don’t read this… is sustained meditation within fluorescent-glowing bleakness. Notes jotted down between eavesdropping on one sided phone calls and whispering back their traumas. Alice Ladrick’s poems notate a long and grey winter spent working as a transcriptionist, a winter of accidental deaths, ignored bomb threats, and further corporate dehumanization. The winter is met with wit, though, as the poems’ survivalist-humor winds throughout.
It is printed in a 5×4 chapbook on grey papers, hand-bound at AP Studios with assistance from two cats. The covers were stolen from the Wave Books warehouse and hand-painted.
CW: suicidal ideation, death, other depressing things.