Andrew Elliott's previous collections are Lung Soup and The Creationists. He lives in London.
As one line begets the next, as an image begets a character begets an entire history or future, Andrew Elliott’s poems – many of them proliferating excursions into the hinterlands of 20th-century Germany and America, many involving girls, cars and spaceships by way of paintings, films and books – continually divert and confound the reader; they suggest that there may be pleasures to be had from not seeing the wood for the trees.
‘The collection is huge, 144 pages full of outpouring and urgency as if after too long a silence. Through torrents of words and absurd, surreal situations, however, there is always a controlling blade-edge of wit ... I would recommend this book wholeheartedly. It is huge and does feel a bit overstuffed – “The plot has been lost. Who lost it? Hard to say –” is the first line in “Plot”, but a narrative trail would be too reductive for these poems. They are rich and funny and sad, and, full of peculiar treasures, deserve to be read and read again.’
‘It’s a whopper of a collection, weighing in at a hundred and fifty pages of poems that start in one place and wind the reader along in their ever-deepening syntax until there’s no way out and you’re spat out at the bottom of a page as if at the end of a funfair ride ... These are stories with grit, wit and a sense of life’s futile comedy.’