Wound Building: Dispatches from the Latest Disasters in UK Poetry

I want to hate more and more graphically the devastation of the concepts that now collapse into resentful anxiety about borders and the impoverished people who die on the wrong sides of them, and I want the sickness to be historical, a lesson learned in the nerves from the intricate history in which the desire for communism pursued through struggle led to so many accomplishments beyond our power of anticipation. I want the sickness to flare up in the communism that sickens me by virtue of its exclusion of exactly that sensation, along with so much else of what happened in the period that separates the present from its decades-old doppelganger. What is there now besides bad options?