Filthy Lies
Filthy Lies is absorbing like a guilty fuck in your parents’ guest room, or a secret obsession with the best violinist in your chamber orchestra. The zine comes with a wet-nap moist towelette, and you’ll be tempted to use it after reading the poems inside. It’s sandwiched between: “pussy slide perfect rock snatch cream strip frantic…” on the inside front cover and the back: “you slip inside and for an instant I am hole, I mean, I am whole. Full. Filled. My eyes lose focus and roll back into my lids…” alexis o’hara tackles life – from male stripers, to drugs, to ferries, to fashion – with consistent ease and absolutely no remorse. She swirls round and round like a lollipop. She creates the illusion of thick smoke. She calls it straight and dirty, “I sent my nostrils on a search party. I had to find a trace, some flashback of your face…” These ferocious poems have titles like “Macgyver’s Sex Toys”, “True Love”, “Thirteen”, and “Eveready”. When I envision o’hara, never having met her, I see tired stars and red lipstick. (EPW)