Description

This book is a wound that laughs. It is a collection of poems that grin through broken teeth, raise a chipped glass to the apocalypse, and sip a bitter vintage with unnerving delight. Here, satire is not a polite smirk or a knowing wink—it is a scalpel. Sharp. Precise. Unflinching. These verses do not soothe, nor do they seek to. They are not balm, nor the opposite of balm. They are the smoke that lingers after the blaze, the ash that sketches the outline of what once stood, the echo of a truth too raw to say plainly.

Within these pages, you will encounter bureaucrats who pray to spreadsheets as if they were sacred texts, lovers who seduce one another with tax codes, and gods who have outsourced their miracles to call centres in Milton Keynes. You will meet martyrs who die for a discount, revolutionaries who sell branded T‑shirts, and poets who write elegies for emotions that no longer exist. Every poem is a mirror cracked just enough to show you the truth at an angle—distorted, revealing, impossible to ignore.

This is not satire that flatters the reader's intelligence or invites them to feel superior. It implicates. It accuses. It laughs at the reader as much as with them. Its darkness does not come from shadows, but from its refusal to look away from the fluorescent glare of modern absurdity. These poems are for those who have grown weary of sincerity as performance, irony as escape, and hope as a packaged commodity sold in inspirational fonts.

If you seek redemption, you may find it here—but only in the form of a punchline sharp enough to draw blood. If you seek beauty, you will find it bruised, limping, and grinning through the pain. And if you seek truth, be warned: it arrives dressed as a clown, juggling knives, daring you to laugh before you flinch.

Welcome to the theatre. The stage is bloodstained. The curtain is already on fire. The actors are improvising. The audience is complicit. And the farce—inevitable, relentless, and strangely exhilarating—has already begun.