PRAISE FOR COWABUNGALY YOURS

AT THE END OF THE WORLD-POEMS

BY ASHLEY CLINE

COWABUNGALY YOURS AT THE END OF THE WORLD is a scientific study that charmingly explores how astrophysics, our dying planet, iconic pop music, and love are intertwined. Ashley Cline’s speaker dissects the world they inhabit in order to put it back together with a better understanding; they wear their vulnerability like an atmosphere wears its weather. This is a chapbook that “knows what it is to spin on an axis of want.” I won’t be loaning my copy to anyone, in fear they’ll never give it back.

— Sofia Fey, Poetry Editor at Hooligan Magazine

Ashley Cline writes to us urgently from the end of the world, expertly balancing apathy with survival as we teeter on the edge of apocalypse. Trapped inside bodies “[they] never really wanted…in the first place,” Cline’s speakers manage to rewrite the cosmos through pure longing: “turns out, goodness how / he wanted to give us the moon; turns out: / goodness, how he did.” As the crushing loneliness of apocalypse looms, Cline invites you to share her space—to become complicit, to “ask yourself: when did you learn how to lie?”; to help her “bury / a body.” These poems know the end is near, and they’re not afraid. They’ll stay with you right up to the final breath.

— Dia Roth, Poet

Ashley Cline’s COWABUNGALY YOURS AT THE END OF THE WORLD is a bright pink perfume of what it feels like to tremble. Exploring the vast expanses of outer space and of lovers’ mouths, Cline manages to condense pop culture, scientific trivia and skin-dripping language into an atom of absolute fire.

— Pascale Potvin/Viola Volée, Editor-in-Chief of Wrong Publishing

COWABUNGALY YOURS AT THE END OF THE WORLD tells a story about the world ending, and god is she lonely when she ends. But somehow, still, there are songs. There are memories. There are colors everywhere to embrace. Did you ever know that things can be so beautiful, in endings, in separation, in this world—this lousy breakable thing under the sky? Open your mouth and sing the song of your heart at 125 beats per minute. When they find your fossils, they will be a poem carved into the earth. They will overflow like plants overwatered and the pits of fruits left to fall to the ground. Cowabungaly, Cline invites us to feel it all, at the end of everything, she asks us to scream love at the sky.

— jd hegarty, author of the clearest blue

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