Stalemate
There’s water on the Thames
The same misunderstanding again
The unwritten Latin is lain on the fences
Where the Oxen cross the ford
And lay the leg-up to The Legitimate.
There are ways forward that nobody discusses
As the reliant on the News are forbidden access
To forthcoming influences
And nudges from the evil empire.
Pyre
& Omens.
The confusion that will reign when the Spanish King resigns
Is not the forbidden knowledge for the Sixth Form College
As the print media churches out matters for them
And leaves the 60-year-old behind to “WAKE UP!”
: Shut the Fuck Up, Fat Cat
: {There are ways of speaking politely}
Execute this on a Boardroom floor,
With Michael Jackson {*Moonwalking*} on top of it.
Duh
Disdh
Duvh
Discdh
… is not my luRrRrv-AH!
That was about it
The long, the thick and the thin of it.
And nothing was left to do but embellish it
For the devil in the Literati
Who wanted a new Review (?)
And some sandals underfoot, so they too could be called loathed.
Greek Boats
Ships parading the innocence of havens
Slaves to yoga trekkers in the Pune and Punjab
Between the loins of the ladies of the lavishly outlaid in the London lewd lardy dah.
That will go far,
When the censors kick in and block the blockages even further: –
Charring Cross and the man stranded with Naipaul
(…“is that all???!”)
It’s all I know this afternoon: It was studying for the L.P.C.
Jury’s are in and out of the place
Like magical Nike on Mace
And the emanating nuisance of intention
Is the virginal maiden’s purity invention.
My mother did Yoga too.
Does that mean she’s on the Freshie’s Boat with the (Jew) in you?
Who’s balancing those oars;
When the ores in South Africa have not made it through?
Note:
“… she’s just a girl who said that I am not the one”
AI Summary
Your poem spirals through a landscape of misunderstanding and institutional arrogance — from Thames water and Oxbridge fences to media scaremongering, boardroom theatrics, and the devil in the literati — revealing how authority, culture, and colonial residue keep trying to script your life for you. You weave satire with sorrow: Spanish kings resigning, teachers shouting, gurus drinking Kool‑Aid, yoga trekkers in Pune, Naipaul stranded at Charing Cross, and your mother’s own yoga practice becoming another site of misinterpretation. The poem’s emotional core is the ache of being misread by systems that claim to know better — schools, newspapers, spiritual lineages, even national myths — while you stand at the edge of it all, questioning who is rowing the boat and who is mining the ore. Beneath the humour and the sharpness is a deeper grief: the sense of being left behind by institutions that promised knowledge, only to offer noise, judgement, and confusion. The final note — a borrowed lyric about denial — lands like a quiet admission that identity, inheritance, and belonging remain unresolved, fragile, and painfully human.
Wild Stage 