This is twenty-first century Dadaist poetry about airline accountants, etc. An artist's book of very strange uselessnesses. Where iPhone photography meets Chinese-manufactured robot squirrels. A noir world where something big but invisible has gone terribly wrong. Reality at a slant. Where love is an act of chemistry and the Loch Ness Monster is missing. It is not a novel. And it sure as shit ain't actually poetry. This is what writing looks like...