Toby Barlow should stick to poetry. Had Sharp Teeth been a disjointed series of poems about LA werewolves it would have been a gutsier, more stylish offering. The blurb promises a thrilling crime-novel-in-verse with a supernatural edge, and the book has a fiercely snappy introduction. But it is sadly let down by a drawn out, sagging mid-section; its bulk held up by the shaking legs of an overly complicated plot. In canine terms: a flea-bitten mangy mutt. All bark and no bite.

Sharp Teeth focuses on three werewolf gangs - Lark’s pack, and those from Long Beach and San Pedro -  and their struggle for control of downtown LA. The story is rooted in a plan: by paying government bureaucrats to enforce a ban on putting down dogs and then increasing canine-adoption advertising, the werewolves plan to transform LA into a city of dog lovers. But unknown to the masses, the city pounds are filled with werewolves, programmed to wait for a sign to unleash terror on their masters. If Barlow had stuck with this idea and kept to the horror genre, the story would have packed a punch. But instead he picks up the whiff of a crime plot and runs with it, making the story increasingly distracted and confused.

A series of disappearances at the local dog pound draws a group of humans into the lycanthrope turf wars. First is Anthony, the dogcatcher with a heart, who falls for a mysterious werewolf Woman from Lark’s pack, who remains unnamed throughout. (If this is an attempt to add mystery then it fails, miserably.) Then we have Detective Peabody, a confused cop sent sniffing out a darker story by the dastardly camp Mr Venable, who fails to threaten as one of many antagonists.

‘For all its moments of class and elegance, the plot lacks cohesion.’

Separated into ‘books’, the plot quickly loses direction and then suddenly there is too much going on. There is the love story between Anthony and the Woman, the crime plot involving Peabody, Venable, Ruiz, Annie and the San Pedro pack, several revenge fantasy storylines, and many subplots. But they all boil down to one simple fact: everyone is out to get someone else. Venable wants to find Annie, since she murdered his lover Goyo’s brother and stole important bank details. The San Pedro pack want vengeance against Ruiz and the workers at the dog pound who sold their brothers as fighting dogs. Lark and the Woman seek retribution from the defecting Baron. Baron seeks vengeance against the Woman for murdering his lover and co-conspirator Sasha. The climax, if it can be called that, is a fight between the three packs. It can only be assumed that, much like the story, the dogs merely ran around chasing each other’s tails until they collapsed with a worn out thud.

Even the ending is predictable: Antony and the Woman were always going to live happily ever after or kill each other in the final battle. The book is so boring by this point that death would be more exciting, but no. The final ‘chilling’ words, although beautifully written, fail to strike fear into anybody’s heart.

They wait
alert for the moment
when the light changes
and the world rears back
feeling the sharp teeth
of the plan
on its exposed
and waiting neck.
These dogs are ready,
sitting patiently
at our feet.

A lingering image, but an unfulfilled one, as we are led to believe Baron has been slain by Lark, or has he? Is Barlow setting himself up for an irritatingly unimpressive sequel? I sincerely hope not.

But the book is not without its moments of brilliance. The verse structure is used effectively: to describe ‘the change’; to detail what it’s like for dogs to observe clumsy humans; and in encapsulating the feeling of eating someone alive. Toby Barlow makes senseless violence gorgeous to read. When Lark stumbles on what’s left of his first pack, he sniffs out the scene better than CSI Las Vegas, New York and Miami combined. Here, the imagery is decadent in its grotesque splendour.

There’s blood everywhere. Like a Jackson Pollock valentine, he thinks.

Lark, the irresistibly distant leader of the forlorn, has an instant draw. He magnificently emphasises how appropriate LA is as a breeding ground for the werewolf take over. Lark preys on the easily led using a subtle blend of faux pity and animal magnetism, which is a great social comment. There are whole sections of society who voluntarily sign up for indoctrination: in the army, alcoholics anonymous, or church. The metaphor of the werewolf is used to show how quickly violent extremism can spread through society. It is easy to programme weak-minded characters like Bonnie, the typical LA stereotype, who needs to consult a professional before making any choices for herself.

But ultimately the story lets the book down down. For all its moments of class and elegance, the plot lacks cohesion. As Lark would say,

...dogs aren’t continually surprised when
Those soft and easily broken tools called words
Fail them time and again.

No, Mr Barlow, but on this occasion perhaps you are.