Still surprised how funny and scatological this is. Which makes lines like
"assassins of all we wait to love / and lovers of our own shadowy assassins"
more more. I'm still waiting for someone to coherently explain the background to the production of this book. All I know is that it is epic and somewhat heartbreaking.
Peter Klappert took up the mantle of the modernists, borrowed a wisecracking bartender in post-WWI Paris as a narrator, and wrote a brilliant, scathing, and hilarious book of poetry, and no one noticed.