I put this out on freebee table at the small press fair….
gut spannering in a crowded room of the head
i)
if clothes would wash themselves: watch those limbs
animated moments are seldom conveniently timed: ticks
abandon your “self”: the lack is how the night gets in
under the sunset over the ribcage: hair almost bread mould beautiful
I can explain: your eyes calm as a goat is a compliment
a measure of culture: restrain cough until speaker stops
don’t change the subject until: fog is quiet isn’t it?
sometime let me tell you the one about ball lightning: 1992
background deets: we’ll work that out on the fly, brains buzzing
a wrist with sweet lighting: a homeopathic dose of porn
ii)
fog-thick night street: cars and jaywalkers amble
waiting for the inevitable: it doesn’t come again.
fall off the edge of the planet: trip, hurt yourself on your way down
everything sums from somewhere: a patamathematical world
Pris threw kisses at lopsided stars: we are our consumption
(not TB, to be, who knows what’s TBA?): Kristin is begotten
her hero is deadbeat, leaves an iambic bump: (Look—it’s got your ears,…
filled with invitations to hear: an echo out of synch’s not thinking
plant a bulb of pause. let sounds. you don’t have to catch all: pause
lids against the bright: open them, see how the room is bluer
go with me on this: under street lights, slanted stars
drunken slipshod chorus of last call releases: Ffffff… pfft. quiet
iii)
scrapple twice in a week: Joe Massey and George Bowering
enough iterations add up to first notice: me makes three
I wouldn’t need to do gender head counts but ratio is 1:9
deleting every song with baby or chick: one missed
time absorbs earworm rhythms: wake without music, not Irish.
that comment awry. not a wry comment: let a sleeping grief snore
the mainstream, the male-stream, the maelstrom: stop
cold feet: blood regroups in flight or fight ideoillogical gut.
well, at least it’s tasteful! no, wait, the other. what’s it called: tasteless.
it’s patty-cake dumbed down: versify for 100% sticky backing
leg out of your nonsense, sense: finger’s false claims of tongue-dexterity
the lower leaves of lily, yellow: one last bud blossoms into the frost
by Pearl Pirie
November 2009, ottawa small press fair
http://pagehalffull.com/pesbo
http://www.pagehalffull.com/humanyms
http://40wordyear.blogspot.com
http://www.pagehalffull.com/eatenup