Review of Andrew Taylor's "Metaphysics of a Vegetarian Supper."

I don't write reviews. Normally,
I prefer one line sentences as a nod to one single poem. Like, "This poem
makes me want to run outside and tweak my own nipples until they bleed,"
or, "This poem makes me feel like I literally just shoved one hundred
dildos up my ass."-These are all compliments, by the way.
How the fuck
do I review a bunch of fucking poems when each one does some different
shit to different parts of my body?
I do know the following about The
Metaphysics..." It makes me a. want to travel all around the world with
Andrew, wearing nothing but a pink bathrobe, b. want to pick flowers for
him, before or after making barbaric love to him or his twin or someone in
his family, and c. wonder if he could write his next book about me, and
only me, and no one else.
There are two types of men writers right
now, and I am sure various versions of both. The kind that scare you, and
the kind that nurture you. But no one else has completely mastered both.
Reading the Metaphysics is like being donkey punched and falling face
first onto a bed of jello, flowers, and pillows (the expensive kind, not
the shitty two dollar pillows i saw at Target the other day.)

From
"She Strokes Bees," On the telephone mast
starlings gather
are they being fried slowly
or is it
convenient parking?

I am being stabbed in my chest, and
kissed very sweetly on the top of my head.

From, "Empty Ring
Finger, " come on you can dance I’m
waiting
with modern modes of
communication

Stepped on my fucking foot while he held my
hand.

"Medicine Bottle," Don’t
drink the medicine
The ether will drag you into
an Alaskan
pipeline of addiction

He just left me. He just left me. But
he bought me the prettiest necklace. To remember him by.

If I were
going to start a circle jerk of poets, I would want Andrew on my right or
left, or directly across from me. The woman in me is in love with Andrew Taylor. The girl in me
has a huge crush on Andrew Taylor. The poet in me is jealous of Andrew
Taylor. The man in me wants to bend Andrew Taylor over a bed and make him
my bitch.

I like pretty words. These were all pretty words.