SHARP TEETH
by TOBY BARLOW
pp. 320
HarperCollins
$22.95

“Poetry is a way of taking life by the throat” said Robert Frost. In Sharp Teeth, a novel written in the freest of free verse by Toby Barlow, poetry is evidently taking a vicious bite down to the esophagus, ripping apart bloody limbs, gnawing on bone and sinew and discarding the refuse in the trash can of a gas station bathroom.

Nuance.

Sharp Teeth is a hip, L.A.-styled experiment on man/wolf gestalt told in action-poetry filled with chop-licking dialogue. Packs of shifty and suspicious lycanthropes work out their transformational angst on just about anybody, including fellow werewolves, often set off by powerful olfactory glands and the need to honor their mythic past, or maybe it’s just about dinner. Barlow leaves you a lot of room to decide. One wolf soliloquizes, imagining a post-coital nosh:

“I would wolf you down in big chomping bites. /And you would be gone, all of you,/ the planet emptier and quiet,/ all your busy rushing silenced/ while my unquenchable fury screams on.”

This is high theatre, but also has an intimacy. He delves into their furry minds and makes the characters familiar: a temptress/bitch, a carnivorous con-man, a lovelorn underdog. Barlow’s west coast world has the noir premise that beings of all sorts live much of life in secret, that we are all hungry and thrill-seeking at our most basic. These nimble pooches are scheming and intelligent, morphing back and forth between human and beast apparently at will. This is all played out in an enormously entertaining and occasionally extremely funny way.

“We eat absolutely f*cking everything.” one of them says. About another wolfman: “Mysteries were never his thing/ the end of Scooby-Doo was always a surprise. So whatever, they came here as six men and a woman / they left as one man, driving three dogs and a bitch.” …“He licked his balls and waited for orders.”

I must admit the book frightened me. It brings to mind how horrified I was when convinced by my brother Robert to read Moby Dick as a delicate 14-year-old. Just what did you like about it? I demanded. He grinned and said happily, It’s slimy! I was perplexed. Was this a good thing? EEeuw.

Sharp Teeth isn’t exactly slimy, it’s … well, chewy. And sanguineous. And brutal. And icky. Maybe I’m too much of a girly-girl, but I relate better when the characters aren’t all busy eating each other up. Since devouring the book, I find myself walking about shivering suddenly with aversion, kind of like a dog does when they have eaten the wrong thing. (uh oh) It’s a hard book to shake, not so much from an emotional connection, but the overwhelming references to crunchy, living human kibble are harshly indelible at their best, and at worst, they drown out Barlow’s epic lyricism.

The man can write though. His bold images and quick transitions suit the poetic form very well. The book itself is also a beautiful production, not usually the case with popular thriller-lit. Queasiness aside, it’s a tasty read, though my enthusiasm for getting a dog has dimmed considerably.