NO BULLSHIT REVIEWS:
Hunter S., Ed Sanders, Bukowski & Missy Suicide



Kingdom of Fear:
Loathsome Secrets of a Star-Crossed Child in the
Final Days of the American Century
by Hunter S. Thompson
Simon & Schuster, NY

though vainglorious and
nascent of old gonzód hat
Kingdom is most smoking nug
of nitrobiased journalcy
cured w/ crystal fiction
to aggravate the Hogs of War
in sad shadow of
yr Michael Moore

——but impotent in fury? ie:

"Let's face it — the yo-yo president of the U.S.A. knows nothing. He is a dunce. He does what he is told to do — says what he is told to say — poses the way he is told to pose. He is a Fool.... This is not the time to have a bogus rich kid in charge of the White House.... he wantonly and stupidly endorses mass murder of a logical plan to make sure we are still Number One — he is a Jackass by definition — a loud and meaningless animal with no functional intelligence and no balls.... Who are these swine? These flag-sucking half-wits who get fleeced and fooled by stupid little rich kids like George Bush?
They are the same ones who wanted to have Muhammad Ali locked up for refusing to kill gooks. They speak for all that is cruel and stupid and vicious in the American character. They are the racists and hate mongers among us — they are the Ku Klux Klan. I piss down the throats of these Nazis.
And I am too old to worry about whether they like it or not. Fuck them."

Lo, our friendly neighborhood dopefiend
has spun another narco-coil
twined in clever curlitales
of sundry plots converged in theme
that as of yet no critics know
what to make of bombast but
more of ye olde same

Cockmuffins!
This is a different specimen
sophisticated in suspense
paced with cops and guns and Depp
gelling to the namedrop end

avec a secret stitch
of aggressions in transgression
in face of dick and bush
and all their slimy
scandaleezas

nevermind the mad doc's
bullshit self vindication re:
fatporn stargone wild

what's pisspants hilarious is
booze-fueled roadkill pig-limo visions
of Clarence Thomas humping whores
in Elko lustrush of
most quintessential knee-slap
Amlit overkill this
pseudonym has ever seen
blast ratbastards
in the ass

Ho ho! Bravo!
Encore Maestro!
War makes art
worth a shit.


America: A History in Verse
Vol. 3, 1962-1970
by Edward Sanders
Black Sparrow Books, NY

Aye the I
in the eye
of once Fugly troubabard
who après l'evidence
of JFK chiggerism
poses

"Is it not proper to think that military leaders
who would propose
domestic terror
could also kill a president
or fashion a patsy?"

then all that ML Kingful marching
lynching bugging baiting beating
in red white & blue blood of

sacrificial Camelot lambs
(whom most luminous is Ted!)
blazing amazing scathing faces
thugslugging RatherDan
in Panthered past of
Mansonland

where "The Spirit of Napalm...
& his bone-pal
Scythe Man the Lurker"
spankingly contrasts
"the fluffy... condemnation
of a writer... famous for his breathy,
envious book on... Kesey"

adding

"You could see Mr. Wolfe in 1827
snickering at the paint-stained clothing of William Blake
(and his egalitarian politics)
after... snickery visit"

till Four Dead in Ohio
and flowervisions in the gun

as Sanders goes and goes and goes
toward volume 4 of Nixon Ford
Carter Disco Iran-Contra
Reaganation Oblivion

making a new Maximus
what doesn't condescend.


Slouching Toward Nirvana: New Poems
by Charles Bukowski
HarperCollins, NY

Finally! A dead-Bukowski afterbook
that doesn't suck
posthumous butt

poetry inspired by
"my cats, my wife,/the shape of my coat
thrown over a chair, the weeping of the planet...
the flight of the hummingbird and"

the fact that it's
so easy to die
long before the fact
of it

so the bird has now
busted out the heavy stuff:

"how close we all are
to being nothing
most of the
time

and
for some of us
nothing
all of the
time"

since "we are hardly ever
as strong/as that which we
create" and

"most poets are just big
tit-suckers:
accepting readings
taking university chairs
praying for tenure
writing books on poetic
technique and
giving lectures"

aka

"those chattering bitching
ninnies
who are so quick to insist...
that I am
not one of
them"

plus plenty of advice
for those who can't:

"read this to your class in contemporary
literature and tell them how easy it
is.

then send those children out to walk
the asphalt like the rest
of us"

meanwhile

"some are good at
cleaning the shit stains
out of the toilet;
others at
polishing the mirror
of their own vanity;
many are expert
at composing inoffensive
verse
or
sucking dick.

but while the drippings from
their thin minds
spill from their tongue

I'll continue to
type"

the unBukowski:

"mental charutos pimentel charutos
pimentel charuto entel charutos pimentel charutos
pimen..."

Say What? No wonder this voice
was wisely left for
surreal existential end of

"flowers floating on the lake.
New Jersey dogs in thrall...
do abandoned factories ever
scream at mid-
night?
I am warming up now as
bottle caps explode in my
brain.
I am giving off smoke.
I am really smoking now.
I am an Easter egg.
I am a paper clip....

as the world reaches
its final foolish conclusion
I realize that
nothing has been learned"

and as the "powers-that-be
persist/in tolerating
shit"
Bukowski plays
the "shuck and jive"
like horses at the track
a "pure folly to get slick about"
cuz ultimately
(he he he)
poetry's
"a lie."


Suicide Girls
by Missy Suicide
Feral House, L.A.
http://suicidegirls.com

This is a glossy sexy photobook
of saucy naked nudie Goths and
Gen Y hotties but

also a statement
of a shaven
piercéd
generation
tattooed Betty Booply

not nipple porn for wanking wetly
(though you could)
but the stuff of coffee
table yakage

ahhhhh sweet sassy lasses
how we love your boobs and asses
your bad grrrrl grins
and vixen visions

but next time leave yr poetry
at home.