This book, somewhat depressing, somewhat morbid, was a release of pure, unadulterated pain. Sounds just a touch dramatic, I know, therefore let me get back to the beginning: The poems, such as "Peeping Toms and Perverts," were written when I was ill because of the stigma that faces anyone with a mental health problem. I find that what I call "The Normals" are a darn site more dangerous than any psychotic or neurotic or another kind of label that you'd have me mention. The children's poems were done while sitting out in the sunshine, drinking some sweet alcohol and smoking some sweet cigarettes. So out came the pen and the paper, and Brent was born, admittedly alcohol induced. The truth is, I get more kick out of the children's ones than I do the deeper.
还没人写过短评呢