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|Reviewer: Cheryl Townsend||
Ive seriously become a fan of No Tell Books... a lusty press of insatiable women always on the prowl and, contradictory to its claim they do tell and with gusto. So the latest feast of savory tales, arranged teasingly on that virginally white paper plate, arrove and burned its way out of its own envelope.
From the poem dont you feel its dangerous to want were losing:
The generality of this collective plays with S&M schematics... toys at cannibalistic pragmatics... teases a macabre, surreal visual worthy of Crispin Glovers cinematic rendering, and percolates enough blood to tarry any planned walks in the forest alone.
Loudon is obsequious flat on my face as usual/rag wick showing and indeed, she is also explosive. Much of the give and take, she sees There are odd punishments afoot and trumps it. In Goose Girl:
But one wonders if the taught is even permitted to utilize his gained wisdoms when later
Is this man? Is this beast? Perhaps it is that transformation of deviant debauchery that melds them into a fantastical phantom of both. If beauty is in the eye of the beholder, is not also repulsion? And just who is the S and whom the M ..? Again, the give and take so deliciously expounded reminding me of Anais Nins flair for descriptive juxtapositions.
Just yet another titillating scenario. The hunger of these poems is furious. The perpetual assignations are dizzying. The Bacchanalian elements strike fear in stalwarts of the missionary only. Yet Caligulas reign still tickles into the psyche, albeit not usually beyond foreplay fantasies. Still, there is redness to be given:
Oh, and the teaching. Strictness prevailing. Forget the apple, give forth the knuckles. Bend over Grab your ankles. Grin & bear it. todays lesson: never begin a conversation by saying Im hard CRACK!
But there are rewards past the offerings.. One must just survive receivership.
Perhaps. But these near Satanic couplings the goat entrails a cupboard of broken-spined animals a wolfs head sewn to my head Smoke and incantations tangled fur - One simply has to wonder what really is this sex?
From her poem The cook had to salt them, and the wicked/queen ate them:
But then there are the reasons. Insinuations of childhood sexual abuse given in the segmented title poem Cadaver Dogs :
Which segues to her wrist-slit suicide attempt. Then one sympathizes. These poems are creations thereafter. They are caused. We now have reason. We now have closure. Is the rollercoaster finished? No.
And later, she is a woman who wears a greatcoat/pockets stuffed with seeds & a star-nosed mole that in her poem I will not sing the death of Dog finds:
So, there you have it. Further tales of wayside sex, scattered psyche, surrealistic boudoirs breathing out whispers of all their secrets. Flesh - Hair - Teeth - blood. The No Tell Hotel is always ready to receive, and yes, pets are permitted.