In the misanthropic spirit of Genet, these poems enact a "private genocide" toward American consumerism and mass culture, which speeds out of control while poets and prophets, once provacateurs, complacently sing jingles. Goransson is angry, vulgar, and sometimes crude as he parodies and prods contemporary American poetry's insularity and factionalism-- still hung up on Modernism. Beauty becomes a "riddle doused in gasoline" in this epic sequence, often interrupted by Godard-like flashes of mottos and pithy jokes, mixes surrealist impulses with L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E-esqe prosody. Notions of genre are demolished and language itself seems relegated to a wildly impossible epistemological space that is something akin to "whispering in hammers" or "speaking in silhouettes." The poet satirizes, prods, pastiches, and "grotesquerizes" until every assumption we have, cultural or personal, crumbles in his re-invented idiom.
