Ralf Webb

Pretty good stuff — lots in here that gestures to critique/discontent/ennui/etc with the excesses of a global culture that seems to be self-destroying and utterly devoid of life and joy. Yet, these gestures fail to go much further than that, leaving them only as vague implications as set dressing (which, to the poet's credit is clearly intentional).
As others have said, the sequence in which the poet charts their father's slow death from cancer is particularly successful, although I didn't show more care for the other long sequence in the book. The Love Stories were generally good, but also nothing I haven't read before (or better, sorry!) show less

Mostly unintelligible pretention, with a few good bits. Shame, as the book itself is well made and lovely to hold. I might, perhaps, get the latest edition out of curiosity to see whether it's a less deliberately obtuse collection.