This little book is a violent poetic tantrum, an act of rage against a city which erects vacant monuments to its ogreish mercantile religion and murders masses of its children in the furnaces of the demons. Yet, in the midst of unthinkable decadence and brutality, there lies a sublime beauty, a desperate but sensational lyricism which is only found in close proximity to death and cataclysm. This poem exhumes the ancient city of Carthage, a bastion of the most sinister tendencies of human civilization, with terrifying implications for the island of Manhattan, a city which assented to its own doom when it built the skyscraper on 432 Park Avenue.
