A lyrical wilderness of power, wealth, leisure and desire, the poems of Country Club freewheel across state lines with panache and flagrant feeling. In this bold debut from Andy McGuire, all passions – even unpleasant ones – stare down the barrel of a world in which freedom is the fifty-first state, and love is the eleventh province.
The manatee wades out of the water and roars at the sightseers
That one of them owes him a drink.
From the beach below the boardwalk, cock-a-doodle-do!
What about a Christmas bowlcut over by the mangrove manatees!
Because in Florida there are Floridians
And they are born Floridians at large.
Can’t stop its own ocean.
The oceans' motions make mistakes.
Some of the dying are unspeakable
In their thinness, poorly disguised meat mannequins.
The mosquitoes are so big
They bleed you like a pig.
Being eaten alive is an acquired taste.
'Country Club is a balls-out, tits-up, what-the-fuck-are-we-all-doing-here romp through 30-something ennui.'