Dead Dogs | Reviews that Suck

1Like almost all the other authors I’ve written about on this blog, Manny and I met on Twitter.  I think we were following each other before I sent out the call for book recommendations – but he did respond to my call with his own book, Dead Dogs. 

Book Details

  • Moonshine Cove Press
  • 151 Pages
  • 6×9 dimensions
  • $14 price point
  • Matte cover with glue binding.


“There are bodies to be disposed of and all the local dumpsters are full. There are armed terrorists in the backseat … and they’re all smoking sherm. Yuppies have taken over East Atlanta, and the drug dealers are at war…

Read the misadventures of two Atlanta misfits involved with a circus of outlaws and revolutionaries, coerced into various criminal activities.”


So, I want to acknowledge something. One day, while I was reading this, Manny just so happened to tweet that English wasn’t his first language – that he had to learn it as he grew up. That bit of intel forced me to sit back in my chair and blink rapidly.  English is hard enough to learn how to speak, but to write it (and write it well) — the odds are against you.

This dude wrote an entire god-damn novel in a language that he had to learn — and wrote it well enough for me to not even question whether or not he was a native speaker. God DAMN!  Manny, you got the biggest set of brass balls I’ve ever encountered — and I mean that in the best possible of ways.

Moving on to the story —

Dead Dogs is a WILD ride! My head was spinning throughout the entire book, the most common questions being: What the fuck is going on?! Who the fuck is this?! What the fuck just happened?! Where the fuck are we?! What…. the… FUCK?!!! To say this book is dizzying is the understatement of the century. It’s fast-paced, it’s gritty, it’s good.  If you dig pulp, grit lit, transgressive fiction — you’ll love the hell out of this.

I do, however, want to point out a MAJOR miss for me — the editing.

This book jumps backwards and forwards in time – think of a Guy Richie movie – and while there are three parts to the book it NEEDS to have individual chapters to help that transition between time and space be more definitive and obvious to the reader. There were many times I had to flip backward to figure out the timeline of events – which was frustrating because it slowed the pace of the book.

Like I said, this is not a writing problem – the writing is good and solid – this is an editing problem, and that falls at the feet of Moonshine Cove. The editing just fucked this book for me — and I’m pretty pissed about that because it’s a damn good story.

I really look forward to the sequel to this book, which will be published by Outcast Press next year (I believe).  I trust their editors, and know that what comes next in the Dead Dogs series will be amazing!

Now, don’t be a dickhead buy Dead Dogs here.

Tantric Tanankh | Reviews that Suck

CaptureI came across Rose’s chapbook when she posted it to my call for new books to read. This was absolutely a blind buy as I had never encountered Rose before, and had never read any of her work.

The title of the work interested me – as most of you know, I’m a seminarian whose focus of study is Biblical Studies/Theology and Social Ethics – and was curious what I would find when I opened the book.

Book Details

  • 8.5 x 11
  • 75 pages long
  • Self-published
  • $12 paperback
  • Matte cover, glue binding and cream colored paper.


I’m pasting this directly from the Amazon description:  Artistically a self-instructeur, her philosophical studies incessantly contrasting within Metamodernist Formalist poetic dialogues creating fragmented automatic texts evoking Neo-Dadaist, Surrealist, and Futurist aesthetics in imagistic contortionist vortices.


I read through this collection of poetry a few times. I really tried to understand it, to derive meaning from it – but I just couldn’t. The words ran together, jumbling in my head and made no sense to me no matter how slowly I took each poem and thought about each word.

For someone who loves genres like Dirty Realism, Transgressive Fiction, Grit Lit, Meat Poetry and (now!) Pulp this was exceptionally difficult for me.

There were so many times I stopped reading either in exasperation or exhaustion. There were many times I was close to saying “fuck it” and not do the review – just review other books and hope that Rose wouldn’t catch that I didn’t review hers. But that’s a shitty thing to do to an author and a writer – and, let’s be real, it’s both inauthentic and would lack integrity on my part.

What kept me coming back to is is the fact that I know Rose is trying to say something. And I want to know what that something is.

On my final read-through I tried a different approach. Instead of viewing this as a collection of poetry in which words are meant to carry meaning – I approached it as something like an art collection (an audio and visual one).

On the final read-through I spoke the words Rose wrote out loud.  About halfway through the book I began recording myself speaking these poems and played them back so that I could listen. The physical sensation of reading them out loud curled my tongue in the most curious of ways which was not unpleasant. Hearing them replayed back to me… I lost the grip of the words. By this I mean that the words weren’t discernable as words anymore, but as sound. Sound which was rich, and complex.

After I finished that final read through, I had to think about what just happened. What’s Rose trying to tell me through this art exhibit? Is it that words, ultimately, mean nothing – that they are just symbols which are transitory and malleable which indicate that they are socially constructed and only mean what we want them to mean at any particular point? Is it that, when words mean nothing, the only meaning we can garner is through sound or movement?

If you read this book as you would a traditional poetry collection – you’re probably going to hate it like I did.

BUT – if you approach this book like an art exhibit and not only ask yourself what the artist is trying to say but also what she’s trying to get you to experience I think that you’ll enjoy it.

Check it out here 

American Cryptic | Reviews that Suck

CaptureI’m gonna be honest – I can’t remember how Jim and I got to talking on Twitter. Knowing me, it was probably something perverted. That being said, he was one of the people who responded when I sent out a call for chapbooks to review.

I was mostly responded to with poetry, but Jim’s book is a collection of ghost stories and I was up for something different and thought “what the hell, let’s give it a whirl.”

Book Details

  • 6×9 in dimension
  • Approximately 126 pages
  • Printed by Anubis Press
  • $10 for the paperback and $4 for the Kindle edition
  • Glossy cover, glue binding and cream colored paper.


American Cryptic is – as I said – a collection of ghost stories. What makes it different is that it’s split into three sections; ghost stories that happened to him or to people he knew, creepy places located in his native wester Pennsylvania, and legends originating from the same area.


I have to say that I’m one of those cynical folks who just doesn’t believe in ghosts — which is funny because I’ve had several strange things happen to me throughout my life. Still, though, here we are.

Even though I’m a non-believer, this was still a fun read. I was particularly interested in the urban legends section which gave me the same thrill as when I used to read Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark when I was a kid. It was interesting to see how some of the stories from his native PA (which isn’t far from where I am in NY) bled over the state lines – like the Green Man – and how some I’ve just never heard of (like the Six Toed Man)

I was particularly fascinated by the story of his apartment in Philadelphia which he and his roommate got the fuck out of because it was so creepy. Or at least he said it was creepy – Jim’s a bit light on the details here. I need to know what the roommate’s girlfriend said was in the house, I need more creepy shit that happened there. That story in particular could be pretty interesting as a film, too!

Overall it was a good read – my only critique is that I’d have liked more details in some of the stories to shore up why things felt weird, or were creepy.

I’m shipping this book to my mom because I know that she will absolutely adore it!

Landscapes of You & Me | Reviews that Suck

1David and I met on Twitter – not, actually, through poetry posts but – through an argument I was having with some shit-head bible banger that was trying to convince people that they were right in their interpretation of Scripture. (Author’s Note: they weren’t.) I noticed he liked Bukowski, and had some Catholic Worker references on his profile so, of course, we buddied up. 

Even though I called for people to pimp their chaps, David never did. It was like pulling fucking teeth for him to link me some shit to read. Finally, after much harassing he shot me the link to his chap Landscapes of You and Me

Book Details

  • 5 x 8 in dimension.
  • 47 pages.
  • $10.44 price point.
  • Printed with Alien Buddha Press.
  • Cover art by Red Focks
  • Standard cardstock cover and glue binding — which did not crack.
  • Standard 20 lb weight paper, and 10 Garamond font (assuming).

This is another chap printed on Amazon publishing – through a press, not self-pressed – and I’ve described the cover, paper, print, and binding quality enough times that ya’ll know the fucking drill. 


The back of the book states that this is collection of love poems with some Taco Bell references and that I will want to drunk text my ex after reading it. (Incidentally, I’d really look into that … I’m guessing NO ONE wants to see my ass after eating Taco Bell, just sayin’.)


Having read some of David’s work in Outcast Press’ inaugural issue I was expecting something much different than what I got – something a little darker, a little crunchier. Needless to say, this collection came out of left field for me. 

Reading it is like being in the mind of a caffeinated toddler; a hyper-active rambling that stretches on into the unforeseeable future which gets slightly more absurd as you go on. And that is exactly its charm.  

Reading this filled me with a sense of nostalgia; a sort of hazy, teenage-summer-love sweetness that’s awash with the pinks and oranges of sunsets, but tinged blue at its edges with a sort of bittersweet loss. It brings me back to memories of days spent by the pool or the lake, the electric feeling of simply being close to the person you had a mega-crush on and that sense of subconscious urgency to memorize everything about the person before they move back home for the summer. 

Overall, I liked the collection. I didn’t LOVE it – it wasn’t earthshattering, ground breaking, stomp-your-feet-and-clap-your-hands-for-this-pussy kind of excellent. But it’s good. 

Given that I’ve seen David’s pieces in Outcast, as well as talked about his other pieces in private I want to say this: David, trust yourself and your writing — and take a risk with the wild shit.  I’m still waiting for that pissing poem, brother. 

Now, don’t be a genital wart, and go buy the shit.

Soul Collector | Chap Review

1I “bumped into” Duvay Knox on Twitter one night as he was joking back and forth with Stephen J. Gold about buying panties on the internet — of course I had to crack a joke, cuz… it’s me. I got to reading his tweets and fell in love with his humor and his style (have you seen his Twitter icon? It oozes sex and a “I don’t give  FUCK” kinda style). When I saw that he had a book coming out, I snapped that little shit up ASAP.

I want to start by saying that I’ve never read a pulp / pulp-noir book in my life. This one is my first; I bought it because Duvay is dope as hell and because the premise of the book tickled my pussy in the right way. I’m not familiar with the genre, so I don’t know how they’re supposed to be written –so,  cut me a little slack if I don’t catch all the fine details.

Book Description

I recognize these can be a little long/tedious for some folks, so I’m going to start bulleting this section for ease of reading (if you’re interested in that kind of thing).

  • 4.25 x 7 inches in dimension
  • Approximately 156 pages
  • Cream colored, (appx.) 20lb weight paper
  • 12pt Times New Roman font (estimation)
  • Matte covers printed on cardstock
  • Glue binding which didn’t crack under my fuckery — no pages lost.

I was surprised by the dimensions of the book – I was expecting a standard 5 x 8 – but, in all honesty, I’m really charmed by it. It feels so nice in my hands, and was easy to shove into my purse and take it with me wherever the hell I was going.


Soul Collector tells the goings-on of Sippian, a young man who died by violence, and assumes the role of Death when he descends to hell. The story follows Sippian through all the fun and fuckery of his rise to the top and the challenges he faces.


I want to begin by addressing the obvious; the formatting errors.

Right around Chapter 9, something happened and the Chapter titles got all fucked up – some of them ending up at the bottom of the previous page, which jacks up the formatting of the rest of the book. Duvay has addressed this, and it’s been fixed — and is sending out free copies of the corrected version to all who have bought the fucked copy.

What do I think about it? Well, to begin with editing and layout formatting is a BRUTAL and tedious job. We’re human, we all fuck up and sometimes after looking at a manuscript for 100 hours, shit just happens.  The fuckup doesn’t take away from the story in anyway — it just one of those weird-ass things that happens. Final thoughts on it:  Seems to me I got a first edition copy of Soul Collector that’s gonna be worth some coin in the future!

Second: The book is dialogue driven. There’s very little, to no, description of people, surroundings, places, things, moods, etc. I’m not sure if that’s a hallmark of pulp / pulp noir or not, to be fair and honest. I do know that I really like descriptions, because it drives me further into the story.

THAT BEING SAID — I didn’t even notice this until my second read through of the book! The story-telling that happens through dialogue is so rich and engaging that it doesn’t fucking matter if there’s descriptions.

Soul Collector is a fast-paced, funny as fuck, SUPER engaging, well written story with twists that will make your head snap sideways.  I loved this so much, and my ONLY complaint is that there wasn’t more to read… that cliff-hanger… THAT CLIFF-HANGER, THO!!!!! I need more. Like… NOW.

I cannot WAIT until Pussy Detective comes out with Clash Books in December, I’m gonna snap that fucker RIGHT up.

If this is your bag — and it should be your bag — make sure to support the author and BUY THE SHIT

Bloodwarm | Reviews that Suck

1I found Taylor on Twitter by chance; a mutual friend re-tweeted one of her pieces, and I fell in love with her style. I followed her and saw that she was hyping her upcoming chap with Variant Lit, Bloodwarm, and knew that I had to get it.

Book Details

Bloodwarm is 23 pages in length and approximately 5×8 in size. The binding is the standard glue and DID crack under my bending. That being said, the pages all remained in their place so it’s not that big of a deal.

The cover is matte with gold foil accents, and is made out of a good cardstock. The feel and look is high quality and professional.  My only “complaint” – if it could be called that – is the red text on the front and back covers. It’s of a hue that makes it difficult to read.

The paper looks like a 30lb cream, and stands up under both fountain pens and highlighters with zero bleed and no show through. The font appears to be 10pt Garamond, so you may need some readers for this.


This is a collection of poems which details the embodied experience of a Black woman in the United States – particularly the South.  Taylor’s work isn’t technically dirty realism – but it’s certainly realism.


They say dynamite comes in small packages and that certainly holds true for Bloodwarm. It’s 23 pages of pure fire. Napalm. White Phosphorus.

This is not a collection for the White Liberal, the Devil’s Advocate or those who claim they can’t be racist because they got a Black ___insert relationship here___. This is a collection for those who have the desire enter into a Black woman’s embodied experience and have the spine to believe what she’s telling you.

This collection is immaculate; incredibly beautiful in its vulnerability and its trust as Taylor allows you into her heart and mind. It’s not something you read quickly – each piece needs to be sat with to mull over the deep symbolism.

The show stopper for me is “How I Take My Morning Tea.” It wasn’t until my third read through that I caught it – the almost invisible text between the stanzas. At first I thought it was a printing error, and rubbed my thumb along the text to see if it’d disappear. When it didn’t I brought the book right up to my nose to look at what was going on there.

There’s a hidden poem here!

To say I was thunderstruck is not an exaggeration.  I immediately recognized that I was reading a hidden transcript (ala Scott’s Domination and the Arts of Resistance), a real-time Code Switch. The brilliant marriage between poetic realism and the Acadamy had me over the moon! This is the kind of shit that I really, really live for in my Academic life.

This whole collection is brilliant, and I’m thrilled to hear that Variant is doing another run! Congratulations Taylor!!!

Now don’t be a fuck face, and go buy it!

Shooting Gallery Vultures | Reviews that Suck

image-1Scott and I encountered each other fairly early on in my Twitter adventures. We ‘met’ through a mutual friend because I was looking for someone to do some poetry collaborations with, and they directed me to Scott. The collaboration never panned out – probably because I totally forgot about it until now, but I had peeped some of Scott’s pieces on a few websites and loved the gritty style of them. 

When I sent out my request for folks to pimp their chapbooks so I had some new shit to read Scott, actually, didn’t respond. BUT I had been eyeballing Shooting Gallery Vultures (SGV) for a hot minute and knew I was gonna order it.  

I got the package early afternoon on Tuesday (July 6) and tore that envelope right open.  To my surprise not only was SGV in there, but also 2 additional chapbooks, 2 broadsides and four high quality vinyl stickers (which were immediately stuck onto my new poetry notebook!). It felt like Christmas! 

This post will be a review of SGV only – the other two poetry chaps I’ll review at a later date (spaced out between other chaps that are coming my way).

Book Details

SGV is approximately 86 pages in length, and measures roughly 7 x 10 inches. Like the other chaps I’ve reviewed it’s got a glue binding and stood up against my vigorous bending, folding and general rumble fucking; no pages were lost. 

The cover is full color with a glossy finish, which not only feels good in the hand but also looks/feels REALLY high quality. The external presentation on this chap is second to none.

The paper looks like standard 28 lb bond; it doesn’t bleed under a highlighter nor a fountain pen – though I did notice it sucks fountain pen ink up like a sponge. So if you’re planning to note anything in the margins for any reason, use a ballpoint. 

Each poem is an illustration created by Andrew Nutini, and it appears like they are thermal printed to the page – which means that there’s no bleeding of ink, but there is a slight sheen which may make it difficult to read either outside or bright white over head lighting. The font used looks like Courier and is nice and large so there should be no problems reading this at all.  


SGV is a collection of poetry which consists of memories, observations and insights of Scott’s life as a (sometimes?) homeless addict (heroin, crack, alcohol are mentioned). If this subject matter bothers you, or you can’t stomach reality – I’d invite you to find something lighter to read. 


Since 2016 I’ve worked as a Catholic Worker – both in my hometown as well as New York City – whose aim is to extend radical hospitality to all that knock on our doors. Sometimes this has meant shelter, at other times it has meant food – but the great majority of the time it has meant being in community with the homeless population of these two cities.  I lived and built community with all manner of housed and unhoused – those folks which ordinary people refuse to look at or acknowledge their humanity. 

With all of that being said; the world which Scott describes feels so very familiar to me – as recognizable and as intimate as my favorite pair of boots that have molded themselves to the exact angle of toes and arch of my foot. Though many wouldn’t understand this when I say it; it’s a comfortable space for me. 

Scott doesn’t soften the blow; he speaks about his time as a homeless addict – a life which normal people refuse to see, think about or acknowledge – in language that doesn’t spare anyone’s feelings.  His work grabs you by the scruff of your neck and forces you to look, forces his humanity down your throat until you choke – “Look at me! I’m a fucking human being!” it screams. 

If you’re hoping for a bullshit redemption arc at the end, don’t hold your hand on your ass for it. You won’t get it – and you shouldn’t. Humanity isn’t – and shouldn’t –  be contingent upon conforming to the norms and expectations of society. I respect the mother-fuck out of Scott for not giving the reader that – for forcing you to either swallow this shit whole or gag and die. 

It’s difficult for me to evaluate this collection without any bias because of my own history being in community with homeless and addicted folks. I gravitate towards these stories because I feel that they are important – not only for myself who has experienced them from a position that straddles the inside and outside of this world, but also for those who have never thought to ask these people their stories. 

So, of course, I love it.  I love it for its humanity and its honesty. I love it for its heart that bleeds, and bleeds and bleeds. 

I’ll be honest: after watching The Basketball Diaries on HBO all those years ago (don’t act brand new and pretend you didn’t see the shit, too!), I expected Jim Carroll’s poetry to be much realer and grittier than it was – I was truly disappointed. SGV gave me everything that I wanted and expected from Carroll, and more. 

The one and only critique I have of the book is this; I wish that the accompanying graphics were full page bleeds and that they were in color. 

If you’re interested in buying of Scott’s work you can find his website here and if you’re interested, specifically, in Shooting Gallery Vultures you can tweet him here.

History of Present Complaint | Reviews that Suck

1A few weeks ago I tweeted the #writingcommunity to recommend me their chapbooks; the first response was @HLRWriter who recommended me her CNF chap, History of Present Complaint. 

I read the summary on Amazon, and was interested enough in the premise to buy it. When I went to check out, however, I realized that the book is only offered on Amazon UK – which meant exchange rates and what I knew would be a lengthy shipping time. A little reluctantly, I went through with the transaction, and waited patiently for the book to arrive. 

Arrive it did, a little bit ahead of schedule, on Saturday the 3rd and in my excitement I immediately began inspecting and reading. 

Book Details

History is approximately 86 pages long, and is roughly 5 x 8 inches in dimension. It has a glue binding which held up under (my very intentional) stressful bending, folding and other sorts of general fuck-housing – which means the binding didn’t crack and no pages were lost. 

It has a lovely glossy cover which feels thick and durable, and is printed on reasonably good paper which doesn’t bleed under a highlighter or a fountain pen.  The font is legible – Garamond, I think – doesn’t smear when you run a thumb over it and while it’s just a hair smaller than the standard, it’s still totally readable. Get some fucking glasses.

There is a content / trigger warning directly after the title page. 

The contents is beautifully laid out and shows the care that was taken to put this work together. 

DO NOT SKIP THE EDITOR’S NOTE. It details how the book is structured – as it’s not linear – and you will, at first, need this as a reference point as you make your way through the book. 


The book details the story of a woman who experiences a psychotic break and is (involuntarily?) admitted to a psych ward in the UK. The story is presented in stream-of-consciousness style which leaps back and forth in time to events that happened prior to the break, the break itself and what happens afterward.


Reviewing this book is complicated; I have so many thoughts about it that I’m going to need to break the review into bite size portions. 

  1. Time and Space 

Non-linear story telling is easy to fuck up – just look at Netflix’s version of The Witcher (I said what I said, motherfuckers). It’s significantly more difficult to do this on paper than it is on film – there are no cinematic cues that let you know you’ve jumped backwards or forwards in time.

HLR did this masterfully; she let’s readers know where they are in her journey by titling sections and poems with the headings Present Complaint, History of Present Complaint and Post Complaint – the definitions of which are in the Editor’s Note that I told you not to skip, you asshole. All in all, the transition between time and space is seamless and makes sense. She makes a notoriously difficult style of story telling look like child’s play. 

2. Style and Content

Complaint blurs the lines between genres; part creative non-fiction, part poetry, part stream of consciousness journaling which culminates in an incredibly authentic read that puts you inside her head as she’s going through these monumental crises.  

What’s really unique about this is that – in the editor’s note that I fucking told you to read – HLR doesn’t say this is her story… she says it’s YOURS. “YOU suffered an acute psychotic episode, during which YOU were detained under Section 135 of the Mental Health Act.” 

Very early on the boundaries between reader and writer blur, and you begin taking on her story as your own until you’re jolted back into your own reality when you realize “holy shit, I’ve felt that way before” and then are lulled back into the story again. 

I want to point out a fucking BREATH-TAKING line on page 44, “You dragged myself to the kitchen and stood in the doorway.”  Full stop. Read that again, do it slowly and hold that line for a few moments. You dragged myself. This is a mind blowing line; one that holds both the duality of reader and author and the coalescing of them simul-fucking-taneously! 

There are pages and pages of lines like these that both parallel and juxtapose author and reader that make you stop, and think, and wonder. 

3. Theme

I want to begin by saying this; you need to be mindful of how you approach this work. What I mean to say is this: it’s not a fucking sideshow for you to get your jollies off.

Complaint is important for so many reasons:

  • It restores humanity, which has been robbed by society, and the System, to those who live with mental-illness.
  • It depicts how very broken the Mental Health system is; simultaneously abusing and neglecting those who have the misfortune to find themselves jailed within it.


The testitucular fortitude required to be this honest and this vulnerable is Herculean – and HLR fucking NAILED IT.   I want to both acknowledge and thank her for that bravery. 

This is the book that Girl, Interrupted should have been – could have been – had Vintage had an ounce of backbone and didn’t neuter it to hell and back.

Is History of Present Complaint worth the exchange rate, and the long shipping time? Hell. Yes. I would buy if it was written in shit on a cardboard box. I would wait forever for this. I will re-read it fifty times over. 

Now… don’t be a bitch, and buy the shit. 

The Worst Poetry Book Ever | Chap Review

imageI was window shopping on Amazon the other day when this chapbook came up in my Books You May Like feed. The title captured my attention because it’s the same type of fuckery that I would engage in.

I read some of the reviews, which were a glorious display of shit-posting that captured my warped little heart, so I decided to buy it.

Book Details

So this chapbook is rather large – 105 pages – and was self-published on Amazon’s KDP earlier this year.  It’s classified as Limericks and Humorous Verse, Internet and Social Media Humor, as well as Puns and Wordplay.  The author’s name is Lily Luverton – an appropriate porn star-esque pen name, appropriate for the content inside. Sits approximately 6 x 9 inches, with a matte pink cover and passable quality paper on the inside. The font choice sucks, I’ll be honest.   I folded the front cover back while reading and was pretty surprised at the fact that the glued spine didn’t shit the bed and rip off. Huzzah!


This is an adult chapbook; definitely not meant for those under the age of 18. It consists entirely of sex and shit humor – which is my bag, entirely, but may not be yours. If not, steer clear.  The poems are all very short – shorter than most micro poetry – so it makes for a quick read.


2When I opened the book, I immediately went to the Table of Contents and found this little gem which made me cackle like a fucking lunatic.

After seeing this, I was actually pretty excited to break into the rest of the book, thinking it was going to be right up my alley.  Like I said above, the poems are very short – shorter than most micro poetry – so it made for an incredibly quick read.

3The three pages are glorious! The poems are constructed in a way that lulls you into safety, and then the last line is so unexpected you can’t help but laugh. It’s authentic in that it’s plain to see that there was some effort made when constructing the poems, that there is a point in creating them the way they were created.

The next five pages are meh.  The intentionality that is present in the first three pages begins to ebb, rather quickly, and everything turns to shit. The next 100 or so pages is filler; packed with writing that tries too hard to be funny, shocking, and disgusting. You can feel the author straining to meet these markers, and it stops being authentic or funny.

I’m pretty well aware that the writer’s intention is to make it a shitty book of poetry (as the title implies) but the sad fact is this: it could have been something REALLY good and honestly funny. And it isn’t. And I am so incredibly sad over that because I thought I’d found my literary soul mate. Lily, Lily, why did you let me down?

Is it worth the $12 and shipping time? Nah.