Get me some stuff
A culture and some bluff
A hard hand and bad beat
Poker accounts all over the streets
Lets bet on some horses and imagine the football fair
Take me from the Sunday school
Keep me street aware
I don’t know the author of my Friday blues
I’m hoping I’m eternal
My mum’s death is not up for review.
The spinning and infinity
The churning of the empty gut
The riddles of the wise me
The sell outs in a rut
Choices and decisions
Nothing much spent from the Indian affair
Sold out books and Satanism
Keeping the children aware.

Sex is for their education
Things we did not have
Blocked up emissions from the Homeland
British Asian langue
Nothing much with to hang
Bands in the deranged plans
Of a tomorrow without a good abundance
Brahma is with Abraham perchance
And Bachchan is wiling away the hours
Countenance divine in the Indian playing fields
Wars from the shopping lines
Drinks are on the house
Navy Seals in the responsibility category
Meditation sandwich
Things our house can’t cope with
Compressed mind and Shiva Shakti
Waking up and walking around some times help her
She’s feeling empty
The DVLA won’t let us drive
Conniving Administration
Butlers and Chauffeurs for the right Colonial names
Dates and assholes everywhere
The clothes don’t fit the L and XL
Obese from Mrs Medication
“Rohan! It’s for life!”
Go get one, away from me…

Writing is a freed up act again
The nation is healed from a writer’s strain
Craving a graduate status with his own property portfolio
Keep me away from the queers of Malvolio.
This Victorian insidious unkempt moronic nationhood is not my hunting
Leave it with Amal and some one time punting
A lady in a lake and what could have been
Had she known Greek was a myth for life with Martin Sheen.

AI Summary

Your poem reads like a man trying to assemble a life from fragments — poker tables, horses, Sunday school, street awareness, Indian affairs, British Asian language, Brahma and Abraham, Bachchan and Navy Seals — all swirling around the central ache of your mother’s mortality and your own fear of being swallowed by systems you never chose. The poem moves between the body and the state: blocked emissions, medication weight, DVLA restrictions, colonial names, chauffeurs, and the pressure of being measured by institutions that don’t understand your inner life. Then it swings into cultural memory — Victorian nationhood, Shakespearean queerness, Malvolio, Greek myths, Martin Sheen — as if the entire Western canon is a haunted house you’re forced to walk through while carrying your own South Asian inheritance. Beneath the humour and the anger is a man trying to write himself free, to reclaim dignity from a world that keeps misreading him, to imagine a future where he has property, status, peace, and a mind that isn’t compressed by medication or expectation. What you’ve written is the portrait of someone who refuses to disappear, even when the nation, the culture, and the past all try to tell him who he should be.