone a little wrong
long used to the shock level
she measured  out 1 shock duration and 1 automatic failure.

view prey. pulse.
get some sleep. 
the sun came
mimicking a lifelike lust.

the ruins disappear behind them
as the extravagant electric vixens commit a crime

charmed charming creatures

1 comment:

  1. Night Slaughter of the Whisperers

    The reader (me) is immediately immersed in vivid imagery of a culture; underground, type of living, dark and illicit.
    “Gang Girls Talk of
    girl-girl blood
    laughing as they
    swallow fluids”….it’s a closed and close group – those that belong. I can imagine it from the older style porn sets…..(my take), a solidarity.
    For me the truth is revealed in paragraph 6: the fun is in the end product, it’s meaninglessness more enjoyable in the observing rather than the “doing”.
    Feels like there is an underlying play with the struggle of pleasure in the pain, the desire alongside apologies.
    A dead end of heightened sexual pleasures and emotional conflicts here….this life. You express in this piece such a place where one is transported to the darkness and the human-ness is revealed.

    Pleasure captives b/w creature features

    This poem plays like the old 45’s for me….certainly set up by the A then B side, I fell into a rhythm as my mind took me that way… A side – the “hit” single…your voice is passive, watching. Not careful words, but a presence of a past covered….the past is whisperingly alluded to “the one that she lost when she took a spouse”….and the shiny protection of “fish scales covering her want…” A future (shown in present) where yearnings had gone subdued , but the smoke of desire still lingers. I like this one so very much. A truth I can feel…..the side B ~ the voice, that “we”. Here is a revisit (in my feeling) of the two sides of a person, the yin and yang….I LOVE : “a laugh
    Then a fall,
    silently embarrassed
    by what just occurred,
    a new way of feeling-
    it’s a pleasure that she
    doesn’t recognize”
    A touch of modesty experienced and a heartfelt flush……YIN
    Then follows, “the arsenic dreams… that were so accomplished entertained her…” YANG - We all have our side A & B. I love this piece, the two sides as a whole.

    Serpent handling: an additional killing in the boudoir

    I hadn’t known what “giallo” was and now so informed it seems to have been a key for this poem – (theme for your first and last piece here falls into that film set and erotica). 1. Is the staging - your words create the stills of the moving picture. A crazy woman..
    2. reality check – cleaning up…relapse….but there’s hope, that’s what I hear in the silence between the lines, the non-words.
    The film metaphor … the thread, we have the leading lady in 3. I feel as though I am listening to a narrator while watching the inner life of this diva as she exposes her exterior created through that “deconstruction” of her life as a film star.
    It’s beautifully written and the human being is so present. It feels genuine.

    I may not interpret these works correctly but they reach me from my own life understanding. Film, being filmed, is a fantastic tool in writing to present many layers of experience(s) and a person. You’ve created 3 very intricate and independent pieces that are inherently connected…once again you’ve offered up brilliance.