By David McGimpsey
For those who tore off the tops of canola —
yellow canola ﬂowers —
would you leap in a bath of canola margarine
just to make the simplest of despair?
Implored via involved readers to be 'classy' and 'real' for as soon as, David McGimpsey has composed a series of canonical note-books on all issues 'poetic' and 'poetical. ' Birds! vegetation! heritage! unhappy leaders! The observe 'aubade'! They're all right here, in a serial, country Fair–bound choice of lyrics set within the working-class belvedere of Asbestos Heights.
Among the clean lemon-lime sodas of the realm and the rousing lyrics to 'Bootylicious,' Asbestos Heights amps up McGimpsey's trademark sideswiping of formal rhetoric and prosody with pop savoir faire to ﬁnd his boldest assortment. think Petrarch in a Tweet warfare approximately the place to shop for an exceptional pair of pop denims. think Yeats yet with much fewer swans. think a poet who was once instructed some time past that not anything solid ever comes out of a spot like Asbestos Heights.
'David McGimpsey is unfuckwithable, poetry-wise, and I'll stand on John Ashbery's espresso desk in my cowboy boots and say that. '
— Michael Robbins
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Sufficient already. The Mary Sunshine act has obtained to move. The economic system sucks, unemployment has reached an all-time excessive, and the ozone is past fix. but if all feels futile, there's this hilarious compilation of 200-plus rants that provide you with permission to ditch the rose-colored glasses and feature a pleasing chortle on the price of these who piss you off.
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« Désâmé », c’est du Desbiens typique et classique. Un lecteur familier y retrouvera des effets vus ailleurs, assonances, comparaisons, structures syntaxiques en parallèle, mots fétiches même.
L’originalité de ce recueil réside dans l. a. nuance nouvelle des thèmes et pictures obsédants. Une originalité troublante de vérité. Mine de rien, parmi d’autres thèmes, celui de l. a. mort qui s’y profile, et l. a. sienne entrevue de bien plus près qu’avant. À ce thème s’allie, un peu plus appuyée, sa pratique de los angeles poésie : rapports entre le poète et los angeles poésie, entre le poème et l. a. gangue de vie dont il s’extrait.
« Ce titre, Désâmé, indique en tous cas assez clairement que l’expérience de désenchantement et de désœuvrement (de déréliction ? ) qui suscite le poème touche aux fibres de l’être. Peut-être davantage, ici, que dans ses précédents opus, cette expérience en est une d’écriture, Desbiens élaborant dans l. a. première partie de son livre, judicieusement intitulée « Italiques », un paintings poétique aussi humble que malicieux, aussi désarmé que désarmant :
J’écris à l. a. main
j’écris sur du pain
de quelle encre
Je ne sais pas
de quel poème
vient le poème. »
« Voix et pictures », no. 7
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Additional info for Asbestos Heights
Elide. —What was I saying? Damn violins! 39 The bow runs out. You count your sins. The oboe fails at the end of the breath. —Should be getting home. I think I hear the metronome. He takes a violin abruptly from one of the MUSICIANS, sights down the fingerboard, turns it upside down, shakes it, holds it at arm’s length as something suddenly, utterly strange, then hands it gently back. INV. I have an idea: string a string, steel, or gut, through everything. String a string—now to then— or am I repeating myself again?
Sweat and blood and want have worked into the weave. The stains fall naturally over your scars and your hungriest parts. He winces at the fit each time, until his arms are empty and his sleepless eyes confess he’s down to one last hope: is this a dream? Of course it is, you say. For here you are to blame for everything. 34 Strawberries and Cream [As a proof of the impossibility of artificial intelligence] the inability to enjoy strawberries and cream may have struck the reader as frivolous. Possibly a machine might be made to enjoy this delicious dish, but any attempt to make one do so would be idiotic.
I have an idea: strip out the frets. No rungs or steps. No lets. No ratchets. Unplug the valves. Grease up the slide. Don’t punctuate. Elide. Elide. —What was I saying? Damn violins! 39 The bow runs out. You count your sins. The oboe fails at the end of the breath. —Should be getting home. I think I hear the metronome. He takes a violin abruptly from one of the MUSICIANS, sights down the fingerboard, turns it upside down, shakes it, holds it at arm’s length as something suddenly, utterly strange, then hands it gently back.