Reaching out across the bleached white veldt to infect the flickering screen with a moment of insanity, Teri Louise Kelly’s short story/poetry anthology ‘Punktuation’ is a literary oil slick drifting slowly toward the burning shore. Having already deconstructed her “art form” with a veritable glossary of bastardisations, incestuous syntax and gob-spitting grammar, the maniacal Ms Kelly continually has her execution stayed. There is no way of telling fact from fiction, poetry from toilet door graffiti, she claims, and in ‘Punktuation’ she drifts (seemingly aimlessly) from subject matter to subject matter as casually as a rent boy wandering Piccadilly Circus looking for a buyer. There are many reasons why generations to come will admire and appreciate her decadent candour, today however she still has rent to pay, demons to slay and dependency issues to address. She is, much like her hero Brendan Behan, a drinker with writing problems. Those problems become obvious to even the most deranged reader the moment he, she or it, decides they feel lucky and steps into ‘Punktuation’ class with Fraulein Kelly. Which is all well and good in context . . . if there was one, or even a sub one. Punk is dead, it ended at Winterland, the ethos survives, although wholly diluted and incorporated, punk is not beat, never was, thus endeth the lesson. All of which brings us nicely around to the e-revolution, the one that won't be televised as the president gets his dick sucked. It's revolution and evolution, publishing anarchy and blogging blasphemy, every man, woman, child, android and canine will soon be a published writer, many will be published writers and publishers, the wolf is not merely amongst the sheep but is already tearing the flock to pieces - the shepherd having long since fled to Alcatraz. The son of Simian has returned to the planet of sound with a vengeance. Ms Kelly of course, erstwhile as she undoubtedly is, really doesn't give a flying fuck about any of it - another dreary re-make of planet of the apes or not . . . she of the juice being wired for both sound and vision, as distorted and blurred as they are. Deep in the fray she regularly hunts down avenues of opportunism, some say that there's nothing she wouldn't sell in pursuit of infamy, and most usually those saying such place the emphasis squarely on the word nothing. She has as well, the distinguished honour have having chatted to the great gonzo himself via e-mail before he took himself off to Papa-land with a double bang. Then there's the poetry . . . "Punktuation isn't a book, it's a back-alley street brawl, with breaks for poetry." she can't be god she's fingered other girls quite openly in public urinals writes her name on scarred arms bills herself as the quick fix to dr fix never prays consumes hunts and gathers trinkets made from pubic hair you won't find it in revelations they edited that bit out the good fathers & their bad seeds generation AD1329 And so? So what? Does any of it matter? Will she take the same creek road to redemption? Probably not, this isn't even a blog, it's an advertisment, flagrant and fragrant, another tack in the carpet along the hall of miss adventure, the kind of ride reserved for the severely destabilised and fully dependent. There's no gravity here my friend, no need to grab a chair, just let go. On a long enough timeline everyone's chance of survival drops to zero - good advice, think about the big fat nought at the end of everything, when there is no other permutation that can be run . . . once you've gone you can never return. Unless you're a space ape or Howard Hughes. The game's afoot, and make no mistake, she's playing for keeps. They blew up the chicken man in philly last nite, blew up his house too . . . feathers every damned where, all along the boardwalk, looked just like the morning after mardi gras, she said, as she punktuated. PUNKTUATION AVAILABLE @ ALL GOOD (& SOME NOT SO GOOD) E-OUTLETS NOW
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