Matthew Haigh's Vampires is a rare devastating both for its dazzling linguistic flair, and its moving central story-an elegy to a lost, beloved aunt. Rich with references that place us firmly in the late 80s and early 90s, it reminds us that childhood is leaping from a bridge into mist . It's a heady read, in which family life bleeds into gothic fantasy, into video games and arcade classics-with their endless potential for death and rebirth. Every word is lacquered, effulgent, cut like crystal, packed with E numbers, fizzing with energy. Vampires is a dream resurrected, a surreal MTV video, an ode to our beta-version hearts.
I adored Haigh’s Death Magazine collection of poetry, which is what prompted me to seek out more of his work. This slim collection features his unique word and stylistic choices, glimmers with a sense of loss, but was incredibly hard for me to connect with in many ways.
Excellent, a moving collection, memories of an obese auntie shot through with references to '80s and '90s video games and movies. It ripped my spinal cord from my torso and it was love.
Like the glitchy flickering screen of a VHS tape on pause in a darkened room, Haigh’s poetry is hallucinatory and blood-sucking. But it can also be heartfelt. A queer hyperreal retro-nostalgic song cycle to lost loved ones and better times. Addictive.