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By Douglas Mowbray
Apr 14, 2011
Did you every hear a tombstone laughing? Did you ever see a drunk drunk and orderly? Did you ever see a polo shirt rape a khakis? Sometimes those what-you-think-are throwaway dream lines are the only waking tributes worth a tattoo. What is lemon doing in my stout, you say? Christophe reconnoiters: what is your snout doing in my lemon patch, because limes have taken residence in all the trees and the lemons overtake the potatoes and the Irish are coming all over again, and this time they’ll be basking in the basement with model trains instead of bruising their claddaghs with the soap-deprived Chinese rail tie bangers. Christophe Casamassima dries out Pound’s wet, black boughs and makes ink from an Italian aproposy in his new collection, Untilted. You will twit and book your face status with this book’s title, and most of you will call it Untitled, but it has a title, and it is actually this: United in the Tilt of Clamorous Precise Word Pornography, or, in other words, and not for... More > example, The Frequency of Deluptous Delinquency and Deleterious Dragon Douching. Because who hasn’t encountered a smelly dragon? Or an aromatic draught of Simcoe hops, poured one after another five, caterwauling into an espousal of the vacuous cumin of substituting all f’s for gh’s and not letting anyone tell you that this is for the pigeons, because you know what, pigeons are smarter than the average poem, and Christophe’s poems are smatter more than the audacious pogroms of political knife-wielding. These are not haiku nor koan nor imagiste nor punchline nor parable nor palatial genuflection—these are these and you’ve been reading too many those, so here’s your chance to remember language and forget word mouthing. Enjoy and Slainte!< Less