Sean Kilpatrick may be the P.G. Wodehouse of Hell. The blistering anger of his deliciously delirious rants delivers more cathartic mirth than provocation, and the ever-present poetic invention and subtly tidy thematic organization hiding in plain sight behind the ultra-violence inflicted on reader, characters, language and meaning suggest, in the end, a graceful and always musical accommodation to form. In this faux sequel to a Steven Seagal movie written in 80s Shakespeare, cultural icons Laurie Anderson, Michael Jackson, Sir William Forsythe, and assorted other henchmen and hemi-demi-semi-deities demean and demolish themselves and each other as they trace out, perhaps inadvertently but certainly hilariously, the delicate arc of a love story.
