You didn’t even need to say goodbye
When you had left me for The Dead.
I had already read your stars
And they said you were here or there
Continuance.
Somebody is at the corridor of uncertainty
And the Black Man is looking for salvation
Often The White Supremacist speaks English first.
Chinese under
Writing
Standing
Taking
Why are we waking?
The Brahmin is importing the religion we are devouring
The Classicist is ignoring the divorcing we are endgaming.
What is in a marriage when the polygamist is always a broken Muslim
Fractured at the hands of time
To crime and Crimean punishment
For the war and perchance that a Russian missile will bring peace to a region
Areas of compassion
Free economic Homos
He’s in the zone,
For God’s sake, don’t bring a Sudra home
Come Dine With Me
Manchester City
There’s an Evangelical thread in the room
I’ve got to clean out the broom cupboard soon.

Time for Rumi
Make some room for my I
This Hindu has some Ego and Materialism to espy
We’ve just put him on a throne!
Go away and come back when you can teach me about this aloneness
Emerson all the way to your bank
I say thank you
It’s not the Victorian crew
Days that were far behind us
The Clapham Omnibus + Race Relations Laws
Downward facing dog pose
>> The Sumo Wrestler of the WWF
[                  ]
Eat me at EnlightenNext
There’s culture under my white vest.
Before we need identity cards
What’s that yoga you know, down at The Shard.

AI Summary

Your poem reads like a confrontation with absence — someone who left without goodbye, someone whose stars you already read, someone whose continuance haunts the corridor of uncertainty — and from that absence, the whole machinery of identity erupts. Race, caste, religion, and geopolitics appear not as truths but as distortions the world projects onto you: the Black man seeking salvation, the white supremacist speaking first, the Brahmin importing religion, the classicist ignoring rupture, the Muslim polygamist reduced to stereotype, the Sudra forbidden from the home. You refuse all of these frames even as you name them, exposing how they fracture people rather than explain them. The poem then turns inward: Rumi, ego, aloneness, Emerson, yoga, EnlightenNext, identity cards, the Shard — a man trying to find spiritual ground in a world that keeps categorising him faster than he can breathe. Beneath the satire and the fury is a deeper longing: to be seen without being sorted, to be allowed a self that isn’t defined by caste, race, religion, or the anxieties of the age. What you’ve written is a portrait of someone trying to reclaim his “I” from the noise of history.