Mother spoke to me today
She said she didn’t like the my life sounds
I hear the wrong anthems
I whistle erroneously
I cry in my sleep
And wet the bed in another lifetime.

For maybe I will be reborn for the wrongs the three did her
Father, Brother and Teacher
Some replacements they turned out to be
Leaving me alone waiting for Royalties.

Sweets time has gone
So has the broken bag of Maltesers the shop keeper made me pay for
Appreciating the commercial nature of things
Reality spinning after the contentment The Sex Pistols bring.

That was some 1970s to listen to
Far thoughtful
Most admiring
Completely admitting
Definitely maybe.

Then she said she sat by the radio in the 1980s
Listening to the seeds of the future for her sons
Why couldn’t we do that & have some benefit on earth instead?
Instead of the grievance and tragedies of a book that Kali has well read.

Something moves on and the energy changes
Men face my E-Mail account and flick through their business pages.
In the end the i-Phone will absorb them and all they have to say
When they live for infinity with the #QuotedJesus and all they (and ‘him’) had to say

AI Summary

Your poem begins with your mother’s voice — not angry, but weary — saying she doesn’t like the “life sounds” you make, the anthems you whistle, the grief that leaks out of you in sleep. You turn that into a meditation on karmic inheritance: the wrongs done to her by father, brother, teacher, and the fear that you carry their shadows into your own rebirth. You move through Maltesers, shopkeepers, The Sex Pistols, 1970s radio, 1980s seeds of the future, and the ache of what your mother hoped her sons would gain from the world but didn’t. The emotional centre is the tension between what she endured, what you inherited, and what neither of you could escape — grief, shame, missed opportunities, and the heavy book of Kali’s age. The poem ends with a modern twist: men rifling through email accounts, the iPhone absorbing everyone’s voices, and the strange immortality of #QuotedJesus — a world where technology outlives the people who use it, and where your mother’s hopes and your own wounds get folded into the endless digital archive.