"This is the hole. I go there On Sundays. I go there after dinners
Before school --- mid work day After lunch with the boss Mondays
The hole has Hangover coal To paint my face to smudge In the acne,
rosacea, colloscum" "Alcoholic Betty, we know the story. She died.
Or did she? Through the "hours of penance" that is alcoholism and
its attendant chaos-math and aftermaths, recurrent false dawns and
falsetto damnations, Elisabeth Horan forges a descent/ascension
pendulum of fire poems that are not "a map to martyrdom" - but a
call to "go nuclear - Repose. Repose." Alcoholic Betty, we know the
story. She died. She died so she could live." - Miggy Angel, Poet,
Author and Performer "Horan pulls no punches with this incredibly
personal, raw, apologetic expose. This is writing from the very
base of the gut, which begins with the most difficult of
confessions, and ends with a reformed character "standing
unafraid." A very visceral, at times moving read, where the reader
shares the journey of an addict fighting their instincts and
reaching for something more." - Paul Robert Mullen, Poet
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