Herein lies 23 short but exciting poems, all jampacked free verse couplets in a primal scream box. "...How persistently she has dis/ played those pock-marks on her soul/ Pock-marks, shit--they are open, puss-/ excluding lesions. In my arms, how tot-/ Ally clean... Granted/ my cock or my tongue are hardly/ The most exacting of scientific probes." Crews provides a consistent resistance to cadence with abrupt starts and stops resulting in a sequence of disclosure. His modern Pop mythos murmurs a naked vision, pointing out the decadent, the odd, the painful aspects of our society, in penetrating detail.--R.R. Lee Etzwiler
This review originally appeared in TapRoot Reviews #4,
Contact the editor, luigi-bob drake, at Burning Press
Copyright Burning Press 1994, 1995.