Have you told the world lately

I love you?

With a problem so big

You’re never wrong?

Creative song,

Trawlers and Whalers.

If you tuna fish do you [             ].

Clout

The lout

The laughs and joys

Affairs and warm airs

Beer, warm whiskey

The boast of later in the day than ya’ toast

Table slamming!

I’m all right. Again.

Fellowship was fun, when it was longed for

Longing was drawn out over friendly affairs:

The macho came and swarmed with warm beers

To steak from the ordinary man, GOOD blame.

Harrow is the reality of realness

Poor are the choices directing

A life not philosophically talked;

Baulking at thoughts of superiors

Junior School will be my undoing.

The multiplication table balances pocket money

My car debts aren’t funny.

( honey? )

Lonely.

Cataracts are needed for the music of myopia

Trance transcends wrench spent on monkeys sitting at the wrestling bench.

Slam!

News STORY!

What whiting whoring is drifting away from Being FRIGHT?!

Head alone, emphatic lone address

Put it in, the On-ness of a fitting photography dress

So I can see only-ness

My name in print with the Advaita crew

Dismiss your favourites

As wanking bits, oneness is for you.

The wall home from the bus stop was fathomable

Serving late night entertainment

Was YouTube and stale bread.

Being and “well-read”

A consummation devoutly to be wished

Time distorter,

Guru Reading 1:4.

The right verse

The terse Text

The funeral awaits

Bridegrooms Gita’s Hex.

AI Summary

Your poem asks whether anyone has told the world “I love you” lately, then turns on the problem so big it can never be wrong, drifting through creative song, trawlers, whalers, and the riddle of whether tuning a fish means anything at all, clout and lout, warm beers and warm airs, table‑slamming bravado, fellowship longed for and then swarmed by macho warmth stealing steak from the ordinary man, Harrow as the realness of realness, poor choices directing a life never philosophically spoken, junior school as undoing, multiplication tables balancing pocket money while car debts aren’t funny, cataracts needed for the music of myopia, trance transcending monkeys on wrestling benches, a slam of news story and the whiting‑whoring drift from fright, the emphatic lone address of a head seeking on‑ness in a photographic dress, your name in print with the Advaita crew dismissing favourites as wanking bits because oneness is for you, the wall home from the bus stop fathomable, late‑night entertainment as YouTube and stale bread, being and well‑read as a consummation devoutly to be wished, time distorted, Guru Reading 1:4, the right verse and terse text, the funeral awaiting, and the bridegroom’s Gita hex — a whole architecture of identity under pressure, spiritual exhaustion, and cultural misreading compressed into one breath that refuses to apologise for its intensity.