'My poor old heart, I've left its drawbridge down all summer long encouraged in the strangers...' Divorced, and perhaps a little bruised, Luke Wright rolls "his terrors round his palm like Baoding balls" as he journeys off the sunken roads of Southern England and into himself, pursued by murderous swans, empty carseats, and his father's skeleton clocks. Both splenetic and elegiac, Wright's poems file through the shackles of cynicism to ask how can we let go without giving up. They sing all their ink-blotted sadness off the page in an honest attempt to leave us feeling good.
