Time For My Generation To DIE - Evans, E D
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Time For My Generation To DIE by E.D. Evans Imagine finding a dusty, water-stained journal in an abandoned subway station before realizing it was written 20 years in the future. No robot maids or air cars, just capital L, "Life," through X-ray specs, and don't hold the band-aid ripping or bemused outrage. There are a thousand novels herein. (Buddy Woodward) Time for My Generation to DIE from poet and balladeer E.D. Evans takes no prisoners. Evans uses her sparkling, prickly verse to pluck out mournful, bleak, and violent tableaus. Each of her poems-Ballad or not-Is deserving of a hard-strummed…mehr

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Time For My Generation To DIE by E.D. Evans Imagine finding a dusty, water-stained journal in an abandoned subway station before realizing it was written 20 years in the future. No robot maids or air cars, just capital L, "Life," through X-ray specs, and don't hold the band-aid ripping or bemused outrage. There are a thousand novels herein. (Buddy Woodward) Time for My Generation to DIE from poet and balladeer E.D. Evans takes no prisoners. Evans uses her sparkling, prickly verse to pluck out mournful, bleak, and violent tableaus. Each of her poems-Ballad or not-Is deserving of a hard-strummed guitar and some harmonica across the bridge. This is distilled country and southwestern, sans redemption, sans chaser. (Sean McCollum) Here we will find necessary truths-Honest evidence of a transformative journey, amusing and disturbing, disarming with a hip, wry wit of personal insight. A reminder of poetry as event, where you will find your lips mouthing the vowels. A nod, and a wink never too far behind, Evans' artistry holds your hand through the odyssey and the rhyme. (Henry Long) Pssssst! Hey, You, Yes....YOUR Generation (whichever that may be). Are you looking for: Saccharin love sonnets? Maudlin two-line musings? Droning co-opted hip hop lyrics? - You won't find that here. Do you desire: Trite overbaked sentiment? Foolish masturbatory banter? Inscrutable word salad? - You won't find that here. What you WILL find here is an epitaph, of sorts, laced with: Dark humor, Snide observations, Stark realism, Morbid landscapes, Gamblers and junkies & Punks and thugs. An epitaph for MY forgotten generation - Generation Jones - who: Relish obscure banalities, Prefer pencil on paper, Revel in audacious irony and Eschews 'the good old days'. It's no longer time for any of these things. It's simply: ... Time for my Generation to Die.
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Autorenporträt
E.D. Evans is a lifelong poet. Having spent time in both London and New York during Punk's original heyday in the late '70s and early '80s, Evans has always comfortably floated between those two worlds. She became deeply entrenched in New York's East Village art scene that was so pervasive in the 1980s/90s, spending years performing spoken word poetry at venues such as The Nuyorican Poets Café, Brownies, and The Knitting Factory. Her Instagram handle, @originalpunkster11 says it all. "I've always liked to tell dark stories that rhyme, so hopefully my words translate into the ethos and audience for which it is intended. What a lot of young Punks today may not realize is that even back in the day, Punk was always about acceptance and inclusion. We were what we were-basically a bunch of creative misfits looking for our tribe, with a great soundtrack to boot. And when we found each other, it was a glorious thing." Evans currently features her spoken word on social media platforms, and is collaborating with an array of visual artists and musicians to bring her poetry to life. She lives in the Sonoran Desert with parrots, a blind cat, lots of backyard lizards, and a madly talented multi-instrumentalist."...And to all our spokespeople who have passed, Rest in Punk. You influenced generations to come, and I, for one, will always be grateful."