Sometimes I wish raptors still existed so I could get disemboweled and finally spill my guts to someone

Long titles, longer poems. Lots of poems. Lots of rants. This is Spencer Butt–a 25-year-old poet and the singer of the Secret Handsnakes–who if given the opportunity to design his own welcome mat, would probably have so much to say it would become an area rug. There are many mouthfuls here. Mr. Butt’s poems poke fun at everything except his own last name. And his long-winded, wit-ridden poems are more often than not the subject of his adventures around the city. One poem reveals his outing to a concert where “everyone was 40plus,” another shows that he likes to treat women like “24 hour buffets.” While he’s self-admittedly immature at points, this is an admirable character worth exploring (please see “I wish I was a poet” where he talks about a twirling dance major girlfriend with great pirouettes, and insists “I want to spread your legs apart with a sense of wonder, as if I’m opening the closet to Narnia”). This saccharine, boyish hornball loves dipping his ink in the days long gone, when he’s not pouncing on love, he’s twisting 1980s trivia. On the dedication page, he thanks his mom, Trinity Bellwoods Park and Satan. Someone please, roll out the red carpet. (Nadja Sayej)

spencer.butt@gmail.com

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