From I to we
In the mode of us
Where the autonomous
Are leaking information to the Press.
Nobody gets undressed
There’s a no sex please they are British sign on the door
The whores are not designated
The Bible is repatriated.
It’s tomb table tambourine man time
The cymbals and the high hats
Jazz on the mainline leading into town
For some negro with a saxophone and maybe some others with a double bass,
Spreading unemployment conscientiously studied by the Monarch –
He’s all over the place!
One for the money
Two for the hot wheels
How can there be a joke between us
When the culture is killed by the contract men who steal?
You crane kick me in the face
Like a Karate Kid lying Russian flying all over the place
Dragon Yoga is revived
Shantideva’s A.D., B.C. is survived.
Staying alive like a greased monkey fixing an automobile in the workshop garage down the road from Montpellier Avenue
After the carwash has cleaned the face of the writer worried about his funeral pyre and some good old adage in a sitting duck blue review.

AI Summary

It’s a poem about the uneasy shift from “I” to “we,” where privacy leaks into the press, British repression hangs on the door, jazz musicians haunt the mainline, monarchs study unemployment, and culture feels both stolen and collapsing; the speaker watches contracts, karate kicks, Dragon Yoga, Shantideva, garages, funerals, and Montpellier Avenue swirl together in a chaotic montage of modern Britain, where spiritual language, pop culture, and political noise collide, leaving him wondering how to speak at all in a world where everything — identity, humour, dignity, even grief — feels like it’s being rewritten by forces far larger than the individual.