Reads like its title suggests

Reading nunt is like listening to a cocky, middle-aged drunk trying to explain just how fucking tough he is by incorporating as much profanity as possible–especially the word cunt–into his tale of disregard for anything moderate.

In this case, the cocky drunk is author Mingus Tourette, who has compiled biographical pieces of poetry written in the two years following the accidental loss of his unborn child and the consequential unravelling of his marriage to the object of his obsession, Nat. Most writers, given this premise, would lean more towards the maudlin, but Mingus leans so far to the other end, he’s on the ground in a pool of his own filth.

In fact, Mingus is so intent on shocking his audience, he comes off as the kid who tried too hard to be cool. Instead of being offended and sickened by his descriptions of getting his cock sucked off by a “fat old broad”, while drinking excessively and then taking a shit off of his balcony, you find them somewhat amusing. At the same time, though, you do feel sorry for the dirty bastard.

Tourette is the adult equivalent of the high school boy who wasn’t quite cool enough for the cool kids, but tried to make up for it by drinking the most, fighting the most, trying to pick up the most girls, and then telling everyone about how fucking tanked he was at John’s party last weekend where he drank 60 shots and then pounded this kid’s face to mush… man, it was the coolest.

Once acclimatized to the excessive use of the word cunt (probably the least favourite of all dirty words), and (partially) gotten past such vivid descriptions as “piss all over the floor/semen in her hair/and mine/my half erect cock still stuck/in one of her glued up holes/and shit smeared on the wall like someone/threw it with intent to injure”, you find traces of insecurity and loneliness.

Unexpectedly, amidst verses about brutal sex and drug binges, those feelings of alienation prove to be more shocking than the most offensive “nunto” (what Tourette uses for each poetic division within his book).

In the tenth “nunto” the details of “…encrusted fingers/buried to the knuckles/in her ass/thighs covered in blood/caked on hands and chest/and a smile that looks like/I just ate out/a human sacrifice”, do nothing but repulse the reader. Those traces of emotion are nowhere to be found there. Just because the writing is split into lines and separated into stanzas, doesn’t make them poetry.

His words become only sickening, pornographic fetishes without any justification. The only poignant aspect of the book are few and far between. But it is during these moment when the author admits, while he is fucking prostitutes and taking hallucinogens, it’s to either remember or forget his ex-wife, Nat, which will be remember long after the unpleasant imagery of this novel has worn off.

Tourette’s admits wanting someone to “…maybe talk a bit/and hold [him]/touch [his] hands/touch [his] face when it’s done”. It’s the only glimpse of redemption in 84 pages of fucked up sexual viciousness.

How many slutty nuns are out there? Apparently, Mingus Tourette has had his fair share of Catholic sex. No matter what the drunk bastard says, nunt isn’t that good.

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