Not Acceptable

In the current issue of London Review of Books there is a poem (“Istanbul”) by Friederick Seidel with various ludicrous-amusing rhyme schemes, such as the ABAB of “From Claridge’s and London I have come / To the holy city of Byzantium / To see Ayasofya. / I see the Blue Mosque and I see a / …”. Then, tucked into the issue’s rear pages, is a rather fawning review of Seidel’s oeuvre by some young whippersnapper who likes rather too much to quote all the nasty bits (e.g. “The smell of sperm on the edge of the axe”). Well, whatever, a large swath of Siedel’s egg is nasty bits (e.g. “The smell of sperm on the edge of the axe”), but then the reviewer gives us this ludicrous-unamusing pronouncement:

Seidel, despite all his rage, is just one more rat in a cage.

Melancholy and my infinite sadness indeed!

Now you may say, Hey, cut the author some benefit, maybe his style is on the next level. Then I’d respond to you with a run-on sentence, saying, No, we know badman has poor taste because he also remarks that the new volume of collected works is ugly (“garish”) when in fact it is decidedly solid looking, and when I say decidedly I mean decided on Baby Tristan’s birthday when he awoke to find a siamese dream twin pairing of copies given to hims by his stylish girlfriend and taste-having sister, and he in turn and in kindness gave the redundant copy to his friend I, so are you, badman, looking into my gift’s mouth? Well I beg your pardon.

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