Tottenham's new collection elaborates on his two earlier volumes. In elegantly-wrought laments of self-depreciation and hateful love poems, he gives voice to thoughts most won't express, but will be entertained by. He has staked out a singular terrain where egotism and self-loathing meet, where futility merges with urgency, and beauty is created out of bitterness. This is a mesmerising proof that poete maudit can survive, alive and unwell, in this benighted age, and that the dregs can sometimes be the cream.