Peter Marra ~ alluring vivisections of (a)moral society

:Crime capsules (Violated Paradise)
we fucked at the Cecil Hotel but
we hid on Main Street USA
drawn by the allure of the water tanks
:this is the third and final report:

mismatched and misplaced
but evolved as compatible created by grafting schizophrenic impulses

broken foliage slithering down walls and hallways
imagemaking at its finest crippled by our love
no recognition. no guilt.

we traveled throughout the misplaced ozones
we wandered carefree in and out of crowds
while being touched and felt-up by people using our
stolen voodoo dolls to annihilate their attraction towards one another

shove the jujus
deep inside
deep inside
swallow down the totems
deep inside
open up show the insides
a clock hidden in a collapsing heart-throb

the gilded age had been riddled with bullets
excised by scalpels missing their targets

when she uttered words
it happened to them
it endeared her to me

spinning plans from the ignorance of what to do and
even more from what was absent

gratification was arriving as
she slowly parted her lips
as she tantalizingly devoured the sins of the cadavers
through trophies of love that had passed on
indicating the presence of endless forget-me-knots

new iniquities lead to a new formlessness
re-births became pain sculptures living inside a
flayed animal carcass of delusions and fantasies

she asked for the dvd that included
the contents of the director’s cut
revealing that the means were often driven by the spinal cord

let it go back. let it come.
let it go back. retrieve the ejaculations.

the prick oozed wildflowers and
the cunt gave birth to the OverSoul of lost civilizations

burning cave drawings were never erased because no
one knew of their exterminated language

the vagina expelled the child of their metamorphosis and
the cock lamented in a corner of the jail cell

let it go back. let it come.
let it go back. retrieve the ejaculations. shoot-up the juice

a female had been executed for a murder she didn’t commit
not wanting to communicate the
lust that she held in the embryonic
mutterings of her cravings

her feelings were destroyed by her misguided tenderness
her sensations were lost in the bindings made of previously collapsed skins

her achievements of mortal sin fell into a
Burmese tiger trap composed of stiletto footwear

they fit so perfectly. her cunt twitched.
made even more fashionable by the touch of television
the velvet gloves were less tactile for her

“finally. it’s my filthy time”

as she arose she climaxed throughout each blood vessel and nerve
and pushed us higher on collected pituitary secretions as she
flayed her abusive lovers

but as always she burned from
her fever that blossomed when torched by another’s fluid
it was a familiar strangeness
a method to fuck up the forensics

emotions were dismissed
the leather protocols bit in as they squirmed
she tasted and felt as epinephrine does

as she laughed
as tears trickled
as each orgasm followed the
missing spasms for a national climax
the filaments of broken flashbulbs seemed deliriously friendly to her

surreptitiously fine. their denial. was fine.
the last thing we remembered was
a new use for saliva. crucifixion by a nihilistic image.

this is that answer. this is not.
this answer. this war over love swelled in undefined tattoos of
vulva volcanoes. just an answer.

information inter-leaved between the surfaces of the brain.

oversexed 16mm docu-fantasies
connected a random retrieved cerebellum to her prior personality
to her anesthetized aesthetics for her prior forms

that’s the house where she had last seen her parents
those blood clots of overprotection
rubbing against vintage 16mm projections of previous bodies

god never entered
so god never left

presence is detected in us in her differences
they weren’t humans
the openings spoke

she removed her high heels while all alone
once more considered moral.
three researchers posited the rules of ecstasy

god never entered again
but god spoke before leaving
god droned on about the rejection of her reflexes

god never entered
so god never left

a discarded corset was nailed to the oaken walls
baptized by frankincense and myrrh

then she climaxed many times through her excised eyesight

“finally. it’s my filthy time. all visible to me now.”


Peter Marra 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 exclusively on Peter has recently completed a new poetry collection Vanished Faces (a performance of occult infections) to be published in 2017 by Writing Knights Press.
Read more of Peter’s macabrely ink energy in DM 102 ~ Walpurgisnacht, now open at




  1. Your imagery – evocative, provocative – demands vocals. Luckily, I have heard you read. I can hear you delivering this cry and am spared the confusion that having my (female) voice voice the lines would cause me.

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