Reading Dean Young’s poetry is a rush – sugar, adrenaline, pick your intoxicant. With an energetic presenter (is Young a good reader of his own work, I wonder?) the dazzling wordplay and startling juxtapositions of the dramatic and the mundane would be stunning to listen to. Somehow, though, just like a sugar or adrenaline rush, when it’s over, you’re left drained and a bit bewildered, retaining little or nothing. I’m not sure why Young’s words don’t stick, but at the same time I know I’ll be happy to revisit them.

I do love this, from the poem “Self Search”:

Self, I’m stuck with you
but the notion of becoming unglued is too much
and brings tears that come, of course,
because you’re such a schmuck. Some days
you crash about raving how ignored you are
then why the hell don’t people let you alone
but I’ve seen you too perform small
nobilities, selfless generosities.
One way or the other, we’ll part I’m sure
and you’ll take me with you?