In the land of begotten magpies, “within normal limits” the unstoppable flow of language in this book keeps trying to keep up with its thought(s), cos as Misha the Maniac sez YOU HAVE NOTHING TO LOSE BUT YOUR LANGUAGE — words popping in and out, stop starting, in a multiplicity of poetic forms (well executed), as the emotions having no time to rein themselves in, go on their trajectory.

This was the margarine spread over my toast this morning. “The” may be the tyranny of sentences, but “The poet” of “This” book, with “The” poems of inner conflict, must be welcomed afresh, distorted, and mutating, stretching, and screaming themselves into existence – like a meme “I am becoming a germ”.

Nothing is sacred here; “I don’t know what love is but it’s choking my oesophagus”, all is up for grabs, in every direction, in a masterful sense of awareness over the material of hospital encounters, and social contexts, where the body is not “The” site of suffering, but “a”. —– π.ο.