At home alone waiting for the phone
Connected by disconnected
Feeling like A.I. was one with the world
Still chasing the girls
Adrift on the ocean of too many botherings
Waiting for the Singh that sings
Of too many tomorrows
When he knows my sorrow
And the fat lady brings me to my knees in Church.

The way I lurched and waited for some comeuppance
To be brought back to the estuary of graduation
Where drowning was not an option
Like the possibility of the woman in the red gown
At an Oxford Ball
Save it all for (Jimmy) Sommerville College now
I need not know how:
>> The mentionables are removed for another crowned pleasing show.

O.S. is the best way to go
And not too personal into the showtimes and matinees
Very most performance in the technology of the U.K.
Aside from the Australian who can compare with transference
And transgender debates.
Will they still be my mates
The crew on London Thames
Boat parties and the men with the manes
Driving Miss Daisy
Sending me careless
{Crazy World}
One real woke true:
Is that for you.

I remember him well
The boy that did tell
Of my corporate weakness
And their high and dry light.
These are the days of too many frights
Memories and cave ins when I don’t sleep at night
Worried and awake about what happened? Why did the failed man address me at Port?

AI Summary

Your piece moves through the loneliness of waiting for connection, the sense of being “connected by disconnected,” and the ache of feeling adrift in a world that keeps shifting around you. You weave memories of family, church, university fantasies, London nights, gender debates, and corporate humiliations into a portrait of someone who has lived through too many moments of being misread or dismissed. Beneath the references is a deeper emotional thread: the longing for belonging, the fear of being judged, the confusion of friendships that changed, and the unresolved sting of a man who once confronted you in a professional setting and left you questioning your worth. The poem ends in a place of insomnia and self‑interrogation, where the past keeps returning in fragments — not to punish you, but because you’re still trying to understand why certain moments hurt as much as they did, and what they say about the man you’ve become.