What do you think?
Rate this book
Err
Sex, booze, war and wordplay collide loquaciously in Err, the latest collection from innovative and accomplished poet Shane Rhodes. Equally amusing and stunning with his joyful manipulation of language and his stark portrayals of disease and oppression, Rhodes tackles everything from AIDS to martinis with style, wit and clarity.
The book is divided into four themed sections, each of which focuses on a different sphere of life and creativity. "Spirits" amends the current scarcity of drinking poems with humourous, effervescent musings, whereas "Bodies" looks at the ravages of sex, disease and death. "The Cloud Chamber" traces the breakdown of language and sound into poems that interrogate letters, phonemes and jargon, while "Dark Matter" investigates new ways of writing and thinking about poetry.
A master of alliteration, allusion, rhyme and rhythm, Rhodes shakes up a verbal cocktail of vibrant musicality that appeals to the imagination and remains in the memory. This distinctive collection makes for delightful, unusual and engaging reading.
The book is divided into four themed sections, each of which focuses on a different sphere of life and creativity. "Spirits" amends the current scarcity of drinking poems with humourous, effervescent musings, whereas "Bodies" looks at the ravages of sex, disease and death. "The Cloud Chamber" traces the breakdown of language and sound into poems that interrogate letters, phonemes and jargon, while "Dark Matter" investigates new ways of writing and thinking about poetry.
A master of alliteration, allusion, rhyme and rhythm, Rhodes shakes up a verbal cocktail of vibrant musicality that appeals to the imagination and remains in the memory. This distinctive collection makes for delightful, unusual and engaging reading.
96 pages, Paperback
First published March 30, 2011
3 people want to read
Ratings & Reviews
Friends & Following
Create a free account to discover what your friends think of this book!
Community Reviews
Displaying 1 of 1 review
January 27, 2022
Bankers taste terror
in a fine malbec
feasting at the Toroni
on the tears
of stocks and money.
On Avenida de Mayo,
all the new steps
are built on old
tango standards
kept in the navy's
torture chambers
now rent by the hour.
Munching Evita's
composted arias,
earthworms sing of terroir,
while stoned angels,
slipcast in pigeon shit,
stir in chrysalides
of Third Reich
honed leather.
Invalid generals
order cream for piles
file errant vendetta
and breathe deeply
the stomach gases
of the rotting unmasses
buried beneath the monolith
at the Recoleta.
* * *
amorous
an us
between us
bicurious
biflorus
chorus
coitus
cunnilingus
decubitus
ejectitous
erogenous
fabulous
gorgeous
hortus
humanus
Icarus
in us
Jesus
kindly adulterous
lickerous
locus
mucus
nexus
on us
phallus
Priapus
quietus
raptus
rictus
sanctus
secetous
stimulus
through us
under us
Venus
virus
with us
* * *
it is
it's all there is
it's bright
it's brilliant
it's it
it's expanding, bit by bit
it's broken, as you can see, into little units
it makes it difficult to predict
it's there one moment, you can see it, and then
it shifts
it's here, though, hot with spirit
it's terrifying, yet,
it generally mimics and resists
it's this intuitive structure, though, when you read it
it's so full of it
it's gathered itself into it
its merits
its benefits
it's soft and abundant as ocean sand, yet
it holds more appeal than its flimsy content insists
it's the only thing you'll need to know because of it
it's, as you can imagine, a conduit
it's so eager to profit, yet, to its credit,
it has left little deposits
it sits
it eats
it shits
it's still, albeit, hit and miss
it's on the very edge of it
its wits
it keeps it fit
it's here, where we, as you can feel, so intimate, kissed it
its slit
its clit, yes,
its tits
it aches for it
it aches with it
its antithesis, yet,
it's, like Plato, discomfited by it
it doesn't know how to act when it's like this
it's embarrassed by its habits
its fits
it get repetitive, though, after a while
it's getting so big don't be surprised you can't finished it
it could, I admit, use some judicious edits
its derelict surfeit
its black vomit
it has, when you see it, this, sort of, limitless kitsch
it's a, some would say, impediment, yet
it's so much more than even I can say it is
it preens its counterfeits
it admits
it's waited so long at the margins, silent, against it
it's, I mean, against all of it
it admits
it's gone too far
it's killing it
it's, as you can see, reached its limits
it can't remember where it is, what it is
it's had it
it means it
it quits
in a fine malbec
feasting at the Toroni
on the tears
of stocks and money.
On Avenida de Mayo,
all the new steps
are built on old
tango standards
kept in the navy's
torture chambers
now rent by the hour.
Munching Evita's
composted arias,
earthworms sing of terroir,
while stoned angels,
slipcast in pigeon shit,
stir in chrysalides
of Third Reich
honed leather.
Invalid generals
order cream for piles
file errant vendetta
and breathe deeply
the stomach gases
of the rotting unmasses
buried beneath the monolith
at the Recoleta.
- New World Reds, pg. 27
* * *
amorous
an us
between us
bicurious
biflorus
chorus
coitus
cunnilingus
decubitus
ejectitous
erogenous
fabulous
gorgeous
hortus
humanus
Icarus
in us
Jesus
kindly adulterous
lickerous
locus
mucus
nexus
on us
phallus
Priapus
quietus
raptus
rictus
sanctus
secetous
stimulus
through us
under us
Venus
virus
with us
- Us, pg. 55-56
* * *
it is
it's all there is
it's bright
it's brilliant
it's it
it's expanding, bit by bit
it's broken, as you can see, into little units
it makes it difficult to predict
it's there one moment, you can see it, and then
it shifts
it's here, though, hot with spirit
it's terrifying, yet,
it generally mimics and resists
it's this intuitive structure, though, when you read it
it's so full of it
it's gathered itself into it
its merits
its benefits
it's soft and abundant as ocean sand, yet
it holds more appeal than its flimsy content insists
it's the only thing you'll need to know because of it
it's, as you can imagine, a conduit
it's so eager to profit, yet, to its credit,
it has left little deposits
it sits
it eats
it shits
it's still, albeit, hit and miss
it's on the very edge of it
its wits
it keeps it fit
it's here, where we, as you can feel, so intimate, kissed it
its slit
its clit, yes,
its tits
it aches for it
it aches with it
its antithesis, yet,
it's, like Plato, discomfited by it
it doesn't know how to act when it's like this
it's embarrassed by its habits
its fits
it get repetitive, though, after a while
it's getting so big don't be surprised you can't finished it
it could, I admit, use some judicious edits
its derelict surfeit
its black vomit
it has, when you see it, this, sort of, limitless kitsch
it's a, some would say, impediment, yet
it's so much more than even I can say it is
it preens its counterfeits
it admits
it's waited so long at the margins, silent, against it
it's, I mean, against all of it
it admits
it's gone too far
it's killing it
it's, as you can see, reached its limits
it can't remember where it is, what it is
it's had it
it means it
it quits
- Dark Matter, pg. 84-86
Displaying 1 of 1 review