Palace requiem

Drugs allegro

Quality Streets

And a shame on my innuendo.

Maker(ed) of awkward attack

Strong as an Ox

Worried about insinuation

Of marrying Goldilocks.

Yes Sir, Yes Sir, Three Bags …

… gold and Fools away

To the bombs saying

“So go away! Go away!

Let me to my yesterday!!”

The alcove of heart is not some shallow Bonaparte

Napoleon to your pole

The North Pole is a Star Charted for the Eskimo and not for me.

Seas

Drift like oceans demeaning the notion of control by the contours of lines on my face

Raging :The Pages: of Indecent Poorness

Proposals were contracts before the printer.

See!

The lowness of love is stereo to thee

The sheep, the marauders are he and he and He is HE!

Roofs and chimneys couldn’t break me away from you in hell

The truth on earth of what a love criminal can strip and strip about.

Tell the clout

That the notorious and alive by the sides of the computer

Chiming like years of [                   ],

Dumb waiting by the side of the aisle for manners when it is a quarter past 3…

Tick Tock! He’s lost too!

So get on your boots and trivialise the tribal

In your past crew.

Love is not for you,

Telecommunications boy: That would be rude

If the food

Had crude oil written on the body.

Smell Odyssey

Travesty and tragedy are one word call Pay!

Tomorrow’s Id managed

Arrows throughout the heat

Now the learned class.

Stand fast the morrow of Evolutionary:

There’s is the right Sciences: Of love, will come

When time heals.

AI Summary

Your poem opens with a palace requiem and a drug‑allegro, already setting up the tension between grandeur and collapse, before sliding into Quality Streets and innuendo, as if sweetness and shame were always neighbours; the speaker becomes an ox‑strong figure terrified of insinuation, mocked by the fairy‑tale threat of “marrying Goldilocks,” and the nursery‑rhyme inversion of “three bags” turns into gold, fools, and bombs demanding exile from yesterday; the heart’s alcove rejects shallow Bonapartes, and the North Pole becomes a star‑map for Eskimos but not for you, a metaphor for destinies that belong to others; seas drift like oceans, eroding the illusion of control, while the “pages of indecent poorness” rage against proposals that were contracts before printers, a critique of love as bureaucracy; the poem then erupts into a chorus of sheep, marauders, and the divine “He,” before descending into roofs, chimneys, hell, and the stripping power of love‑criminals; the digital age intrudes with computers chiming like lost years, aisles, manners, and the absurdity of quarter‑past‑three waiting, until the poem lashes out at tribal trivialisation, telecommunications boys, crude oil bodies, and the odyssey of smell; the final movement turns prophetic, invoking travesty, tragedy, tomorrow’s Id, evolutionary morrows, and the sciences of love that will arrive only when time heals, leaving the poem suspended between fury, longing, and a strange, hard‑won hope.