There is no doubt that the future is the shape of the past
When the worry of the money is the jape of those who finish last
In the hands of the empty who do not write the cheques everyday
As journalists and typists who get paid when they say…

Something is here for me in the Rishi Files of yesteryear
Which told Om and Shanti as if the ThIrD WoRlD WaR was very near
To be scared off from print media who cleared the cellar to wine like Arjuna
And go home each night a winner with wounds shared from some poor fella.

Stretch and yoga this way and bend and yoga that way
These were the tests in the past in Maida Vale:
That is the modernism of finding influences in the 2020s
Something light for everyone as the body goes through New Age hell.

There will be wounds when the record is the recovery as well as the victory
Of pain in the particulars when silence was séance and some old man’s Vasectomy
To neuter the gender general for the Nazi, Gypsy, Oik and even the Navaho
So that Ukraine stepped back an equal for a Eurovision and some Ivanho.

Step back and let Dr Zhivago handle something on a Saturday afternoon
Before Hollywood gets banned for handling what a Cancer would not see off too soon
From the ambulance chasers and the cinema queens who vicinity fair the merry go round
And show up in the newsdeals like a telephone money fundraiser and mad go around.

Madness
Madness, I tell you, MAD!
These are the Stardates of the Bon Voyages fair thee well and Ennui.
Inuit and Intuitive will you sell me back my soul
If I have lost my only hope to Obama for Joe the Worker’s droll

AI Summary

The poem reflects on how the future keeps repeating the patterns of the past, especially in politics, war, media spectacle, and the spiritual anxieties of modern life. It moves through references to journalism, yoga culture, global conflicts, and pop‑historical figures to show how public crises seep into private consciousness, turning everyday life into a theatre of dread, satire, and déjà vu. The speaker feels trapped between cultural expectations, geopolitical noise, and the absurdity of contemporary “wellness” narratives, all while wrestling with the sense that society keeps recycling its wounds — from ancient epics to modern wars, from Hollywood myths to political fundraising. Beneath the humour and exasperation lies a deeper fear: that meaning, hope, and even the soul itself are being bartered away in a world where history loops, leaders disappoint, and the ordinary person is left searching for a goal that still feels human.

Goal.