Bird turns her prescient eye on love and loss, and what emerges is like a
helicopter in fog…or a bejewelled Christmas sleigh, gliding triumphantly
through the contemporary aesthetic desert…this is at once an intelligent and
compelling fantasy of tenderness…heartbreaking and charged with
trees…without once sacrificing the forest…Whether you are masturbating
luxuriously in your parent's sleepout…or pushing a pork roast home in a
vintage pram…this is the book for you…heroically and compulsively
stupid…whipping you once again into medieval sunlight. But you know, do
whatever you like lol
Author Biography
‘I think there's a pretty strong case which suggests Hera Lindsay Bird is
like the most exciting newish poet in NZ.’ -Steve Braunias ‘Hi, dear, have
to say how much we enjoyed, if right word, the Hate poem. Really made us think,
loved the line about the ancient cannon.’ -text message from Ashleigh
Young's mum
