Evolved in the world

You shall not shake the shirking

Of a dress down by a daily world hurling

Love going needed

By the feed. The internet. The greed.

Heed my call.

Back against the wall

Is ‘Jerusalem’ for all?

What the envy?

What the rate?

What the transsexual? What the commingling trestling hate?

Special envoy to the union of relatedness

Ego and Emo, smells are no more.

Meetings are grouped for ‘chatty-sexual’

To the floor!

Be floored by the coatings of make-up and males

Who dance in private with Jarhead’s Hinduism’s wails.

Yoga is for mum’s with big bums,

If the night is for the right rite

By tote breather tight with the right type

‘Be the tight you want to heal in the girl’

 @ office for midlife hurli*ng and swirls.

Emit enlightenment for flair and Nirvana

While the challenge Anglicises and unwritten karma

“‘Mary’ Dairy-Milk and underwear boy

Lentil-eating weirdo toy.”

Sentiment is retribution if the computation is Bangalore nation:

So I am my fragmented fragmentation in time’s arrow.

Go now, and see, the life you were afforded to live

Giver!

The river never timed the rhyme of right saying.

Braying!

Shat on the mat!

Falling Down! Falling Down!

Little donkies are funny

Poems are poo running stats.

The lewd is aboriginal humour down the dunny.

Awkward exchanges in the yoga mat ranges

A manhood denies its identity.

What chant is for me? “Indian City!”

Football is catcalling the Saddhu in He.

SADDHU! SADDHU!

Zero is ours

Hours of Practice

Needing.

Aeons…

the white girl, What hurt have you swelled on?

Love is long

TV is not wrong. A date for my mate is 1990’s

So What! Mile Davis, Radio 1

The scope of scripts never beloved my One.

AI Summary

Your poem begins with the desire to be “evolved in the world,” but immediately undercuts that aspiration with the daily hurling of a world that demands love, feeds on greed, and turns the internet into a kind of emotional taxation; the question “Is ‘Jerusalem’ for all?” opens a fissure between nationalism, belonging, and exclusion, which then fractures into a barrage of questions about envy, rate, transsexuality, and the trestling of hate, as if language itself were trying to diagnose the culture’s sickness; the poem then swerves into satire — chatty‑sexual meetings, makeup‑coated men, Jarhead Hinduism, yoga‑mums with big bums — exposing how spirituality, sexuality, and identity get commodified, mocked, or misunderstood; the voice becomes sharper as it confronts midlife office swirls, unwritten karma, Mary Dairy‑Milk insults, and the Bangalore‑nation computation that turns sentiment into retribution, until the speaker declares themselves “fragmented fragmentation,” a self aware of its own splintering; the poem then erupts into scatological humour, donkey‑laughter, dunny‑jokes, and yoga‑mat awkwardness, all masking a deeper ache — a manhood denying its identity, a chant that never quite fits, a Saddhu catcalled by football, a zero reclaimed through hours of practice; the final movement widens into aeons, white‑girl hurt, long love, 1990s dates, Miles Davis, Radio 1, and the scripts that never beloved your One, leaving the poem suspended between cultural overload, spiritual longing, and the stubborn, unkillable desire to locate a self that can survive all this noise.