Reviews
Description
Marie Conlan's newest collection, Neurotic Love Baby spans five intoxicating sections composed of entropic spaces, hues of wilderness, and piercing questions that are at once ephemeral and funny: "How many things do you own?" Jutting images and gritty testimony collide to embody intimate fields wherein "you are a sepia rinse & I keep seeing your face bloom from inside my mouth". Conlan's prose-like poems, in their varying incarnations, culminate into a landscape where bodies decompose and mix "with blood, dust with sweat" inside an urgent syntax that does not let up. These moments arise as a glimmering compost of contrast and tension which are both feral and refined, electric and emboldened: "you rub the line of my spine you tenderize me into a pulp I am waiting for you to discard at the bottom of your morning juice." Here, the segments live as a coating of sediment and sentiment, of "leaking petals" we wear together as we peer into a "three pastel sunset."
-Heather Sweeney, author of Dear Marshall, Language is Our Only Wilderness (Spuyten Duyvil) and Call Me California (Finishing Line Press)EXTRA 10 % discount with code: EXTRA
The promotion ends in 20d.02:55:40
The discount code is valid when purchasing from 10 €. Discounts do not stack.
Marie Conlan's newest collection, Neurotic Love Baby spans five intoxicating sections composed of entropic spaces, hues of wilderness, and piercing questions that are at once ephemeral and funny: "How many things do you own?" Jutting images and gritty testimony collide to embody intimate fields wherein "you are a sepia rinse & I keep seeing your face bloom from inside my mouth". Conlan's prose-like poems, in their varying incarnations, culminate into a landscape where bodies decompose and mix "with blood, dust with sweat" inside an urgent syntax that does not let up. These moments arise as a glimmering compost of contrast and tension which are both feral and refined, electric and emboldened: "you rub the line of my spine you tenderize me into a pulp I am waiting for you to discard at the bottom of your morning juice." Here, the segments live as a coating of sediment and sentiment, of "leaking petals" we wear together as we peer into a "three pastel sunset."
-Heather Sweeney, author of Dear Marshall, Language is Our Only Wilderness (Spuyten Duyvil) and Call Me California (Finishing Line Press)
Reviews