by Johannes Goransson on Mar.11, 2012
Excerpt from the letter:
Dear Olivia Cronk,
Your book, Skin Horse, is not a collection of poems. Stay with me, for I mean this in the best possible way, I swear. Olivia, your book, Skin Horse, is not a collection of poems, but a collection of tiny + terrifying moments of language. Your writing is syntactically-enchanted, your is writing is “very fucking chainlessly on golden floors.”
Many of these tiny + terrifying moments of language you’ve crafted take great delight in costuming themselves with bits + pieces swiped from a Great-Grandmama’s poison-apple-scented chiffarobe. Skin Horse is adorned in “untrue pearl buttons,” “wing glue, sunset skirts,” “gloves with the crust of lip,” + “brushing skulled velvet/and Veronique/turned blue paper blue.” Forgive me, this is going to sound dirtier than I mean it to, but, Olivia, I enjoy playing dress up with your Skin Horse.