What you will find here is an epitaph, of sorts, laced with: Dark humour, Snide observations, Stark realism, Morbid landscapes, Gamblers and junkies & Punks and thugs. An epitaph for MY forgotten generation - Generation Jones - who: Relish obscure banalities, Prefer pencil on paper, Revel in audacious irony and Eschews ‘the good old days’. It’s no longer time for any of these things. It’s simply: ...Time for my Generation to Die.
“Time for My Generation to DIE from poet and balladeer E.D. Evans takes no prisoners. Evans uses her sparkling, prickly verse to pluck out mournful, bleak, and violent tableaus. Each of her poems—Ballad or not—Is deserving of a hard-strummed guitar and some harmonica across the bridge. This is distilled country and southwestern, sans redemption, sans chaser”.
- Sean McCollum -
“A reminder of poetry as an event, where you will find your lips mouthing the vowels. A nod, and a wink never too far behind, Evans’ artistry holds your hand through the odyssey and the rhyme”.
- Henry Long -
E.D. Evans is a lifelong poet. Having spent time in both London and New York during Punk’s original heyday in the late ‘70s and early ‘80s, Evans has always comfortably floated between those two worlds. She became deeply entrenched in New York’s East Village art scene that was so pervasive in the 1980s/90s, spending years performing spoken word poetry at venues such as The Nuyorican Poets Café, Brownies, and The Knitting Factory. Her Instagram handle, @originalpunkster11 says it all.