The Poem-Skull

The Poem-Skull - J.M. Hushour Stay in touch with the Youniverse!

While Carl Filer puts the machine into the ghost, Shiv Tickle meets the Poem-Skull and poetry might be the only superpower left to save the world.

What follows is a train-wreck in crazy-town, set in a city that goes a bit Jack Womack-y at the seams, while the author makes love to/rapes the English language, violating everything I've ever learned about English grammar and sometimes spelling, too* (and WTF is wrong with people's Weltanschaaung [sic] anyway? Did I miss something? A lot, probably.), in pop-culture-referencing density, bashing millennials** left and right, taking them by the thumbs and taking no prisoners, 'cause life's a bitch, baby, and Hushour is her mean, evil, poem-wielding son.
When the audience starts throwing fresh babies on the foul vegetable on stage, you realize that nothing really makes sense here, not in any known meaning of the word, until it does - but by then Hushour already has you enthralled in all the bony weirdness, and merrily you roll along, to everyone's peril, until it's too late and the last page is read.

Oh, yeah, and there are a lot of poems, too.***

*Nah, that was a lie. I don't know shit about English grammar. Or spelling.

**I still don't know if I belong to that generation or if I might be just this tiny bit too old. I suppose I'm too old.

***I admire what Hushour set out to do here: kindle readers' interest in poetry.
An effort that was, alas, completely lost on me. I feel with the story's characters here, poetry leaves me cold and puzzled - with the notable exception of German expressionism: Their musings about a war gone and a war to come, apocalyptic cities, chaos and desolation strike a chord with me. But in general poetry doesn't speak to me. Much less even when it's speaking in foreign tongues. A lot of nuance gets lots in translation, also if said translation is just happening in my head. Add the fact that I believe poetry isn't meant to be read but to be listened to - and I'm sorry, so so very sorry (I'm not), but a great deal of this book just went right over my head. I'm a moron when it comes to poetry, and I will stay a moron, absolutely unable to appreciate any beauty other people might find in poetic works. Oh, I can analyse it, talk about verse form, metre, trochees, iambs, broken-climbing-compound- and Schüttel- rhymes, rich, royal and poor rhymes, metaphors, and possible interpretations without end, and quite accurately to boot.
But I'll never ever be able to enjoy it.
That's not to say that I don't appreciate people writing poetry. I have great respect for poets. After all poetry is, as we know art's supposed to be, quite useless.

And boy, this book made me want to read [b:Gravity's Rainbow|415|Gravity's Rainbow|Thomas Pynchon||866393]. Like right fucking now.