WELL QUEEN MAB HAS A MESSAGE or “michael jackson in his final days just the tail end of his life breathing on a total evil that lived within him as a permanent pregnancy” – Peter Webb
April 30, 2026
dandling patrick-dad and peter-baby one ego sucking on the invisible tit of art in a pigeonhole, succors down the Eternal Message. “the diapered phone”
a review of Queen Mab’s Palace by Patrick Stuart, Illustrated by August Lake Cartland
EVERYTHING Patrick does is broken, incomplete, seriously flawed , built with a kind of antagonism to the audience and it comes out in his florid descriptions but now we also get it in narrative structure. Oh Patrick! I didn’t fall in love with you (I fell in half-love with Zak) but you’re still my retarded stepfather, step uncle, retarded uncle maybe
it’s a book about incest broadly you can imagine… a breeding cave of incestual post-hillbillies… kidnapped into its depths. Wilely avoiding their cocks (but not all of them!) The powerful, childlike blendings of various cocks.
They’re all Patrick’s cocks, which are always women for some reason… florid, retarded women , ( mine are like waifish , ex-anorexic growth-stunted women). Doomed women, each plucking off their eyelashes from the substances of life… Patrick writes of ULTRA-DOOMED WOMEN, staring at us down the corridor of his writing projects, the mastheads and ship spirits… everything is either a boat or a woman (because Patrick is an islander)
All being ships or women, the feeling is melancholy, and the shape of the work is retarded (bent, broken, incestual, onanistic). How much masturbation is in the book? In Patrick’s rape-cave=boat-woman, how much rape is in a woman already? (“One is not born, but rather becomes, a woman.” — Simone de Beauvoir)
All books are ships or women, or both, grooming their long hair, anxious and faking as they’re opened, and hairy, to be read and convinced on the long term for an act which is like… getting to know Patrick,
as small press publishing is about intimacy with hipsters, FIRST AND FOREMOST. Generally, this was my goal getting into it; all books are a mating dance…
, I don’t want to fuck Patrick (I had a dream about Zak fatherly rubbing my head). Nor his girls, but I want Elpizoi to stick her too-large tongue down my throat and for something to scramble down. All poems are suicide letters
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the most contact I have with reality is when I date someone and get involved with their life and see how they interface with the world and get some measure of their thinking. Sometimes I get deeply jealous when I hear their stories, because they lived courageously in some way I couldn’t.
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