ABOUT DAVID PERRY
Character Designer, Comic Illustrator, Series Development Artist, Screenwriter, and award-winning Fiction Writer.
Professor of Character Design, Comics, and 2D Animation at Indiana University - Indianapolis.
AWARDS & RECOGNITIONS
Eric Sharp Gateway Fiction Award
Rebecca Pitts Poetry Award
Part-Time and Adjunct Teaching Award (Luddy School - IUI)
PUBLISHED IN:
PAPERCUTZ - Aw, Nuts! Graphic Novel by Max Beaudry
NEW YORK - Hudson Valley's Chronogram
SAN FRANCISCO - Blue Unicorn
NEW JERSEY - Black Fox Literary Magazine
IUPUI - Genesis
BUTLER UNIVERSITY - Manuscripts
CSU NORTHRIDGE - Northridge Review
Other Work
Writing Samples
Poetry (Published)
Will of the Wisps
As children we imagine monsters rambling in the darkness,
who grow on the waste of prayers for reason; for purpose.
Then darkness becomes sacred; the setting of love,
where the tender moon is cradled in satin blue,
and all the senses warm down, distill into the heat of life,
and romance is a viscous salt–a heart and soul in the heavy breath–
the smell and touch and taste of night.
And we love and we love and we love–
fireflies at the edge of an ancient dusk–
but we remember the frigid eyes of death at our backs,
and our hearts hiccup upon the gaps of oblivion,
anxious for the betrayal–for love’s mask to fall
and reveal the old abyss and its tongue
that laps, to the final bitter drop,
our soiled soul matter.
Apotheosis
Only from the oldest dark
is summoned the deepest love;
against nothing else do we dye
so bright a wool–crossed wires
to light the black canvas–
so feared is its wisdom.
But it itches; its dense weave–
the art of perspective;
sheared from something
we didn’t create.
I’ll shred it, then.
I’ll shred it ‘til there’s nothing
of me but the shadow
where God sleeps, and I’ll return
with the stench of a love lost in translation.
Common Cents
A thought is worth a penny, as it goes,
and it belongs in the tray at the convenience store,
worth as little as any small change in the world these days;
and how dirty the penny gets with all it collects
at the changing of hands.
Teddy Bear
His black marble eyes,
cracked as a satellite crashed in the night,
have filed in their dark, quiet mirrors
the memories of my childhood.
His threaded smile–
frayed, crooked, loosened–
is finally lost in the matting
of faux fur; fine fur, nearly bare,
scarce from reckless, prying hands.
Neither of us see very clearly now.
We are world-beguiled,
filled with fluff and shovings,
though our voices are tangled
in rusted cotton.
Beneath his museum expression:
“What have I become?”