Norman Ogue Mustil, my old friend, bailed out in 2013, when, as he put it, he’d had “a good run.” He recounted with a laugh that the hospice services manager told him he was past his “sell-by date.” Mustill was an extreme dissenter. Nothing pleased him more than reaming out the human race. His collages stopped you dead with their vicious satire, like the writings of William S. Burroughs. And for technical precision Max Ernst didn’t do better. But Mustill is little known, his work unseen, his praise unsung. This reading of deformed sonnets is dedicated to him.
<!–
–>