Ahren Warner’s second collection of poems opens with the sequence Lutece, te amo: a raw paean to the Paris it inhabits that flits between past and present and offers both adoration and horror in equal measure. Elsewhere, London ‘licks and laps’; an anonymous man ‘works his bones with a micro-plane’ and translations of Baudelaire and Kojeve rub shoulders with Kurt Cobain and ‘Little Lord Tory-Tit’. More capricious, fleshly and darker than Warner’s previous work, Pretty culminates in Nervometer: thirteen poems hovering between a collage, translation and performance of Antonin Artaud’s Le Pese-nerfs, which bring Pretty to a beautifully ugly end.