Edwin R. Perry
3 poems
**
a babe in boreland.
we ask,
.......“what rise and what fall?”
as an ashen faced space case
.......tries to level out the heaving deck
through a brush of kindness.
..................what a blast of brain!
an impotent plea to deuteragonist
supporting debauchery itself.
...............................oh but watch your teeters;
...................don’t mean mug the miscreant rite.
don’t play the church organ with your flirting footsie,
...........................disembowel the crush theater,
................................snuff dry the colic jubilee.
little sister,
.......whatever you know about it doesn’t matter.
.......fact is we’ve a heaping job to boil down,
and if you can’t bat your lashes strong enough to turn the windmills,
.......then we haven’t a use for you around here.
**
winter wails while we lock ourselves out of our own.
plenty to scratch in the neon age,
.......and never enough blood.
..........use the ass end of a rake to break up the ice,
.......the broom end to carry it away from the front door.
winter dries the clothing quick, sets the skin to peeling.
michelle flakes her way through the hallway and i think
of scabies beetles, how close i must’ve come
more than once. .......will garlic cloves repel burrowers
as they do blood-suckers?
.......the balcony is slipping out from the bricks,
my anchor is elsewhere, in quarantine.
.......subtextual analysis escapes an icy pane
through the same vent the heat does,
the plastic never stays for long.
.......the mice have been telling us for some time now that
........the goats have chewed their way into the backroom.
......................................it wouldn’t surprise me any,
.............we’ve abandoned it for all intents and purposes
.................................haven’t been in there for years.
**
in miniature.
fists into stubs against the grain of a brick wall.
we blood up from deep and reek like sewer water.
arcane septic field won’t tolerate torrential dumping.
take your endless shot on carnival duck hunts,
plush pussies hint dead eye fames smelling like
lavender and cigarillos. they beg a brush of beard,
a soft pull of old velcro.
.......then what’s left to do? sidle through
the hallway while her husband cranes her face
for the time she spent in the company of you.
.......fucking life is beautiful, a simple sweet thing.
**
return to sawbuck 5.1
**
Edwin R. Perry grew up tall and right in the thumb of michigan, in a dot of a town. he has since moved himself to Chicago and spent a length of time in various collectives and conscious communities. a disgruntled graduate of DePaul who wishes he had the resource to find his way back into an academic environment within the next short while, but might have to wait a bit longer than he would like. His work has appeared in various places, and he has done a bit of self-publishing. As of Nov. 2009, he has worked as proprietor of Plumberries Press, which is committed to tangibility in the form of small runs of hand produced chap-books. Plumberries has managed to publish two journals under the title Humble Humdrum Cotton Frock including work from authors throughout the country of various experience, and we are currently working on a handful of projects due out by the end of the summer. He now resides at the Laundry Chute in Milwaukee which hosts acoustic performances, readings, film screening, puppet shows, etc. He would generally love to hear form you about any old thing: plumperries @ gmail.com.
**
a babe in boreland.
we ask,
.......“what rise and what fall?”
as an ashen faced space case
.......tries to level out the heaving deck
through a brush of kindness.
..................what a blast of brain!
an impotent plea to deuteragonist
supporting debauchery itself.
...............................oh but watch your teeters;
...................don’t mean mug the miscreant rite.
don’t play the church organ with your flirting footsie,
...........................disembowel the crush theater,
................................snuff dry the colic jubilee.
little sister,
.......whatever you know about it doesn’t matter.
.......fact is we’ve a heaping job to boil down,
and if you can’t bat your lashes strong enough to turn the windmills,
.......then we haven’t a use for you around here.
**
winter wails while we lock ourselves out of our own.
plenty to scratch in the neon age,
.......and never enough blood.
..........use the ass end of a rake to break up the ice,
.......the broom end to carry it away from the front door.
winter dries the clothing quick, sets the skin to peeling.
michelle flakes her way through the hallway and i think
of scabies beetles, how close i must’ve come
more than once. .......will garlic cloves repel burrowers
as they do blood-suckers?
.......the balcony is slipping out from the bricks,
my anchor is elsewhere, in quarantine.
.......subtextual analysis escapes an icy pane
through the same vent the heat does,
the plastic never stays for long.
.......the mice have been telling us for some time now that
........the goats have chewed their way into the backroom.
......................................it wouldn’t surprise me any,
.............we’ve abandoned it for all intents and purposes
.................................haven’t been in there for years.
**
in miniature.
fists into stubs against the grain of a brick wall.
we blood up from deep and reek like sewer water.
arcane septic field won’t tolerate torrential dumping.
take your endless shot on carnival duck hunts,
plush pussies hint dead eye fames smelling like
lavender and cigarillos. they beg a brush of beard,
a soft pull of old velcro.
.......then what’s left to do? sidle through
the hallway while her husband cranes her face
for the time she spent in the company of you.
.......fucking life is beautiful, a simple sweet thing.
**
return to sawbuck 5.1
**
Edwin R. Perry grew up tall and right in the thumb of michigan, in a dot of a town. he has since moved himself to Chicago and spent a length of time in various collectives and conscious communities. a disgruntled graduate of DePaul who wishes he had the resource to find his way back into an academic environment within the next short while, but might have to wait a bit longer than he would like. His work has appeared in various places, and he has done a bit of self-publishing. As of Nov. 2009, he has worked as proprietor of Plumberries Press, which is committed to tangibility in the form of small runs of hand produced chap-books. Plumberries has managed to publish two journals under the title Humble Humdrum Cotton Frock including work from authors throughout the country of various experience, and we are currently working on a handful of projects due out by the end of the summer. He now resides at the Laundry Chute in Milwaukee which hosts acoustic performances, readings, film screening, puppet shows, etc. He would generally love to hear form you about any old thing: plumperries @ gmail.com.
Labels: 5.1, edwin r. perry, spring 2011
