Comes on ghosted white 2LP vinyl.

Manuscript edition.

POETS ONLY WANT love if it’s torture. And when the poet is Taylor Swift, you always have to figure love and torture are never more than a few verses apart. Taylor became a legend as the poet laureate of teen romance. But that was kid stuff compared to the adult heartbreak of her stunning new album, The Tortured Poets Department. A year after getting out of a six-year relationship, Taylor’s got bad men on the brain. But they’ve always been her specialty. As she notes here, in a poem she includes in the physical edition, “It’s the worst men that I write best.”

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Taylor might be the self-proclaimed “Chairman of the Tortured Poets Department,” but judging by these songs, business is booming. It’s the cathartic confession of a woman who thought she had adulthood — and adult romance — all figured out, only to find herself realizing she knows nothing. From “My Boy Only Breaks His Favorite Toys” to “Fortnight” to “Clara Bow,” these thirtysomething break-up tales are new turf for her. She sounds confused, bitter, raging, vulnerable, yet more gloriously chaotic than we’ve ever heard her before.

Even by Swiftian standards, she gets wildly ambitious with her songwriting here. This is an album that begins with an introductory poem by Stevie Nicks. The title song’s chorus goes, “You’re not Dylan Thomas/I’m not Patti Smith/This ain’t the Chelsea Hotel/We’re modern idiots.” In other words, it’s the small-town teen romance of “White Horse” updated for the big old city. Until you remember that the tortured poet Dylan Thomas famously died at his favorite Greenwich Village bar — which happened to be the White Horse Tavern. That’s the level she’s working on here.

Tortured Poets has the intimate sound of Folklore and Evermore, but with a coating of Midnights synth-pop gloss. The songs go for that detailed Folkmore style of storycraft, yet instead of fictional characters, she’s pouring her heart into her own deeply personal exorcisms. Sometimes her adult break-up tales are devastating, as in “So Long, London” or “loml.” Sometimes they’re hilarious, as in “My Boy Only Breaks His Favorite Toys” or “Down Bad.” But they’re usually both. As she quips in “Who’s Afraid of Little Old Me?” “Tell me everything’s not about me/But what if it is?” (source www.rollingstone.com)