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BURLESK
A Celebration of Peter Marra
Danse Macabre 2018 Artist-in-Residence
Porte D'entrée
Anti-Heroin Chic ~ The Interview
A Naked Kiss from a Broken Doll
♥ ♠ ♦ ♣
Peter Marra
Gypsy Death and the State of Pain
she limped into view
she had been confused for some time
she knelt again, waiting for questions
her mirror merged with her face in a time long forgotten
she posed and licked the resulting image
she paused and performed an assassination
one time only, $2.00 for a peep!
enjoy my lover; my lover!
a rapid recycling and a substance that changed number
this one abused in a classic psychedelic style
affecting the brain's addiction,
it also lead to LSD-infused fucking
“let my hand go.” she said
she smiled, them whimpered
as she writhed in the TV screen behind the lenticular frame
she was armed, she shot and
after laughing at murder, she collapsed
gunpowder residue on her hands and deep inside her pussy
no one suspected, everyone was asleep
finally, her central nervous system calmed down
she went to lay down in any neon bed
enjoying the gestalt of her crimes
hands appeared
hands disappeared
mouths opened, tongues bathed her with saliva
she was sick with the odor of Dracula
tattooed with ebony sigils: unknown, unnamed, unloved
she felt the blood course through her torso
that was encased in the black corset
sweet sweat a slight trickle
throbbing under satin
slowly descending from her heart to her crotch
tasty droplets were scooped up with the tips
black shellacked fingernails
greedily licked
she offered a taste to me
her eyes rolled back as i licked
her legs were trembling
she had to sit down
she made sure her nails had become sensual weapons
her eyes and her tongue would never betray her
in the 7th abandoned tenement
in the clandestine meetings
her boy-toy assistant started to drool,
exuding a mystery liquid (a concoction of
spit and china white and some of
Lilith’s magickal urine – will
return your vision: guaranteed)
ready to use pez-dispenser
she milked him dry and when he was spent
she ate his heart (this gave him great joy)
just another gift
sweat infused sexual porcelain figurines
pounding on drums of human skin
cannibal concertos she loved those the best
as she dreamt of sexploitation movies that
she would write, direct, photograph and edit
and it would destroy the government
the one that had trashed her brain
the one that had removed her memory
(they know we’re cured, they said so
she knew we’re cursed, she said so)
voodoo enlightenment
just slice up any photograph
nihilism was pre-assembled
as she frigged herself in a frantic manner
a dervish in heat (slight noises
redundant random communications)
the twisted robotic dove slept in her arms
this happened last night, my dear
engaged in providing comfort for her numerous victims
nursery rhymes of psychopaths provided little comfort for the outcasts
they were hidden in rooms of iron and roses
licking fabrications of lies
sex scenes provided a little comfort for her
as she indulged in variations of pain
while committing crimes in a murderous rage
reluctant figures usually played in this 8mm loop
slight in the background, at a low low volume
crazed behind the throbbing infrastructure she used to call home
Spasmo in the peep-show, she heard coins drop
there was a blood rhythm in the air
the police officer was exonerated
in celebration he masturbated randomly on the courthouse steps
abusing whoever came near
crescendo, climactic folds of flesh
warm sex mound, red heart-shaped fuck
she sat down again on the floor
(mind-dances torn away)
she scrawled on the cracked plaster,
“make me clean, please, before i do it all again.”
she had hidden the evidence in the trunk of the Dodge
just a bag of bones and flesh
just what she used to call mommy and daddy
“my mouth is interchangeable, now! my heart is just like yours!”
she wailed at nothing in front of her
“i won’t climax until i’m fully formed.”
all that was required was some gasoline and a spark
she limped away
acrid aroma of steel, flesh and rubber
she brought the fumes deep into her lungs
and got high over and over
she had been confused for some time
she knelt again, waiting for questions
her mirror and her face in a time now forgotten
*
Originally from Gravesend, Brooklyn, NYC, Peter Marra lived in the East Village from 1979 to 1993 at the height of the punk / no wave / art and music rebellion. He has had a lifelong fascination with Surrealism, Dadaism, and Symbolism; some of his favorite writers being Paul Eluard, Arthur Rimbaud, Tristan Tzara, Edgar Allan Poe, and Henry Miller. Peter also cites Roger Corman and Russ Meyer as influences.
His earliest recollection of the writing process is, as a 1st grader, creating a children’s book with illustrations. The only memory he has of this project is a page that contained a crayon drawing of an airplane, caught in a storm. The caption read: “The people are on a plane. It is going to crash. They are very scared.” His parents were always disturbed by that first book.
A Dadaist and a Surrealist, Peter’s writings explore alienation, addiction, the function and misuse of love and attraction, the curse of secrets, the pain of victimization and the impact of multi-obsessions. He has had over 200 poems published either in print or online in over 25 journals.
His published works include approximate lovers (downtown materialaktion) from Bone Orchard Press, Vanished Faces (a performance of occult infections) from Writing Knights Press, and Peep-O-Rama: Sins of the Go-Go Girls & Random Crucifixions: Obsessions, Dolls & Maniac Cameras from Hammer & Anvil Books.
Peter Marra follows Tom Sheehan and Peter Weltner as Danse Macabre's third Artist-in-Residence.