Writer/poet (and previously ezine editor at Broken Pencil)-ed. Liz Worth’s Eleven:Eleven is an experiment in fiction that takes the reader on a surreal adventure through the mind of the nameless narrator obsessed with death and her companion Maxine, who is either her foil or herself.
Though at times I feel like I have no idea what I’m reading, and at others I’m not sure I want to hear what she’s saying, the words are lyrical and they draw me in deeper.
“I don’t remember what happened a week ago, but I remember the day my exhaustion hammered out a curve in my posture. I remember every cigarette drag and every sneer and smile and stare because they are the curves and cracks of my face, the spider webbing under my eyes.”
It’s saying goodbye to youth and choosing the way you want to go out: “Our bodies are made for self-destruction. We are in competition: Who will go the farthest, who will go first. It’s all about drinking more smoking the most drugging out falling down laying back laying flat getting laid getting fucked going down.” The words, if not the meaning, keep me reading to the last page. (Fiona Clarke)
Chapbook, Liz Worth, Trainwreck Press, ditchpoetry.com, $5