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Imagine finding a dusty, water-stained journal in an abandoned subway station before realizing it was written 20 years in the future. No robot maids or air cars, just capital L, "Life," through X-ray specs, and don't hold the band-aid ripping or bemused outrage. There are a thousand novels herein. (Buddy Woodward)
Time for My Generation to DIE from poet and balladeer E.D. Evans takes no prisoners. Evans uses her sparkling, prickly verse to pluck out mournful, bleak, and violent tableaus. Each of her poems—Ballad or not—Is deserving of a hard-strummed guitar and some harmonica across the bridge. This is distilled country and southwestern, sans redemption, sans chaser.
(Sean McCollum)
Here we will find necessary truths—Honest evidence of a transformative journey, amusing and disturbing, disarming with a hip, wry wit of personal insight. A reminder of poetry as event, where you will find your lips mouthing the vowels. A nod, and a wink never too far behind, Evans' artistry holds your hand through the odyssey and the rhyme.
(Henry Long)
Pssssst! Hey, You, Yes... YOUR Generation (whichever that may be).
Are you looking for:
Saccharin love sonnets? Maudlin two-line musings? Droning co-opted hip hop lyrics? - You won't find that here.
Do you desire:
Trite overbaked sentiment? Foolish masturbatory banter? Inscrutable word salad? - You won't find that here.
What you WILL find here is an epitaph, of sorts, laced with:
Dark humor, Snide observations, Stark realism, Morbid landscapes, Gamblers and junkies & Punks and thugs.
An epitaph for MY forgotten generation - Generation Jones - who:
Relish obscure banalities, Prefer pencil on paper, Revel in audacious irony and Eschews 'the good old days'.
It's no longer time for any of these things.
It's simply:
... Time for my Generation to Die.
E.D. Evans is a lifelong poet. Having spent time in both London and New York during Punk's original heyday in the late '70s and early '80s...
Time for My Generation to DIE from poet and balladeer E.D. Evans takes no prisoners. Evans uses her sparkling, prickly verse to pluck out mournful, bleak, and violent tableaus. Each of her poems—Ballad or not—Is deserving of a hard-strummed guitar and some harmonica across the bridge. This is distilled country and southwestern, sans redemption, sans chaser.
(Sean McCollum)
Here we will find necessary truths—Honest evidence of a transformative journey, amusing and disturbing, disarming with a hip, wry wit of personal insight. A reminder of poetry as event, where you will find your lips mouthing the vowels. A nod, and a wink never too far behind, Evans' artistry holds your hand through the odyssey and the rhyme.
(Henry Long)
Pssssst! Hey, You, Yes... YOUR Generation (whichever that may be).
Are you looking for:
Saccharin love sonnets? Maudlin two-line musings? Droning co-opted hip hop lyrics? - You won't find that here.
Do you desire:
Trite overbaked sentiment? Foolish masturbatory banter? Inscrutable word salad? - You won't find that here.
What you WILL find here is an epitaph, of sorts, laced with:
Dark humor, Snide observations, Stark realism, Morbid landscapes, Gamblers and junkies & Punks and thugs.
An epitaph for MY forgotten generation - Generation Jones - who:
Relish obscure banalities, Prefer pencil on paper, Revel in audacious irony and Eschews 'the good old days'.
It's no longer time for any of these things.
It's simply:
... Time for my Generation to Die.
E.D. Evans is a lifelong poet. Having spent time in both London and New York during Punk's original heyday in the late '70s and early '80s...
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