Culture · General · Personal

Gone

Gone are the days of princesses
and nights in shining armor;
My love, this is England now
In the daze of fares selling fair ethics,
Where knights slaughter sacred cows
Amid rued lives, dignities and businesses
In rude awakenings, fresh grievances
And very little honour towards neighbours,
In a winter that does not seem to pause
A dog sleeping in a doorway chews his paws;
The mighty say we choose this,
A lax hypothesis for half choices based on lies,
Lack breeds homelessness in familiar lanes;
A city’s slow demise in the ice where lives have lain.

Antonia Sara Zenkevitch

 

The first two lines of this poem were a prompt from poet Sonya Annita Song which in turn reminded me of the haunting Sinead O’Connor song ‘Black Boys on Mopeds’. The content is inspired by things I have recently seen.

48% · Democracy · General

Post-Factual Democracy

In this post-factual democracy

we are seen collectively;

the world forgets

that, in 2016

48 % voted

‘Remain’,

 

But most of us don’t remember that,

For we are drip fed again and again, again

The idea that Britain is united behind Brexit,

The PM tells repeatedly how, in the general election

80 percent of us chose parties with a Brexit manifesto

But, there was little choice, in this undemocratic system

Seeking a divorce from its own scapegoat, our status quo is

Weighed irrefutably in favour of one of two parties ever getting in,

Citizens have a muted voice and restricted representation that does not go

With an idea that we agree, comply with or know. We’ve been told our decision.

To disagree, it seems, is to be undemocratic as we are taught to follow

A yellow brick road, but we can’t click our heels to return home

And it’s only the Brexiters who are shown on television,

European neighbours regard at us now with fury,

Confusion, frustration, ridicule, disdain, pity

“Only eating biscuits and drinking tea”

In Coordinator Verhofstadt’s eyes

The UK described as ‘disorderly’

‘Crashing’, feeble of mind

Into self-made injury

Upon which we

Cannot stand.

 

Antonia Sara Zenkevitch