Little Aster
joana meirim
The butcher’s is ill-suited to poetry — this assumption is so evident we forget to question it (which immediately places us outside poetry, since the questioning of evidence is the poetic gesture par excellence), excluding from our poetic horizons not just the smell of blood and the martyrdom of steak, but all of those complex rituals of food manipulation and techniques of killing crucial to the success of televised police narratives, invariably serial.
Read More