There are parts that seem to tell a quite interesting story – for instance, the book starts and ends with a father creating a ‘kind’ bomb, upon which the daughter murders the father – but this narrative is too fragmented, too much interspersed with incomprehensible lists and separate poems, and this makes it impossible for the reader to follow the narrator. The work contains shrapnels of keen insights, but they are written in too dream-like a manner: these insights appear within a jumble of incoherent messages, the narrator skipping from one to another without differentiating between the profound and the ridiculous. There are words that are repeated so often you’ll start either loving or detesting them. Dingbat. Assbeast. Boomba. And, for some reason, ‘vomit’ and ‘penis'.
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