"Scarred Canvas": Final Cover Art

"Scarred Canvas"

Selected Works 

by RC Edrington

Published by Underground Voices June 2013

Final Cover Selection

Cover Artwork by

Cecilia Ferreiara

"Scarred Canvas" Review by Bart Solarczyk

"Edrington splatters the page & scars the canvas with scenes of runaway goth waifs, bored housewives on the make, aging tattooed punk rockers, assorted drunks & junkies all shuffling a broken bottle landscape where what passes for love is measured out in dime bags, bad booze & bargain cigarettes. Rented rooms, always the hustle, dirty money changing dirty hands, one day winners & other losers, the smell of infection, an itch burrowed beneath skin digging deeper. Hard times, hard liquor, whores & heroin, for the sake of the hard story, for the poems come to break & hollow bone. A man endures & writes it down & now it's yours dear reader. A rosey blood cloud blooming in a shared syringe." --Bart Solarczyk

Ron Androla "Scarred Canvas" Book Blurb

"Scarred Canvas", is to be released June 15, 2013 by Underground Voices Press. Here is an early review by small press heaveyweight Ron Androla:

"Fuck you. I mean that as both message & sentiment in regards to reading RC Edrington's latest book of poems. Fuck you & yr clean poems. Fuck you & yr  undamaged mind & veins & heart. Fuck you & yr preconceived perceptions of what a poet shld say, or be, or how he or she shld act. Fuck you &  intellectual density, even emotional density, spiritual density, allow for the transparent ghosts. & fuck you for being a ghost, & transparent. RC's  poems are unapologetic. His poems are not kisses & smiles – rather, the poems are raging, & insane. I don't know how a man cld manage to rein in  the anger in the form of a poem, but RC has attained the feat. This is a  rare achievement. These poems are LIFE, & not manufactured, manicured, College-altered equations. Fuck you. These poems are tough, & messy, &  existentially sad: reality. Reality is always saying fuck you." 

Bad Trip

above

only a generic

3rd rate painters sky

devoid of depth,

clouds that offer

no canvas

to the absence

of crows

who only hours earlier

smudged themselves

like spilt black

tattoo

ink splotches

along the cyan veined

horizon