This book is a perversion. It is an outrage. It is a brazen, brassy madam. It is a wild zone of words out beyond where poetry is proper.
Maybe you’d rather that poetry be Motion respectable, Duffy correct, in the Tradition and delicate of feeling. Then turn your timid orbs from this bitch of a book, this blasphemous tirade of tumbling filthy images, for these language games are played for fun and not for profit, not to be lauded by the serious swan-quills of The Poetry Society and the prized and medalled Poets of Place and History. It’s a rollicking, bollocking here-comes-everybody festival of linguistic jouissance. It spurts, it writhes, it gasps, it comes, a quivering wordgasm. ‘Splish. Splosh. Gush.’ Indeed.
Are these the author’s loves, her lives, her lusts? Or life-greedy phantoms of horror and fuck-lust teeming in her dreaming brain that escaped onto the page? Maybe this is her
life all hidden in fantasy disguises, maybe none of it really happened, but it feels so fucking real, all experience and no innocence, the pages stinking of menses and shit and spunk, the meat of the world and the muck of the human real. Those pages dazzle too, suffused with the light of soaring spirits and writ with the puzzlements of strange adventures. This book is drenched with the effluvia of human bodies, streaming with liquid word-rivers that roil with internal rhythms like eddies and rivulets, rushing into tributaries of fluid assonances, waterfalls of alliterations. It’s a cheeky book, a kinky book, a fuck-with-your-head-and-tickle-your-loins book, an alchemy of beautiful blood and guts transformed into gold.
A priapic Eric Gill of a daddy, a horny magical octopus, waif girls and bad girls, girls who wanna have unspeakable kinds of fun, anarchic girls whose names begin with ‘A’, hidden narrators who may be telling lies about themselves or Trojan-horsing around with fictions that conceal the truth: these are the strange shades who populate Goring’s appalling, thrilling world. André Breton and Anais Nin fucked each other and spawned this bawling, cooing wordbaby, this book of dreams, this book of life. It’s a catechism of self-examination, an anti-Proustian journey into time that has not been lost but hangs unescaped from. These narrators talk to themselves, to you, to me, to men who are angelic monsters; Goring invites the reader to re-experience her experiences. I am tantalised by this possibility.
This book of poems or stories or whatever they are – but what do the niceties of form and genre matter here? – sings and swears and screams, raises welts and cicatrices of violent torments, shits tears of fury and frustration, hums with the heartbeat of witchy womanhood and big big universe-love. It laughs a lot, throatily, tossing its head back like a barroom babe encircled by admirers all agog. Like I said, it’s fucking real.
(The Zoom Zoom is published by Eight Cuts Gallery Press)