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DM 117


A Celebration of Peter Marra

Danse Macabre 2018 Artist-in-Residence



Porte D'entrée


Mortal Sin in Transit


Anti-Heroin Chic ~ The Interview


Approximate Lovers


A Naked Kiss from a Broken Doll




Random Crucifixions


Vanished Faces


Poesia Nuova




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.



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