Title: Pure Drivel
Product review: This book is nearly worthless. This is barely poetry, and attempts to label it as such defile the art form. While the suffering that Rollins was experiencing when he wrote these terrible tomes may be legitimate, his ability to express it is sophmoric at best. It's as if he almost tries too hard to capture something and falls flat on his face. The themes of burning and death are so recurrent, the book becomes redundant less than a quarter way through. There are some instances where the writing takes shape, but this is like salt and pepper against a bitter, repugnant main course. While Rollins' music (Black Flag, Rollins Band) seems to have some artistic relevance, this book is a far cry away from anything that deserves to be labeled as "art." I've read more impressive passages on stalls of port-o-johns.
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