by Johannes Goransson on Apr.25, 2012
Heavy under famous gorges, you poison the soil to commandeer my arrival! — Let’s broil our entrails. Let the violence of Venus dupe my member toward regal deformities. Just shuffle my pus. Call hell our eternal puke. Voyage to be fat and bust our comments on demonic foam!
He’s also interviewed by Columbia Review here.
Excerpt (in which he mentions some Montevidayoans):
Full emphasis on revision, hurt the piece. I want fuckscapes cut so bad it thinks sleep’s too dark. I’m trying for these poems as Lara Glenum’s mashed with and warring Gordon Massman’s offspring’d with Blake Butler’s heart, Danielle Pafunda’s knife, and Johannes Göransson is Lord. I was lucky to land David Peak and Ben Spivey’s Blue Square Press. Ken Baumann’s cover is the perfect beauty. Being amalgam, my poems here can’t dominate from their lack. It’s through hatred alone that they anywhere become. My voice wants for hate from rejected worship, weak and simple, scat about the clothes. Nothing can be dominated from below. The violent tone, as it is much meant, and therefore unfriendly reading, comes from a past of having too much loved the wrong people. All movement means porno. Do cumshots subordinate their landing space? I always fluke my origin where without casting. Ah, but if poetry could retaliate.