“There’s no sense of an overarching schema, no symphony, no grand homophonic ending. This is channel-hopping faster than eye or ear, driven by panic and punctuated with nervous jokes. In the tone of it, I’m reminded of nobody so much as neurotic old Brit comedians, Kenneth Williams or Hancock, the weirdness of their emotional hygiene, the horror at the approach of their ogres. Held in the throat of the poem is Ken Williams’s skreeking laugh, Hancock’s tussle with the melancholy of each bloodied day.”

Read it at Intercapillary Space, here.

* is published by if p then q.