I’ve read a dozen mature, polished, respectable poetry books published in the last month. This is not one of them. Phillipson’s unhinged second collection is stuffed with junk-food and junk language, a maximalist mode “somewhere/ between bile slipstream and a shriek”. It’s often laugh-out-loud funny: “my inner world has to be hoisted/ thru windows like a grand piano/ only atonal & heftier”. Her style is influenced by American modernism, particularly the late John Ashbery, but with a feminist bite that feels utterly 2019, hitting similar notes to Rebecca Tamás’s Witch, an equally pungent highlight of this year... The energy falters in an occasionally affecting but over-extended 70-page elegy to a dead dog. Phillipson excels at apocalyptic snark, but seems less sure what to do with “feelings”, except put the word downpage in a bigger font.