A celebration of the subversive power of the grotesque in a world where nothing else helps. Not even prayer.
There are things in life that can only be met with rhyme. The rapid decay of everything except yourself. Drizzle, neon light, necrophilia: Sibylle Berg's poems are hymns to futility. There is no salvation for the characters that populate them.
And yet you can't get enough of these sometimes bitter, sometimes compassionate, but always furiously witty texts, whose ballad sound has relentless earworm potential.
