Title: Puerile maunderings of a nearly talentless narcissist
Product review: These "poems" are so bad, so puerile, so schlocky, so self-indulgent, that it is no wonder that thousands of disturbed teenagers carry them around clutched to their chests. Morrison speaks for the all the disaffected but talentless millions who ever lived. His thoughts are their thoughts; his pointless word-salads apparently strike deep, thrilling chords of banality in the unthinking. Don't read the book; read the other reviews of it posted here, and you will get the full flavor of the Morrison "mystique."
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