Dav Crabes

With prose going for the deep end, there’s a risk to the dice-rolling density. When it feels like tumbling down a concrete staircase: disorientating, immediate, confusing, with the occasional point where the sightline latches onto a distinct image, more vivid for being in that context, for the awareness of the imminent return to terrible revolutions.

Poetical and forensic language, messed up and studied, forensic and dissecting, so much so it cycles through deconstruction to a point where atomisation is a farce. The ennui in the death of innuendo, leaving innuendo itself impotent :P… (meer)