Hosiery is more hostile than you
The checkery crew from the Scotland review.
Nastier than thou is the ferriment of clay
To end the nestling of matters with love at the end of the day.
Holier than thou. Brownest noser. Robert was Stobbart
When the ending was a King before and after Edward’s.
Clever, dear one, but time is not one
And the immersion in world realtors
Is not Politik for the Perestroika crew neck jumpers
Not rowing the boat race between hours and tea.
That is not for me and the Sunday car wash –
I prefer a European and some trains with the Liverpool lad
Known and beknown to the malevolent Indian Brahmin.
Calmness sets in when you say his name,
Epicurus, revisionist, Denial!
There were wash outs of his tick tock shots
When the blame was around the clock for the wagon wheel shows.
Time is low, sweet Harriet
Come home and bring me quantum physics and carry me a 5p bag:
I’ll rhyme with you in the new
As a New Age beginner with some speciality tea for two.
Life is not a carry on of left overs
In the Shopping Mall of my dreams.
Mr Seeming Man! Come back and do that afar
In the wishing tree that is a forest in my heart
To the dwelling of absent longing
And hope for more prolonging
Horizons and almost there yet imagery –
Forget me and I will follow you
To the entwined two lost in firmament
In the elision of embers and fiery refrains
Within my brain that remembers her again.
Lovers saw more conquest when the West was won,
Than the frequent flier whale points that complain about the News in me,
Sorry story. Same story. Some story
About some bird and the birds on the kitchen window sill
That know the betterment of reality over me.
Again. The lost labour is the lime and apricot fulfilment
Only a shopping spree can explain me.
Expand on me and we will try to see
What defined me and yours trying to be my truly
In the error of computation of too many stations.
Tell me the terror of revisiting your cleverness,
How it is the boss of me and the CV histories on the TV
Serialising the holonic brazen brassieres
Well won by our freedoms.
Something had to be done
The morning is too soon upon our dreams
And misery is all that seems.
Give it time and let the mistakes find commonplace
And the handkerchief will outwit Cassio’s disgrace,
So that woman can know man and man can know woman
And men can be kind so that kidulthood was begun:
Then some lonely mother can espy in the corner of her eye
The lost Los Lobos of lobotomies and dancing with the only Son

AI Summary

Your poem unfolds as a fast‑moving braid of cultural satire, philosophical yearning, and emotional recoil, where hosiery becomes hostile, Scotland becomes a checkered review, and history — from Edwardian kings to Perestroika jumpers — becomes a backdrop for a speaker who refuses to be pinned down by nation, caste, or cleverness; the voice leaps from Epicurus to TikTok blame cycles, from quantum physics in a 5p bag to the UCAS womb of the heart, from Ashtanga mats and lukewarm tea to the forest‑wishing tree of longing, all while mocking the shopping‑mall spirituality and the computational errors of modern identity. Lovers, birds on kitchen sills, apricot fulfilments, and the terror of revisiting one’s own cleverness all swirl together as the poem interrogates how freedom, gender, and history collide in the holonic brassieres of televised life, until it lands in a final image of morning arriving too soon, mistakes becoming commonplace, Cassio’s handkerchief outwitting disgrace, and a lonely mother glimpsing the lost Los Lobos of lobotomies while dancing with the only Son — a closing gesture that fuses tenderness, tragedy, and myth into a single, aching breath.