From the author
I'm David Chyriwsky. I write political poetry — about Britain, about power, about the men in suits who sell us a flag and charge us for the pole.
Some of these are funny. Some are furious. All of them were written because silence felt like agreement. Take a seat, pour something hot, and read them in any order you like.
The sun came out in Britain, so naturally we complained — and Nigel popped up sweating in a linen summer vest.
Racism is not born in bone. It is planted, watered, fed — where power needs a mask and truth is dragged away for dead.
Remember, remember — but they never say great for who. A country is not made great by a flag, but by fairness, by truth, and by wage.
The NHS was poorly sick, with cracked old walls and clocks that ticked — then private suits with shiny shoes arrived with charts and cheerful news.
Make the poorest man look expensive. Make the richest thief look respectable. The country claps along, furious at crumbs, silent about the banquet.
We were sold progress wrapped in glossy slogans. If there is an enemy, it is not the desperate — it is the hoarders, the avoiders, the ones who take everything and give back slogans.