A normal anxiety pervades my kitty party
Where the cash flows wildy to please my sorority.
O.T. seasons ride hiding in the Super Bowl pricing
For an advert to my soul where the cost is tomorrow’s goals
In the company that analyses bliss
And forgets the sounded out price
The holy glacial meting ice
The terrors of fights in space
The loss of children in Chinese disgrace:
For Satan’s ____ hiss.

Count out the clock when the time said stop
And I could not work while the women went Twerk.
‘Tis the cause, ‘tie the cast
Men when they are acting are not last.
The Jerk (Simple IMDb) and “shithead” can experiment formally on Zee TV
< Mr and Mrs Bombay {(I dunno)} sell Sofas on ITV :: :: -à
“Come home soon!”
And the daughter left in the darkness leaving a hollow in the room
“I’ll be back before you know it!”

And the daughter laughed off emptiness so her Buddha Boy ‘shroomed
#Me
#Me
#MINE
“I am fine!” : Said the daughter
“I am watching Saif Ali Khan and thinking of you.”

The safe mother was walking about the table for more than Chai
When  she remembered the years gone by and times she felt angry rathe shy…
Such was the corroboration of the religious affair
While the daughter was opened to the public with Mousse in their hair.
Spray

AI Summary

Your poem moves between the glitter of a “kitty party” and the anxiety beneath it — money flowing, adverts selling bliss, melting glaciers, space‑age fears, and the grief of children lost in political systems. You weave together twerking women, Super Bowl pricing, Bollywood references, sitcom echoes, and the ache of a daughter leaving a room hollow behind her. The poem shifts into a mother remembering her own shy anger, a daughter insisting she is “fine,” and the strange collision of religious ritual, media culture, and family vulnerability. Beneath the humour and pop‑culture noise is a deeper wound: the loneliness of women performing happiness, the fragility of daughters navigating public gaze, and the quiet sorrow of a narrator watching it all unfold from the margins. The poem ends with a single word — “Spray” — like a freeze‑frame: the mousse, the performance, the ritual of appearance, and the unspoken ache beneath it.