Scandalabra

Scandalabra

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by Derrick C. Brown
     
 

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Derrick Brown's long awaited new collection of poetry and prose, Scandalabra, is a book that boils with true grit Americana, sensual power and black oceanic wildness. About.com rated his newest collection 'Scandalabra' as one of the top poetry books of 2009. Written at sea aboard a fishing vessel and in the hills of Tennessee, these poems roar in six unique sections… See more details below

Overview

Derrick Brown's long awaited new collection of poetry and prose, Scandalabra, is a book that boils with true grit Americana, sensual power and black oceanic wildness. About.com rated his newest collection 'Scandalabra' as one of the top poetry books of 2009. Written at sea aboard a fishing vessel and in the hills of Tennessee, these poems roar in six unique sections never before seen from this acclaimed writer.

Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher
I wish I had written "Patience”. I mean written it down on paper. I've thought it to myself several times in different countries, but now Derrick has re-earned my trust after initially losing it by naming his book with a pun. -Comedian David Cross

Brown is leading a revolution to inject poetry, both written and spoken, with the raucous and booze-infused spirit of rock n' roll.
-Sara Graham, VenusZine

Product Details

ISBN-13:
9780978998967
Publisher:
Write Bloody Publishing
Publication date:
02/01/2009
Pages:
154
Sales rank:
494,768
Product dimensions:
8.50(w) x 5.50(h) x 0.51(d)
Age Range:
3 Months

Read an Excerpt

Cotton in the Air

Your polished back is arched like Saint Louis.
I can see your fingers pushing into the bricks when I lift your hair to smell October drain from your neck.

You are cotton caught in the air
I am unfurling laces in your body.

I move on you steady like a fleet of ships pushing ice.
I want to break it all.

Your tank top strap slips down the huh huh huh of your shoulder -
and I will not strain meaning from this.

I have to taste all of your shapes with my teeth.

I am waltzing a wrecking ball.

I am wading in the dark felt Tijuana paintings of your hair.
Molting my bed clothes,
uncoiling towards Sahara.

All I want to do is hot lust you into dead sweat.
To watch your legs, those bent sickles,
to watch them shake like poisoned wrens.

I am gnashed and dazzled.
Smother me in the exhausted thrust of your yes. . . .
wet as all exploding laundromats.

Darling, may I be the image you turn to when you are heaving alone,
burning like Halloween in Detroit?

I am breathing up your legsssssplitting at the hiding nightingale.
Drift your breasts into my mouth and I will be that doped up, spinning victrola.
La la la la la la.

I want to make love to you while you're wearing figure skates until the hardwood floors are toothpicks.

I want to kiss your throat in a dressing room with my hands bound around the slow song in your voice.

I don't care if you made that dress, hippie,
I will shred it until you look deserted.

You're as restless as a New Orleans graveyard in a storm with the coffins boiling up to the surface.

That's all this writing is. She is across from me and the soup is cooking.

I sit up all night listening to her dental records.
I will teach her of exorcism and screw the hell out of her.
I will carry her steam in my mouth.

Daydreaming of the evening of loud struggle.
Call my name - I will cascade like a suicide.
I will fall upon you like a box of fluorescent bulbs dropped from a five-story building.

I will do anything you ask. . . .
unless I have been drinking; then it is opposite day.

I can't believe you sleep through all this.

Chunks of brick in your fingernails.
Mortar on your pillow a bomb shelter sketched on your skirt.
Safe.
It says "safe.”

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