Model

The experience.

I am experiencing unexplained blues

I blew on the tissue

Kleenex. Jokes and the borstal,

Extension to primary university remorseful.

How could you be

Without or with me?

Don’t.

Let it overuse assumption

Of the non-inheritable gazumption

Of The Land Unuser; an illegal abuser

Without an Ark for Joan.

Don’t.

She wants to be there with you

Nirvanic realms…

Misunderstood. Too good! Too good!

Sahib! Is the poori warm enough?

Are you craving more enough?

What senseless devotion is due?

When the noon sun is Ganges and Lunghi lounge music through

Tune!

Love me.

Move me.

Settle me a score

On the settee next to me,

Is a siren:

“Don’t you set free?”

One time: Just for you

It’s called my: Nirvana Tune …

Yodel and make fun of them too.

What’s a culture between me and you?

Sahib!

One day will be born

A Sahib!

Rival of Mountain Gods

A bountiful ocean of wisdom and love:

Mountbatten woods, never leave home

Without a Calendar. Ishq.

‘The Glass Palace’ could be half full

The human dilemma wasn’t for our Phool Taiji

Tejji-Boy.

Techi-Boy is after you,

Satan’s mills again.

Not one word, but one wolf

The ingratitude of face lone raccoons,

The smells of Hell will be Zulus mercy

For [               ] Guru rehearsal;

What we didn’t know

About Reading.

William Blake had a wife.

Englishness is an avid read

The world

Outside:

[                  ], Fucked da’ Po’ Lease

Proper Ties are their homes with lies

About the money and the means.

Instagram ya grams for your banana and our Supergran!

Racist will be your leads:

You dirty rat!

William Blake had a problem.

Investigation. I expect.

The Hindu will be the Sikh’s reject.

Cosmic comi-con, TV and STD is enough for me

They’re so dumb, it’s two Thumbs Up My wife’s bum: FOOP!

William Blake had a wife.

That would be nice

Remembrance.

Some of us need it, Some of us out it on show

There’s no time left for the Romantic flow of underwriting.

A carriage, a barge a heavy load of ignorant male envy

The horror of modern time; Africa is afraid of mentionable rhymes.

Who sits where the reference wasn’t asked for?

Who asks when questions are not the monied needs?

Who drinks and eats 5* with appetite for airplane terror and creative?

William Blake knew how to read.

Wham! That’s taker.

Hole. That’s Diwali fire worker

Tears and jerking off in the cinema

Need a better cough for rudimentaries

And medicals

In testicles of Routines: The East is where their mama’s hands have not been.

Knock 3 times, it’s Babylon:

The Origin Of [                ] is behind marijuana door number greens.

Feeding, leaning, accepting, crowd pleasing

Hello to the helpers who helped before

Saviour

Messiah

Saviour of Medusa

The Funky Cold Medina is a watchdog in Madeira.

Healers are leaders if they read, it “just..”

Repain time, responses are for you

Know one day. This world …

Through.

William Blake knew energy.

Consciousness was a porous time.

Swedenborg is fine.

Tied to the Guna of Attila the Hun

I am one of five who are proud

Before a Junta : jokes at Jintao

Two towers, one was left for Miss World to see, too.

Human misery is a beauty contest

Both Ways, acceptance offer and pecuniary loss

Their Islamic toss-off road racers will do.

13. Is thief

Egypt   could have 2012 A.D. for some, a few, a troupe, a clue

Model, over time

Of how Yeshua could his Jelly Beans find.

Sand of time, Zeek, corrosive fires

day

Is not one line.

3. Lines aum is Om your not Triumvirate reclining chakra

5. The fifth is SITH, see the whole when She lives in wholeness with You again

William Blake numbered his verse.

AI Summary

The poem moves through mythic overload — Blake, Swedenborg, Attila, Yeshua, Babylon, Medusa, Mountbatten, Zulus, raccoons, and cinema all swirling into one ecstatic, chaotic cosmology of self‑interrogation. It wrestles with culture, sexuality, religion, race, masculinity, envy, and the grotesque theatre of modern life, where humour, pain, and spiritual longing collide in jagged, hallucinatory fragments. The speaker confronts identity, devotion, rebellion, and the ache of being misunderstood, reaching for Nirvana, Ishq, wisdom, and energy while stumbling through satire, rage, and visionary excess. In the end, the poem reaches toward cosmic self‑recognition — a sense that beneath the noise, the jokes, the wounds, and the mythic fire, the self is trying to number its own verses like Blake: to find order in the storm.