The world is a confusing, terrifying, exciting, sexy, smelly place that makes simultaneously more and less sense the more time you spend in it.
This collection of poems, poem-shaped rants, rant-shaped monologues, whimsical asides, imagined conversations, mutated anecdotes and existentially terrified howls at the moon is about as pure a manifestation of Stef Mo’s relationship with the world as you could hope to experience, short of piloting a miniaturised submarine directly into his brain.
This, incidentally, will be the delivery mechanism for his second collection, except he’ll be in the submarine and it’ll be your brain.
