While I certainly don’t object to the formal imagery in Leaman’s poetry, and I don’t mind the fact that this book is made up of untitled bits of things that move into each other without any apparent ordering, I do find Leaman’s style oppressive when coupled with his thematic immaturity. I mean, malaise and alienation are pretty much the stock and trade of the young writer, but they come across as pretty annoying when they are prettied up and bandied about and made to stand-in for some kind of deeper insight. In Bottle, bar stools teeter, strangers are too shy to meet, needles make us comfortably numb and the city is “so dirty/I’ve got to wash it away.” But so what? Leaman’s writing only adds to our apathy. He needs to confront his disaffection, strip it of artifice, make it real. (HN)
chapbook / main creator: David Leaman / $3 / 3555 Cote Des Neiges, #712, Montreal, QC, H3H 1V2