Review Pretty Red Berries
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This is one of Misti Rainwater-Lites' books she put together herself, as a foretaste of the two forthcoming full lengths she has in the pipeline, and it's a big bastard. It's begin reviewed on the basis of a doc file since the post is so slow and I am in Thule.
There are classic MR-W lines here, very tasty, like
On the Virgin Mary postcard I scribbled that God is spitting in my cunt soup and pissing in my sea of free. I am free like any big tit turquoise tress sailor tease mermaid.
Classic elements are here like the Evan Stone obsession, and an obsession like a lingering touch over icons of seedy American pop culture, the attributes of a Lites poem, bands and bidets, the whole measured immesurability of the enumerated candies and perversities that constitute life today.
The emptiness in Misti's poems is the void that probably hangs out in palaces as much a sin trailers, but it is sometimes filled in trailers, if not in palaces, with a lot of love – this is from a poem to her ankle-biter Jackson:
someday you will hate me, I know
for loving you too much
or not nearly enough
for showing pictures of you in bunny ears
and a diaper
to whoever makes your tummy flop
for not being the one who can save you
from anonymous motel room
empty vodka bottle agony
my womb could only hold you
for nine months
and that is
but today you love me
because I am the first face
when you cry for comfort
and I am the bearer of bottles
and teething tablets
and toys that make funny noises
today our love is perfect
in its fullness
and I hope someday the old man you
will somehow remember the baby you
wrapped up in an imperfect woman’s
Lots of the book are raw like life is, there are very cool sex poems, since fucking is only gross when properly executed, and i notice that she has dead voyeurs too
voyeurs make me exceedingly nervous.
especially the ones i cannot see.
i am talking about ghosts.
i can smell them.
what scares me
is that they
can smell me
The point of the book is that there's not enoughs sunshine for all of us, but the insanity and the misery, the frenzied cunt-hunting and drink and drugs are at least a distraction, they are keeping your ghoulish mind alive, it's not heaven but it's fine for a few decades, then you die. Misti is not actually negative about this, the darkest parts are those that reflect the religion that suckered her for a while.
In conclusion, Misti at one point asks us “categorize my poems” - that's easy, they're fucking masterpieces.