"I am writing this to be as wrong as possible to you."
Sex is a product of the brain, and despite the blatantly sexual iconography of Andrew King's poems, there's no question that his pieces are exercises in the intellectual realm. He discusses the sexuality of shame, the violence of fucking, and the lewdness of conversation with a shrewd and careful tone that illustrates clearly the loneliness of knowledge and wisdom. His poems reflect on the carnal, and wind up with something wholly chaste.
Andrew says, "I can't call myself a writer. I'm not a plagiarist, either, so obviously I write, but I'm a bit of a dilettante. Scientific academia is my full-time gig right now.
"Some people who are worth listening will tell you that the ability to write well requires some reasonable amount of brute force. My writing is nascent, hopefully moving in some direction.
"I am fifty-four years, to the day, younger than Allen Ginsberg, but am no more a hysterical lunatic than a true poet, even though both ideas may be meaningless. Anyway, I live in Toronto, but I'm owned by the West. I'll probably stay in school until I get bored or run out of funding. If you think that anything I write is worth comment or criticism, reach me at firstname.lastname@example.org. More words are at www.cs.utoronto.ca/~king/words."
Andrew's works here at Unlikely Stories are:
as in an action against somebody