In its form, tropes, tone, and intensity, Bright Stupid Confetti joins a nightray of decadent prose running from Baudelaire to José Antonio Ramos Sucre to Johannes Göransson. This volume explores the hope/fear that the body can discover more of itself, and that the voice uttered in the chasm of one's own bodily dream-terrain may pronounce an infernal logic to blot out the sun. "The sound of yourself: that storm of barbed wire." A book to curl up with.

-Joyelle McSweeney, author of The Red Bird and Flet

For all its formal beauty and gut-wrenching images, what I find most fascinating about Gary J Shipley's writing is its perpetual endeavor to penetrate the impenetrable, which is to me the very definition of tautology-and of obsession. There is a kind of concentrated narrativity in these pure ruminations that I relish. If there really is something beyond the language, it has to be either pointless, or bizarre. And that's all part of the game. Nonsenseness is not senselessness. Read any of Shipley's work, and you'll get it.

-Róbert Gál, author of Agnomia and Naked Thoughts