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A Good Cuntboy Is Hard to Find
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August 31, 2011
"Then right in front of my very eyes she turned herself into the confusion of free verse. Rhymes were made to disappear. Meter became nothing more than exploding potholes, surprising terrorist and motorist alike. One line ran over the next onto the over. Just where that line might go was anyone’s guess. The author, even those with the best intentions, had been shot to hell. Destroyed. Done away with by decrepit Frenchmen. Old and delirious Frenchmen who were so frightened by words that they never said all of the letters in any given word. Frenchmen who lived on the Left Bank in tight apartments filled with unsaid letters. Saving up for a rainy day. Blood on the poet. No one was left to stop the line from happening."
Displaying 1 of 1 review