Monday, 2 March 2015
Gary J. Shipley’s poems are besotted missives from the orangier regions of a burnt mind. Their tetherish angularity and bestial drool make me harder than a priest in a kindergarten. The world is a void and there are no more prophets left to serve. There is still vision, however, and Shipley’s is one we might all surrender to. As Ol’ Dirty Bastard once said, “Y’all can’t use the word ‘napkin.’”
– Travis Jeppesen, author of The Suiciders
Gary J. Shipley has performed a limit-experience for the unafraid, for the unhampered ballsy world immutable from our big, big casket.
– Sean Kilpatrick, author of Fuckscapes
Gary J. Shipley isn’t fucking around (“They’ll ask me to smile. I won’t.”) because he knows we’re all both killers and abattoir meat and in Gumma Homo he’s in and inside your face about this. The only natural thing then (“nothing is ever faked”) is to “swallow the sun,” “breathe the buried dog” and make “the accident berserk with nails.” But there’s nothing even heroic about these “dead babies” that are “lab grown/ in tinned sequences.” Gumma Homo is an industrial Grendel, jaded and zombie, rising daily out of a wasted, mechanical bed, to gleet over us all, the sleeping Geats. Unrelenting, uncompromising, and endlessly surprising in its language and imagery… I'm in love with this book!
– Rauan Klassnik, author of Holy Land