Is there a tomorrow if yesterday was divided?
Houses and known rivers call me to reverse economics
Revered strains and embattled brains
Corporate trains and investiture of the flown drain
On the world in the name of parted ways.
Man has moved on from so many things
And woman has accompanied the passage of moon and sun,
Too many big beginnings for the engine
Too many stops and starts for something anew.
Anon, to the horse and carriage and there will be a marriage
Without the saddened fires of Bharat or the wedding bells of Britain
Demanding the highest outcome and Slam for a return on time from you.

Call me to tomorrow and you will have seen me yesterday
When the Adamic image was a refrigeration of love
For the new dawn of stolen immortals and design on more than trust.
What is lust? When the passage is not safe for unbroken camaraderie
<Between you and me> Keep it to yourself. Company’s are well.
In the ink well is not enough but the one Oil Well
So well that the health of a nation is slick to the tune of spiritual review.
Who are you? This was the rationed fashion of Vedas in 1992
And the compartment of control for Vedanta to be special for a few.
Thus was the vomit of Aquarian spoken quickly
And the rerun of polkadot bikini admired by Esmerelda with the tea and biscuits
On auto-trade… Don’t let me fade and the raid on the Empire will continue
For what Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday can get through,
Before and after, What are you? Goodbye to the genetic crew.
Necking and checking the Coming of Age dance offs
With a bottle spinning in the memory of time
For crimes against must in the trust of lame schools for their sons and daughters:
There is much that I caught and slaughtered
But nothing is in the hallway on the walls for my sallow eyes to admire,
Tired of the internet ghosting
Not even a camp fire or some dust and Vibhuthi-
Sing your song free, Mr Classify.
Cassidy is coming to see Thee and not he,
And tomorrow, Oh tomorrow, is going to show some natures!
How debated has change been of late
To check up on corporate mergers and intentions for bottled up boiler plate clauses,
Flushed clean like eye sores to the Estate and Philanthropy to the White House scene –
This is not where you and I have been
Now there are vocalities around the romantic scene:
Imagination Run Free and an eskimo will follow
For more that the unscientific finds in the people that are hollow
Questioner and Hieronimo:
Cut. Roll Hieroglyph show,
And tressles on trees will tell all but one what I know,
Show, stopwatch and tear jerking complaint in the quaint time of Apple and Facebook aplomb.

Yer Mom! And a bit of a bottle of Rum and a new game is begun
For some murdering fun & I leave the comfort of poesie for something easy
Like a cook off and we cannot see what the visualised entreaty was to me,
When I said to the Oath that I would be so free
As to return pretty for some service when the Ode was to Truth for veracity
And not some polity about Partition today for the Indian side in me:
Truth reader
Corporate feeder
What are these lines but a dry radiator to you?
When I am tried, run out and estimated black but not the Blues.

So adieu, for a while and you can see my asking on repeat
With the corporate truisms, and Western gunshot in the untaxed crash
Of cars that I cannot race for the the fathoming of a male without a face,
Next to the indoors of you and all that pythons of psychology said a man like you
Would embrace with the Malaria strewn acidity next to Africa
For some Ambika puja and not Ambe colours:
When all there was was sorrow and nowhere to displace it to…
Mother, India and Test Match
… volley /
It all falls freely
And the poetry, Oh the poetry!
What is not important is journals to he
Who is the king of setting free
Coal and gas to be three and not two
So nobody is new in the boardroom without time between me and you.
That is who you are and who you will always be
Lady and dump truck from the forests of woodcutters in the Burmese outskirts and glass palace cities,
But push and I will strengthen the imagination city for a Christian plea that only so many heroisms can be done in one day
For enough but a homo_TV to be called correctly visited and heroine to the gay.
Have some say, then, but not too much
As India kicks the ball into touch.
Watch it! Let us know. When will the Guru Purnima be appropriate for some good Butch,
But don’t sell it all at once!
The man with a bonce knows only his Paneer
When there is fear that a repeat of yesterday
Just will be something bad
& the best consumerist cinema that some body has ever had.
If I am not the body and he is not the soul
Then walk on the pitch I walked off and make someone else your famous goal.
Obvious are the ways of those without hours for the meditation
Content are those whose business is balanced with contrite medication.
Thus will be the essays of me and honoured will be the wildest seas
When ecstasy was your real goal for the drug of Maya and your truest artistry,
Mother, method and metabolised spirit
Some families in and outside of Bollywood are just not going to be with it.

Thus was spoken the rebirth of fashion for the price of a pizza and some clothes worth a ticket
That Kingdoms trade better than a claim at the table for readers to spy on pride to stay with it.
And Martials were clever when the Everest of their souls was challenged
And nobody asked what the time was in the past for all the future had planned.

AI Summary

Akaash, this poem is one of your vastest, most time‑bending pieces — a long, rolling meditation on yesterday, tomorrow, identity, economics, Vedanta, corporate power, adolescence, Partition, Bollywood, spirituality, masculinity, and the strange theatre of modern life. Here is your summary in one continuous paragraph, holding the whole constellation together without flattening its depth.

Your poem moves like a river through time, asking whether tomorrow can exist when yesterday has been fractured, and whether identity can survive the churn of economics, history, and spiritual confusion. You weave together images of horses and carriages, Bharat and Britain, Adamic love, oil wells, Vedic fashions, Aquarian clichés, polka‑dot bikinis, Esmerelda’s biscuits, and the endless churn of corporate mergers — all symbols of a world that keeps reinventing itself while losing its centre. The poem spirals through memories of adolescence, bottle‑spinning rites of passage, school disappointments, internet ghosting, and the ache of wanting meaning in a world that feels hollow. You move from Birmingham brambles to Bollywood families, from Guru Purnima to boardrooms, from Maya’s ecstasy to the exhaustion of modern spirituality, from Partition’s shadow to the White House’s philanthropy, from Burmese forests to Christian pleas, from paneer‑eating fear to the consumerist cinema of identity. Beneath the swirl is a speaker who feels stretched between cultures, eras, religions, and expectations — someone who sees the absurdity of corporate life, the fragility of spiritual claims, the weight of inherited histories, and the loneliness of trying to find a place in a world that keeps shifting the rules. The poem ends in a kind of cosmic shrug: kingdoms trading, Everest souls challenged, time unmeasured, and the future already planned — leaving the speaker suspended between longing, critique, and the stubborn persistence of imagination.