re CANTICLES FOR JOHANNA,
particularly the [near-frontal]
which, unhappily, happenstance-ineptly, misspells even the title.
Of Which, Better said:
Read alsoPregnant by the Sheikh (Mills & Boon Desire) (The Billionaires of Black Castle, Book 3)
At first sight, Numair Al Aswad’s lethal sensuality overwhelms Princess Jenan Aal Ghamdi. Logic screams no, but her body burns for the sheikh. And, when he rescues her from an arranged marriage, he demands a shocking price… Jenan must provide him with an heir!
))) PURSUIT OF AN ENDLESS BORE (((
MORRIS CODISH [brother of Andrew and co-founder of the Womb of Consciousness League]
I suppose what irks one most is the lack of overt identity, when one seeks to implement
such, as per se, free verse, formal verse, open form, closed form, in an attempt to grip
the slippery prosody; for the wretched stuff settles nowhere, rather straddles an imaginary fence.
Hence, image, metrics, simile, rhyme, assonance, dissonance, all the tarnished tics of tradition are trotted out in a
hapless parody, one would assume, of the whole notion of any apish early errant ethos of rectitude,
a mess of yes, a deluge of huge.
One gets the itch, the ticklish feeling, that this scope, this bard, as he would have him(her)self (the obvious
pseudonym itself is grossly, hideously, insidiously, creepily, haplessly, overtly, covertly,
toward-ly, even massively-brutally-Biblically pretentious)
some freakish modern, some ancient RUNESTER. The whole thrust of it, should I take it upon myself to suggest a
gist, is a poke in the rib God plucked from transgender, a nudge in the Adam’s apple,
a pinch of pudendum,
a whiff of clap,
a recently shat,
frontal attack on the minuscule gonads of current, post W.C.W. or W.S., trends. Damn it, ‘tis almost as if Eliot was
wrested like old sullen fornicator, Lazarus, from his gloomy siesta and, governed by the worst of cursed,
mildly Miltonic, granted a rebirth of girth in our sage-less age.
My hope is that this unwieldy volume will perish of its own lethargy, pick pit, lie pat, just that,
and our Christian Wimans purge “Poetry,” per volume or institution, of the very hankering that leaks out toward
the end of this massive missive, this assault on decency—witness “The Lamb’s Message,”
that pre-final spasm, that chasm—
and deliver up to us some billion rounds of Garrison K., as weekday NYC eves, when we get the goat, by balls or
throat—wrench raunch from ranch, and rance from runts—for I hate to conclude this, but bet a jar of pus this poet’s
even r. v. ellis.