(Poetry Collection.) A writer is never more nude than in poetry. Announcing louder, lewder, truer honesty, an author plots his way out.
Ruder than ever. Shouts about getting it as good as he gives it. Over-comes overcoming doubt. Deceives, descends. Confesses, repents. Accepts everything, regrets nothing. Inks with tears what amuses with his bruises. Re-emerges, fiend-to-*phœnix*.
Drafting an escape from having to either face or explain why he does what he does when racing against pain, here he pens himself, scrawls across bared chests heavy breaths of a huskily-whispered, pillow-talked plan: three silver-tongued laps around lust’s dusky, neon-lit track mark circles cast around exes.
Manifests as literature distancing pasts, exorcistic verse to out(b)last opposing sentiments as he dashes-off—in dextrous lyrics—why he now has the upper-hand in this fight of his, against the need to hide beneath the precept of just-having-a-good-time. That, really, he is fine. That he actually has always needed to be seen, to captivate, to be freed. To feed an ache. To seed. To satiate.
Confessional, erotic, gothic, magic, necromantic, explicit, transgressive, this *noir-memoir* through which sweats blood and tears is at once part gutter, interrogation room, torture chamber, brothel hall, and corridor through a hell of it’s artist’s own choosing.
Rich with lush imagery and vivid rhythm, a triplicity of sequences reaches deep to emerge reverberating revelations of a heart’s worth when weighed against its hurts.
Feather-lit as if written in the midst of flickering, candle-lighted introspection, then tapped into a burner phone with a bad connection, this concoction—with its cinematic text—rivets you closer to him than ever before. Veneers over your projections and expectations with his own intentions: ejaculated words Borden’s bawdiness works hard toward an unheard origin’s long unanswered call. Uncensored and orgiastic, in yet another bombastic volume of transgressive song.
(Poetry Collection.) The question of where to begin and where to end blurs and bends toward an oblivion of irrelevance, silenced by threats of the poet’s pen—his masterful voicing of pretend noise, his wordsmith’s lance, his cursive parlance, his furtive glance, his assertive stance—throws from the balance of some pyramidal pinnacle exits extending beyond every extravagance of credibility, into the uncertainty of any candlelit excursion within one’s own head.
Dreaming open that domed Pantheon of a temple-*cum*-tomb the inmost *sanctum* of which dreams echo against, hitting and hinting with glimpses of what emerges—with only you as its witness—where reality and fantasy converge: this purge of the subconscious for images words fail is what ordeal this book undertakes. What translation of symbols its rhythm entails. At great pains to heal, as its chapters reveal wounds in the architecture of existence experienced as exhibits of crimes committed artfully by night.
