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Falling Off
55 pages, Paperback
Published July 1, 2015
3 people want to read
About the author
Paul Sutton
71 books5 followersPaul Sutton is a writer who has written for Big Finish Productions audio and collected novella range. He has written for the Fifth, Sixth, Seventh and Eighth Doctors in Big Finish's audio story range and also a novella part of A Life in Pieces a Big Finish's Bernice Summerfield series.
Sutton also wrote two linked audio stories Arrangements for War and Thicker than Water which introduced the planet Világ and were part of the exit stories for Evelyn Smythe.
Sutton also wrote two linked audio stories Arrangements for War and Thicker than Water which introduced the planet Világ and were part of the exit stories for Evelyn Smythe.
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Displaying 1 of 1 review
January 23, 2016
Paul Sutton's poems here are a groping for something beneath the surface, an archaeology continually scratching up some new fragment of mind or memory from unpromising materials beneath the feet.
They are a denial in stark black and white of easy narrative, of fixed iconic recollection that 'teaches' something, a rough "Fuck you" to the Carol-Ann Armitages who bestride our narrow poetry world, their neatly concluded sonatas, their five-finger exercises.
Also, a rejection of linguistic masturbation practised by ageing Modernists posing as Experimentals, the Ashberries and other sensitive, Derridean dictators.
Gems and crystals recur - hard, beautiful, serving no ostensible use - dug from the dirt and depths of memory to resist the grip and fragment the light.
Dreams are dissected, or rather allowed to fall apart under the weight of their irrationality, images tumbling, cinematic, like something by Tarkovsky or That Hungarian Bloke.
This isn't Well Made Poetry. It's better than that. It's harsh and grubby as the B-roads, the shopping centres, the atavistic villages it inhabits.
It deconstructs (O Derridean word !) the "targets and sadistic systems" which govern our relations with each other, the 'civilising' effect of education, art, and political correctness - "homo homini lupus est" might be its epigraph (but isn't).
It has a sly music. It is intellectually solid, unshowy.
I like it.
They are a denial in stark black and white of easy narrative, of fixed iconic recollection that 'teaches' something, a rough "Fuck you" to the Carol-Ann Armitages who bestride our narrow poetry world, their neatly concluded sonatas, their five-finger exercises.
Also, a rejection of linguistic masturbation practised by ageing Modernists posing as Experimentals, the Ashberries and other sensitive, Derridean dictators.
Gems and crystals recur - hard, beautiful, serving no ostensible use - dug from the dirt and depths of memory to resist the grip and fragment the light.
Dreams are dissected, or rather allowed to fall apart under the weight of their irrationality, images tumbling, cinematic, like something by Tarkovsky or That Hungarian Bloke.
This isn't Well Made Poetry. It's better than that. It's harsh and grubby as the B-roads, the shopping centres, the atavistic villages it inhabits.
It deconstructs (O Derridean word !) the "targets and sadistic systems" which govern our relations with each other, the 'civilising' effect of education, art, and political correctness - "homo homini lupus est" might be its epigraph (but isn't).
It has a sly music. It is intellectually solid, unshowy.
I like it.
Displaying 1 of 1 review