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Monday, 31 March 2014

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
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

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
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
elongated shadows slide past
her as she tries to remember why
she had climaxed
and what it really got
which justifies the hot pussy driving
as she succumbs to the following nothingness
hopped up girls finished with her
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
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
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

“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

has hands
that touch the

to sleep
to dream
in a nightmare alley
morbid saints dance

Sunday, 30 March 2014

Reuben Woolley


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

                                   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


the king is dead


the lightning exposes
the way people walk                 smelling of flesh
free birds eternally pull out more words
to inject into the skull’s dreams

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
                                               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
                                                                                       would get up
                     and step out of the sea
                                       and fly
                                                            with mercy
                                                                                       to the whole


 and step out of the seal

                                             and fly

                                                                     with mercy

                                                                                       to the whole


                     wherever she may be found

Friday, 28 March 2014

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 wifes 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, mothers voice like that of a monks, 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, its what appears before me, a silhouette, large, brooding and disgustingly visceral. Light shines on him, I see him, he looks as if hes 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 wasnt invited to this world. Its unfortunate that I have derived from your sickening seeds.”
“Its 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 childrens 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. Were only as real as the blood on our hands, the victims we create are stains of our existence, thats 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, youre 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