Thursday, September 11, 2008

Rob Plath - a little hobo

I just received the chapbooks by Rob Plath and Misti Rainwater-Lites from deadbeatpress. Great books and I shall post a review of Rob today, Misti tomorrow. Good luck with the hurricane by the way, Misti.

edit: Now I'm really pissed off, putting it on the shelf in the Plath section (male), I noticed I already bought that fucker from Rob but obviously forgot to read the fucker, let alone review. Never mind. Now I can read it twice.

there's a little hobo in my heart who forever gives the finger to humanity

RS Plath/ black book madnessĹštore.html
chapbook review by David McLean

This new product on the consumer market is one of many by Mr Plath, and it's one of his best. I love the thought of the demons in his head scrawling their anti-life slogans on his skull and making him write poems. And though Rob presents a world view that is pretty negative there is positivity here, he dreams in his nasty apartment, he sees more beauty in his world than other “aesthetes” see in their fucking sunsets and mother-loving glimpses into dead granny's eye.

Awareness of death and the feel of the weight of the sweaty balled feet pressing down on the stolid concrete, knowledge of how unspeakable our insides are, the stupid bones and the flesh around them just waiting to decay, that's what gives Plath the power to write words that are not a complacent mantra that basically reinforces the capitalist heterosexist status quo. And there is a certain moral superiority in this way of looking at things, no illusions, “my brain is an uncleaned latrine.” His poetry “knots nooses out of rainbows and hangs unicorns.”

Ultimately, the impetus behind the verse is existential. I mean, life is shit, the human condition sucks, we die and that's forever, everybody wants to survive death and nobody will. Rob is smart enough to see that one can take a certain satisfaction in phlegmatically coughing up a nice lump of phlegm. It's better than nothing. Not a lot, but it is.

There should be more corpses in poems, or at least nasty little hobos who know that their future is as a corpse. And nothing more. Angels are just there for the raping, for the devils' entertainment. Nice one Rob. It's on sale at Do buy it.