Well, if you were vampires - and I'm not saying you are - that would explain why no one ever sees a picture of either of you, or why you only come out at night. It would also conveniently explain your immortality.
Listen, you cunts can bitch and whine about Paul Robinson's negative review, but his poetry speaks for itself:
BLOOPS, HUMS AND MISTPOUFFERS
I can h[ear] bloops, hums and mistpouffers.
Binary opposites are deplorably restrictive,
Free thought in a free space is the restorative,
Intuitive ∞alogue (Bohm!) is essential.
Otoacoustic emissions send subsonic transmissions
perceived via the humour of myodesopsia.
Or how about:
BODY OF WATER
Broken rain, broken falls
Solely torrents can shore;
Met by arms held upward,
Thenars ricochet droplets
Subventing micro-scale inter-spill;
Palm glyphs draw the tendrils' haul
Under cuffs on dermic rills;
Along fabric run with cord,
Water grasps thoracic walls,
Undermining belted clothes.
Rivulets irrigate the ground.
Say what you will, that is the work of a stone cold genius, bitches!
Look at him:
Do you know what he's looking at?
The future!
Not the dusty past you slovenly, cornfed hayseeds and yokels so happily wallow in.
That his critique is beyond you is no surprise to this wag. It is as a god deigning to speak to chimpanzees. Seriously.