This is work which flaunts
its poetic affiliations with some panache. The opening epigraph from Duchamp
- "Arrhe est...art ce que merdre est... merde" - suggests the
workings of a cosmopolitan wit, suspicious of the superiority of "art"
over other games, and happy with a whiff of eau de toilette from the Dada
urinal. The text parenthesises a "Homage to Louise Bourgeois",
and gives succour to impressions that this is a post-Dada, post-surrealist
poetics, one that pooh-poohs the boy's own paper heroics otherwise familiar
from various admirers of Bataille and Deleuze. If the epigraph also arouses
expectations that the book will play with the poetic, idiomatic and vulgar
potential of dropped consonants and arty franglais, then readers are in
for a treat.