One of the first things that may strike you about this book is the apparent lack of a point of view. In this poetic style of lines-not-sentences, there is no distinguished narrator. There is no perceivable person speaking. Yet on the first page alone, there are several “hahaha”s interjected, which makes this text with no discernable narrator disorienting and slightly creepy.
liars hahaha Scheele and them as they
macron pleurae such was the spirit of the king
proportion until the objection to the fan is
mere MHz the first thing that was said when it
went down the fan fell on him worthy of
E. Nesbit what the disloyal kuku madman deserves it is
more powerful than the amicable as well as
wonderful avatar God willing the most
Unfortunately, almost immediately after reading the text, the words and content are mostly forgettable. The elusive flavor is gone, and the only remaining thing is the memory of the taste. The book, like many others that focus on style over content, resounds more in its experience rather than its meaning. I was left with the confusion of the words and lines, but utterly without a context to grip onto and take from it. Nonetheless, the in-the-moment-ness of the words, seemingly strung together without want for structure, made for an exciting if confusing read. When Empurpled is a food that does not fill you up. You know no more at the end than you do at the beginning. This book may be an earnest attempt at avant-garde. It may be an active attempt and creating something that seeks to mystify itself so as not to be defined. Or it may be a new breed of trolling for the literary-minded internet age – as in, maybe the point is to have no point. With this style of intentional unintelligibility, only the author can know one way or the other. Everyone else can only guess. It may be like the poetic collaboration of Andy Kaufman and William S. Burroughs while narcotized on C-SPAN and 4chan. Maybe we’re not supposed to get it. But whether or not that is the case, When Empurpled is both exhilarating and perplexing.
Poem of the Week
who have experienced
on a large
i tell raif
i think my
might be dead
haven't seen her
& her car hasn't moved
for two weeks.
you would smell it
passing me a plate
of triangular shaped bread
slathered in jam.
Story of the Week
DARLEEN SQUEELED into the empty spot as soon as the gleaming white Mercedes pulled out. "We got lucky," she told Montana. "Even on a Monday night, this lot is killer."
Montana rolled her big blue eyes. "Whatever."
The eleven year old had better things to do, like text her friends. Incessantly, as if she had a tic. The kid hadn't wanted to shop tonight, but Darleen insisted. This was their first Christmas without Paulie and the girls needed to stick together. Darleen's ex had been nasty lately and mediation had hit a cement wall. Montana wasn't aware how dangerously close they were to losing access to Paulie's vast and unreported wealth.
Montana sighed dramatically as she yanked open the door of the Porsche Cayenne and tumbled out. She didn't pause in her texting.
Darlene checked her face in the rearview mirror. The most recent fat transfer had been wildly successful. She loved her new lips. Grabbing her Gucci bag, she hopped out of the front seat.
Her daughter trailed her into the mall, thumbs flashing on her phone keypad.