Spay Your Baby by Morgan Pearse

Pearse’s first published literary work is déjà vu thrown in the vitamix. It is full of plotless innards, of erotic guts, presented to the reader in a pink bubble wrap envelope. It’s a sticky slur of memories asking to be peeled apart. The sweet breads aren’t preserved and instead digress to a glop of goo, glistening in the sun, waiting for desire to set in like the heat rising on summer pavement. There’s nothing to it but maybe a leaking and thickening of disembodiment, and death.

Combining found and manipulated images, Pearse’s book leads through slow, meandering vignettes. It’s a thriller with no discernible plot save fear and pheromone.

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