If Marcus McCann is getting just half the amount of action he writes about, he's got to be the Ottawa’s greatest swordsman a job usually reserved for a Senator or some other exalted type.
Then again, his poetry is so sexed, so charged with the innate kink(s) of language play always a bed roll, always another way to make love that he could just as easily be celibate and still make the earth shake.
This is not poetry for cowards, for people who enjoy their artful dalliances only from the big, comfy chair of un-reality. Underneath all Mr. McCann’s manic word-smithing beats a strong heart and a vigorous appetite. God help the poor young man, but he is well on his way to becoming the queer Irving Layton.
Oh well, nothing exudes like excess.
— RM Vaughan