Adam Moursy was born in New York City in 1986. He’s lived in and around the city ever since, with much of his adult life influenced by street culture, heavy drinking, and overall debauchery. To no surprise, he writes what he knows — hard-hitting anecdotes from both the past and present, without many frills. He was first published at the age of twenty-four, and has appeared in several lit mags and poetry journals in the US and UK.
A witty and insightful look at the daily (and moreover nightly) carousals of its author, Slinking Under The Electric Bulb is the first collection of prose poetry by Adam Moursy. From chance encounters with loose women, to struggles with both money and the tameless characters of New York City’s underbelly, the writing remains fast-paced and blunt, in a sort of hit-and-run fashion.
I’ve asked myself that question more times than I can remember. I can’t stand reading it, can’t stand the stigma that comes along with it ‒ so why write it? Is it for the quick fix? A means of dealing with a terribly short attention span? Or for the simple appreciation of having a good bathroom book on hand?
The answer is D: All of the Above. But it’s so much more.
Poetry needs a new voice.
Whitman had it. Neruda carried the torch. Bukowski killed it. Now what?
Another change, of course. Poems for the modern day man ‒ void of rhyme and decorum, of senseless fluff. In an age where sex drives us all, where rebellion is openly tolerated (and even encouraged), it’s amazing that the poets of today, both young and old alike, still stick to the formulas of their more than century-old predecessors. We know that the trees are there, that love is a blade, and that the sun rises and sets for each and every one of us, but what about what really goes on? What about that hemorrhoid you’re sitting on, that blowjob you got last week, or hell, even that god-awful guy or girl you met through OkCupid? Here we are, living by the social network, by GPS and text messaging, by designer drugs and complex drinks and convenient everything. We don’t even have pubic hair. So, when will poetry finally catch up?
That’s where I come in. I’ve planted a seed, and it’s called Slinking Under The Electric Bulb. Take the title head-on: I drank and fucked and did so by today’s standards, like a rogue cat creeping down some dingy street of terror, and made sure to write about it while not holding anything back. Yes, it’s plenty vulgar. And, no, you probably won’t regard me as anything more than your dirty little secret. But you will relate, whoever you are, as there’s something in there for everyone ‒ from being held-up at gunpoint, to pop culture and literary references, to living in a broken-down dump in an otherwise flourishing Brooklyn neighborhood. If you’ve already forgotten that it’s a poetry book, you’re on the right track, since each piece reads more like a very, very short story set to free verse. Based on the feedback I’ve gotten thus far, you really can’t go wrong by giving it a whirl, and it’s one you’ll want to go back to again and again.
All in all, take note of what’s going on here, and know that poetry isn’t dead. Also, be on the lookout for me, as I already have a second title in the works and I’m not stopping there. I may not go down in history, but I will go down as the first person to start a piece with “ass-to-mouth.”
Thanks Adam. I know about irresistible urges and I’m glad you are addressing the forbidden. I wish you well.
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