Sernotti's poems are nothing if not intense. To hold this collection in your hands is to have been granted unlimited access to someone else's dream journal, a prospect of nasty voyeurism it is impossible to resist, and THAT is what will make you read it. I spied a comparison to Kerouac in an earlier review, but to make such a reference is to be left barking up the wrong Beat. These poems are more like the small-dose scattered shrapnel of an exploded Burroughs routine, rife with that same spirit of dark eroticism and Freudian anxieties of genital mutilation. When Sernotti holds us down at the wrists and forces us to eavesdrop on the casual exchanges taking place hourly, among the strangers who probably sit next to you on the bus, the effect is exquisitely unsettling, as though your grandmother has just caught you masturbating. By the time the reader reaches the holy trinity of "Three Kinds of Sadness," "Noah," and "Animals," the journey has already become the destination. These poems have a power to manipulate the reader. Sernotti will make you his priest, and then he will make you his whore. By the end, you feel nicely spent, but a little used, like after a good hard lay. Still, you sense he's just getting started, and Forked Tongue is merely foreplay.