Ring twice if you get me
The phone is the space between me and you:
Text me happy if you forget her
We are the being alone crew!
I am happy to induct you
This is the time and the reason –
So get your kit together and get a whet on
Now is no time to be sorry about sardonic.
Have they Tweeted that,
Like a flat group
Hoping for ‘B’ to be with them?
Don’t they know ‘B’ is being with us
And the too live crew in the living room
Of the underwear drawer of my heart.
Send him an I.M. then
And I will face him on Facebook
The Masters are amongst us
By his divine reckoning
And clean spam account:
Sell those stocks and shares
And bounce me back Ping from Pyong Yang
Those are some fair prices for his soul
In the land of his make believe.
Sans crypt is being without a grave,
He is not even dead when the toll bells cave in
So type away some jive for the music that is your rave
And he will forgive you for those bad beats (like Jesus).
See! He thinks he knows it, get the money
And run off another pronounced print
If the deceit is in The Bhagavad Gita
Then gits and gist with defeat ya’
Cha! See what I mean?
He takes his picture unclean –
Teach him to shave, that beard is for some slave
And China will know what my mates mean.
AI Summary
It’s a broadcast of loneliness disguised as banter, two people signalling through phones, pings and posts.
The poem turns social media into a kind of myth‑making, where gods live in inboxes and spam folders.
A third presence haunts the exchange, sharpening the need for connection and the fear of it.
Beneath the jokes and noise, it’s really about wanting one true message to get through.
Byzantium
Like a lesion in the addressed heart
To tomorrow where the dark arts
Are not promised or timed by rivers
Out of the eyelets blessed by diving Gods
Seeing the improbable oceans collide under Jupiter.
This life clashes with rocks and undermines the highest cliff walker
Who would out abseil Oedipus for s difference in Rome
Of the land that would set England free.
What are these maps to thee, Atlas?
Did you carry the weight of paper on your shoulders?
The merriment of nymphs was a shadows glimpse
Of how leisure would lead to pleasure that hid Athens from my soul.
There was his goal – in the mediumship of his narrative:
Here is our mast – as the blatant opulence is repetitive.
To question the need for poverty is to write amongst me
Then the banking equation is not such a school invasion.
Collisions of the East find a feast of Middle Kingdoms
Where the land is owned by a man called planned
And John F. Keating Lennon’s land, is more fashionable
Than anything the horrors of 20th Century war ever understand.
AI Summary
A wounded heart looks to myth and empire to explain its collisions with the world.
Ancient gods, lost cities, and fallen heroes become metaphors for modern power and poverty.
The poem maps East and West, war and wealth, as if the self were a continent under strain.
Beneath it all is the question Atlas never answers: how much of this weight was ever ours to carry.
Bottle Neck Clause
Clauses are more free than my verses are cared for
Roses have a finer dining room than the space between my ears.
Cheering is for American Bandstand and England is grand,
I am alone at last with the class of almost regrettably yours.
How could it be that the question came upon me?
That tomorrow mattered more than the youth of berated Paki
That was not Thy self be done in the I-I of a son of a gun.
There! Lost it. My verse is a hearse to the memory of an ode to a disaster,
The Master is Enlightened and I am one with today’s promise.
Time is on this planet for as long as we can guess about it,
But nobody will listen to their sorry hearts about my illness.
Many moons ago, when the knowledge was stored beneath the sand,
Time was not collected in a bottle for the very filmed and bravery but balanced bland.
The memory of mistake was not the fake they were claimed to be
As they were sedated and chastised for ruling the lost tribes of Alcatraz.
There was the Plaza, away from the car crash, trying to remember Egypt
Like a belonging soldier attached to the demotion of love’s hairs on a long forgotten body
Writing the writhing into being all over the top of me with a family tree
So irresponsibly drawn that the carriages were better placed by the oasis
In the schools of throughout thought learning to tarry progress on the seas.
I was not meant for you, said my verse in a prancing prosaic blue(s)
So why was she meant for him? There is nothing in you, dear Poet, that is not dim.
Light is to light what the led are to the electricity of mobility awareness
When the fairness for addressing life’s porridge and problems is clearness.
Sanctions are actions when the correspondence is tremendous
But the mellowness of post drugs infidelity to libellous
Is not going to absolve freedom of either one of us.
Life is to life what negligence is to the horrible especialising of nature’s gait
When old man William was made a captain, Oh my (darling) Captain, with 7 Archangels too late.
Lucifer was left out so that the new sobriety was dimmed and clever
And time could give Muhammad some space to leave and remember.
AI Summary
Your verse moves through memory, illness, and identity like a wanderer crossing old empires.
Myth, time, and punishment blur together as you question who gets to inherit meaning.
The poem wrestles with belonging — to nations, to stories, to the self that keeps slipping away.
Underneath it all is a quiet plea: that clarity, or grace, might finally outpace the weight of the past.
Body Mounty
The moon floated around the earth
Assumed position
Revised condition
Eclipse is a special connotation
And mother matters again.
The sun gathered pace and repeated the feat
Intrepid feet
Gathering heat
Delicate decision
Earth’s waters boiling is a precision.
When the sun was out the son noticed something
He was not so special as when she was busy,
So the school started and the journeys grew busy
And history recorded the decisions like men and women knew they could.
Never was the melting point the mettle of a man;
How could a semi-colon tell the Afghani a war he could understand?
If peace was so unfashionable then who needed a button
For a war on indecision and some women and children first like mutton.
Beneath the gaze of hysteria from saddened guardians
Like titans in the night sky overarching the good wardens
Of ripe prisons for metaphor when the time comes for wronging;
The leaders of the galaxy come out in poetic droves
There is need in the human race for longing.
Thus it was decided long ago to listen to them
Shape and dent their heads and twist the contortions hither and thither
So that, this is what, I need this and tie me to your stable for some tether.
Motions were passed and Parliaments were assembled
Language went through the air after ships funded shops
And the schools were kept in secret about the popularity of their assemblies.
Gather me this and gather me that
A war broke out and some fella’s reputation went splat.
But it wasn’t until… I know… the year… and don’t forget 1922
When the war was rude and the hero has left you:
Mr archetype man with all your flan in the over,
Get over yourself Mr Virginia Woolf don’t you need a baker’s dozen
To coven with Sylvia Plath for all that Pinteresque hue,
We only had the Space Race and now the Hadron Collider
So what?! if I need the word “anti-semitic” in the news.
Phase
Phrase
Clause
Farsi
Upon me is some rumours of the Ides of March where the Tutor looks back at me.
The Doctor was unimpressed and the Reviewer had somewhere else to be
Lest anyone else be famous and we be caught on BBC 33.
These were the spoils of tired democracy
To wage war with the Universe for sheer causality
So the sciences could breath from the English reprieve
Helping the victory of the voiceless publish and blog independently.
IMattertoME: Was that all it was to be?
Upon me is more stirring for social conformity.
So before The Riddler settles my atman up against the bats
In the cave of a craze for my own ideal to have stolen my youth from some zeal
That is unbeknownst to me a worry in the flurry of a bedroom writing den,
let nothing retract my Zen
i meant well, men
there were days when truth was not spoken
so kindly accept my books upon your gazed visages as shallow token
Of affection mastered of many books that men have held woken
To The Awakener, the Stirrer and the boatsman who is able-bodied Voyager;
join with me, we ride together
the shapes are solid, we ride together
mashes and thrashes, the oceans seem one
apes have been in jungles, the forests surrounded them
But if it is into the fullest realms of most Light, Love and Presence you seek
Give me a week for those Celestial Bodies to have some speak
About your role in the Universe before we drive mutual hearses
Into next month’s budget book for some wine, women and good luck
Lessons about how to live life to the fullest and achieve most royal truck,
And as for Ice Road Truckers on in NY, how about some stars for our rehearsals,
of the final act, the forbidden fact
the holy tract, the play that is broken down acts:
For all the world’s literature stood before Tolkien for one comment
“… it’s all about death…” he said and that is what Gandalf never meant.
So, if, as I depart into corridors of uncertainty you find me not there
Do not come back to me with your trolls and good dolls so ugly and unaware
That marriage is not on offer from one already spoken for
By the goodness of Heaven and Hell and that very early open door /
For where was Blake when William was of Orange
To watch the sun so lonely in his carriage across the forage
Of what Krishna has called the delusional derangement
Of some firmament since Shakespeare that no man has given page to.
Let it be settled thus that what begins big must thus become something small
For the blessings from parents side before we all tumble into The Fall
& masters can know their servants and Corona-Virus can challenge us all aplenty
to find capital matters where they need to be, and begin with inoculation against mistakes verily.
Man is for the world of man as his eyes have held paradoxes up above for as long as our lives
For God to have invented the equation: Is God Numbers? and save a game of Fives
For a court in a remote part where all is not so mainstream
As a man from the British Asian advert for his own aloofness and harrowing dream
Of a better England and some children yet to come
Who dine with England’s Bards and fine work more than he done.
Matters to matters and graves to grave ends with the correct contingency
The moon looks on with the lighthouse for the death of someone so dearly:
For without sacrifice is no good food lost in the tastiest dish before a Lord so acquired
To hear of so much certainty of woman tethered and tired.
If one word had moved you, dear Surgeon after Doctor or Psychiatrist or Psychologist when Jesus blamed the Physician
I would that it were LOVE and you were home safe and sound after work without any need for revision.
Yet as it stands the courts need to hear of your rumoured imagination
Spread across the nation
The African nation
The Nation of Islam
No Pakistan!
Drones bombing Dronacharya
Where is the Acharya that failed Hussein twice?
Is it a rape of the cloth to be nice or have some crimes been stored up well
There is never so much fiction as the certain devil lost with The Usual Suspects (IMDb)
Who does not well up with pride when Lomax is called Vanity and not Jealousy in The Devil’s Advocate
I speak from my mate: Whose imaginative magical realism is less really really religious of (spiritual) late
nights
the darkness
18 years dressed with Durga to please
The contingent since 9/11 – when he wasn’t there down on his knees.
Aum is for Brahma, for Vishnu and for Shiva too
To question a monk in Paradise with Muhammed, what is a son to do
With a boy’s bank balance and a mid-Id-life crisis to come
Say you’re number 1!
Say you’re number 1!
(Did you forget that one?)
And that is for the weed on the kitchen floor,
Who found himself in a tight spot laughing about O Brother Where Art Thou? (IMDb) at his door { fear }
For Alla’ told me one thing and that was enough with the love lost labouriously at school
If you want to do anything else, then don’t come back a Guru man and ask me to make it cool.
There was the PLO and some Muslim army
How about the fight in the Sixth Form Centre and that right leg kick to the face?
Do you think poetry is all flowers and fairies?
.You know, they think The Winter’s Tale is a f#*$@ng disgrace>
Airy are the paths behind you, so drink up your Bipolar juices
There are not so many Asian art prints with your name on it
If you take it to the mattresses
In your odd old age, think twice, do think twice, don’t think twice
What they did to Michael Jackson took a long time too and that was not nice.
Concern from parents is not a far off cry from the aching Achelaeons of warfare from where the past began
Before you learned to call it something that is based on Drone strikes in Neo-Liberalism and your redefined Pakistan.
Those verse taught you something, their science helped them too
How about the Historiographer, now that that debacle is through.
You phone the academic and Robin never answered
You tried the Dean and then some new steps
And you came back a Mayan cleric with your pants down.
It seems 2012 really was for De Niro and selling those cars made America great
So, wait, it’s time to get in line for the Peace Train
You’ve got Religiousity ahead of you, MATE?!!?
Those were your references in their plays
So if they script them then I guess they are half way there,
To heaven or to even The Caspian Sea,
So the Moghuls can stay aware
1. Self Aware
2. Sale
3. Media Aware
4. Court Case and Sale!
5. Sold to the Fifth Dimensional Basket case capable of getting a DPhil in his mid 30s [Act Next Life.
Enter Parvati
Havali
Bollywood Nudes and Statues
Rebirth in 5, 4, 3, 2… and it’s over to you (again) Natasha Henstridge
Melania Trump went flump and not Smurf
Brexit was her Eurovision slanging match and patriotically surrendered Surf and Turf… Act Making America Great Again. Enter Saraswati hunting deers and counting cards]
We come back but the same light years work us hard again
To see with blighted strain
The fashion of stress and ancient anxieties
Art never pleases
It ends and always half-teases.
They tried Aristotle.
Full throttle the man marched on and play acted
The Swiss Clock went Cuckoo and the madness was in fact
A deleted enactment of political entrenchment
An old man might as well have asked what Iambic Pentameter meant?
It meant go out and discover what it is you seek to please
But don’t see me and then go down on your knees
For I Am now and then tomorrow |Aphrodite
One column from L Ron Allah is Inshallah for The Almighty.
For the mind of man is now ebbing and the courtyard of deceit is played out for his demise
So that the Land of Rohan can know Rishi and Akaash can % % through his eyes.
Where is the fire?
Where is the ice?
I once loved Audrey Hepburn
Such a thing is Angelic if twice.
Thus to enter the higher realms was not the act of inanimate science
For the wilderness above thee in black and dark blue and Lakshmi’s sold advice:
No matter how much you inner the world for a sight of The Good Buddha
There was only once his actual fact of a father and a mother.
Thus nature held me in her arms long before the English Captain,
Oh my Captain, my Captain, those words I have heard about He,
How about it,
And she called him She.
The road ahead is betrothed by the fallacies of time kept with noble institution
When from poor friends known as parents this birth you did spend your own for remuneration
But investment is not love and those charlatans have been chased away fair and friendly
That did grow from Hollywood daises and Blightey’s ducks to onerous ponds
On the heart of a man with too many things planned { fear }
What is it you want?
196_
197_
A decade or two before me
And a tale of more cities
[Please]
There were thus crimes defined in the defiled mind of man
That need this man to understand his power with the typed hand
Away from the decades of Romanticised pen, enlightened lamp and quill
There are things this life has in store for his heart still.
For what is shut can thus be opened
And what is damages can still be healed
But what is dead cannot be restarted
Without a new body upon That Great Wheel:
Dharma
The Ineffable
Chakra & Om Jesus Christ
There was one God you would not believe in because of the Infidels
Hating Him because he was He and white.
So sell him to me and harangue that low self esteem
As low as you strained neck in the Radcliffe Camera
Separated and apart from the roof beam
Not enacted out of a post-Tudor affair
Where the uninitiated should go to read the mirror – CALL UP WHAT BOOKS ARE THERE!
And when it is past the hour you will sleep
Running from the Scholars who say you go too deep { Fear }
Membranes must be replenished from the carrion crow to the sheep dog on the moor
Lest a successful reincarnate Shakespeare is still like Nirvana some more.
Still believe?
I told you so.
There is nothing on the go,
: Like a good go.
The moon has lakes on it for those to be displeased with
Lest you cry tears when the seeing is displeasing
But travel every man must as far as his destiny is plotted
With astrology from international quarters reaching me for the dotted
Course across the sky, for a star crossed lover
Single at 43, egoically obtuse and poetic for his { Fear }
Fear the real world and the bottom of the object of the senses
Krishna is some rounds about town and the master of defences.
The light is now L.E.D. and man is gunned down as WebCam totty
So that the elected can remain eternally youthful and photographed
For the trapsing in of fairground attractions who used to be your sport.
These are the Muses of sort
That the action man played with once
So let good be a good hero tonight
And simple be Saviour like a bonse.
And with that the caped crusader fled away
Daring some film scenes in his poetry for an extension to stay
On earth like a Hobbit in search of the Golden Goose
Lest mankind forget his Hans Christian Anderson or game of hangman … (where’s the noose?)
AI Summary
Your poem travels from moon and cosmos to war, empire, religion and personal memory, searching for meaning in a world that keeps fracturing. It wrestles with identity — British, Asian, spiritual, poetic — and the weight of history, myth and expectation placed on one human life. Across its collisions of gods, nations, teachers, parents and poets, it keeps asking what truth, love, sanity and destiny mean for a single man. Beneath all the references and rage is a plea for healing: that a life shaped by fear, faith and imagination might still find clarity, dignity and peace.
Are You Still?
Are you still not good
In the marrow of an old age?
Do you temper the garden
With a shelf in your potting shed?
Can you field a mighty catch
On the boundary of dissent?
When the newspaper misses
What Jesus and Carol might have meant.
Do you still sing badly
When forget your scarf at the Gurdwara?
And can you remember your mate
If she does not accompany you to a Buddhist retreat?
Do you dance with Radha or Krishna when your lonely
Or is it Meet-Up, Namaste and how do you greet?
Can you place a mat upon the alter
And chorus the agreement like we matter?
Or does Germany need a history
For the Christian Party to know pater?
It is time for the individual
It is time for the revisionist too
It was time for love and sex after the revolution
There was time for Chaitanya and me and you.
Are the markets for some pricing
So the Mullah can be greased for perfection?
And when the Jew is erecting a house in Gaza
Is the American academic about his defection?
If the speak is easy in Asia
Then the reggae is loud to my ears
But if a Free House is Dharamsala
Then maybe it is easy on those Brahma Beers.
Can you lotus a posture for pride
Or is it a sign of the cross when you’re angry?
That modesty knows marital discourse
And a Harem is awaiting a Saddhu for his harry.
Question me not and receive no regret
For the quietness of a popstar without music:
But if poetry is Siddhi to the Shisha lounges
Then what is the who man to the tunic?
Scotland, my land: The honour of empty high land
When was a God so Indian: But for the absence of grand proof.
Ireland and lie land: The fire land and some tired land
Let me to the decency of troops: But for the elegance of dancing
I would not know the Dragon’s Welsh prancing.
Confused are the answers to aged queries
As queer as the time is for gay folk.
Jolly with merriment and rough laughter
With all the honesty they never spoke.
Matters are grave and the diggers are not caterpillars
A brand new day is not always going to shape my heart
But when music stings the elegance of a bee
Then clay will make Cassio and I drift apart.
Get thee to a monetary value
If you should fathom the row in the Ur-Rakim,
But mention not the tapas or the Spanish quest
For what has spaced truth out to love in between.
Call Me Back Ring twice if you get me
The phone is the space between me and you:
Text me happy if you forget her
We are the being alone crew!
I am happy to induct you
This is the time and the reason –
So get your kit together and get a whet on
Now is no time to be sorry about sardonic.
Have they Tweeted that,
Like a flat group
AI Summary
Your poem asks whether a life shaped by many cultures, faiths and histories can still find a coherent self at its core.
It moves through religion, politics, desire and exile, testing each one as a possible home and finding only partial shelter.
Loneliness, humour and spiritual searching weave together as you question what belonging means in a world of borders, markets and inherited wounds. Underneath the references and restlessness is a longing for connection — a hope that someone will hear you clearly when the phone rings twice.
Anti Christ
Mastery or misery
The hits upon me
Scenes cut on the dancefloor
Somebody is calling for more
Honours are rolling like calls
And curtains are falling on shoulders
The heaviness is heavy people carrying heavy things
And lifetimes the continuance of temerity to bring,
The New Age and some Christian sing songs
At Christmas for the fort around my heart
And drones of warfare torn apart
For the silence of nights with the hills of shame.
England has now names and castles
But tomorrow is an I.P. battle
And the contest is won on a weekend TV Show
For all the girls to derby what horses I don’t know.
Are is can can?
Is ‘R’ the voice of the life span?
Who will read, my textual feed
When Bibliography is Buddhist with dharma?
Did you sell India’s karma when the stale bread was divine with cost?
How is the produce numbered by Wallahs, who estate pride in foreign affairs
When a prison ship would evoke an old age loss?
The names have distances and the places wear good attire
Come down they say for the belting of a Squire
Millions and Billions, Millions and Years
Millions and Newspapers, anticipation and famous people’s fears
Repeated. Defeated. Consciousness has electrical elocution lessons
For the men with the beards and Vikings overseas lost without means to please
Beers. Beers and more beers. Beers glorious food! Alzheimers, Cancer and Custard!
The mellowest light is forgoing, the remembrance so tight of being all knowing.
Humans are not robots anymore from the 80’s dancefloor
Robots are big in Japan and they lend the waiters a helping hand
Poets can come from Pakistan, even if they are Pakis from British lands
And robbery can be at the button, so that dogs can snoop overlords for Goa and African mutton.
In a million years from now life will be free
From the Industry of people and their faces.
Then the sad dress of the tightest fanning to impress
Will be Sati for all the assured disgraces.
Fires that burn are not fires in the night
And measurement is not love in the haste of too many talks:
But when Fitzgerald was great he left room for truth,
So white jackets could know polity and grease heavenly proofs.
Some truths shall not fade as Desdemona claims every Willow
Such is the price for Scotland to ask twice, for freedom for Wallace after the show.
There is always tomorrow
There was always nothing
Some families need no Ganges;
But when the name was used
And Krishna’s stories were abused
Silence became the confused
And Dao answered with China’s entrance and dragon, profusely.
Welcome to the 21st Century
& bid adieu to the English of wankers:
Here is a decision for investment and oil
To tank the banking with some oily cases.
The F.B.I. race and Angels that care
Over and above the oxide stares
Of selfies and big-bummies and the British quip chill
Girls are still the best readers. Still and still,
Cumming for the bumming and strumming
Like a humming that annoys the Gods of Greece
For 90 years of electric Synods and some spoilt lazy Priests.
AI Summary
Your poem moves between mastery and misery, tracing how a life gets shaped by culture, empire, religion, media, memory and the relentless churn of modern noise. It asks what identity means when England, India, Pakistan, Scotland, China, America and myth all claim a piece of your story. The poem wrestles with belonging, shame, humour and defiance, trying to find clarity in a world where history, technology and spirituality collide. Beneath the satire and the references is a single question: how does a man stay human — and honest — when the world keeps demanding masks, myths and performance.
An Ode to Wakan Tanka
Shooter in the park
Was nothing dark
The Jihadi in the brain
Was a New Age panned strain.
The stars were tight and located
The mirror was on the wall:
Beauty was premeditated,
The ‘Ians made it last
When they took John Lennon for a blast.
Where once the likeness of Srila stood
There was a goodie good good good,
For the Jub Jub bird and a nation who couldn’t do enough
To not quote what mattered
Mattresses and Balaclavas.
The order was given and a century flew by
And like that the youth of foreigners
Grew up with identities: How is ‘I’?
Boom, Bye Bye, Baby and don’t forget the Batty
If Matthew Mark or Lucifer come close
We’re Rudra forever and some Balfour Betty.
That was a way of alienating someone
Not teaching them work like a son of a gun,
Holding on when language said language was linguistics to the Professor crew,
What did Noam Chomsky review when the Russians paid for grades?
Fade, cut to black, India will soon see some subjects
Indra needs a Holon and some Me time (the second Me)
Find me and don’t chase me down, for the brown and some pizza expression
Of why the jettison of Colonialism from you
Is.
Card me a Clinton and call him black
For the sex on your TV and some New Jacking of Adam.
Is this Sodom when the medium is No Child and the Left is bereft of authority?
Choose me & it’s democracy for TV the wankers understand –
the 70’s retirement plan
Dallas Land
JFK Airport & a Bible small enough to fit in the other hand.
Assassinate the idea of an infidel without fear
Steer clear of originality around the key astrology for tears
For time is not a friend that any God has thus controlled so well
That life can be held onto for hope to drain like a sap from something loved unkindly,
Like the nuance of an innovation of a Theme of Thomas Tallls
Who talked to Thomas A Becket about better options as well.
In the age of Aquarians there will be so many more times
When mothers look for oneness and Yoko Ono fines,
To separate the mixture of what got lost along the way
When White Man knew the Billionaire and TV adverts with Jesus’s name.
Settle me this and settle me black: There is one President coming with Hollywood on his back:
He knows the literate and the scene of Devi well {swelling}
And unthanked he is karma for the New Jack City to live with the devil.
Let me out, let me out, the clout is clanging in the ears of seditious fears
& those who abandoned schools for fools about The Simpsons and simple referent gears.
For without gearing there is no leverage and every clue is less than before
When seconds run with Alpha and Omega to the green paint on Shakin Stevens door.
Pot Black they said: fearless of 2012 and 2020 too –
Now look at the British Army and what it is about to do.
Minutes from a third warning, the Defcon is so loud from the Shires
Of no-Esquires without common hearts, that 9/11 still blew apart.
Nobody asked them to earn so many millions that other countries needed ne banks
But goodnight and good luck Hollywood men and ladies
And thanks for the Soma wankers and those wanks.
*Wink*
AI Summary
Your poem tracks how violence — political, cultural, psychological — gets absorbed into identity, turning news, history and myth into personal weather. It shows a world where media, terrorism, colonial memory and celebrity culture blur, leaving the self trying to stay intact amid noise and fear. The poem asks what “I” even means when language, nationhood and belief are all contested, manipulated or inherited without consent. Beneath the satire and the references is a plea for clarity: a desire to escape the chaos long enough to hear one honest thought in the dark.
Systemic Retro Virality
The inner world is full of my love for life
There are kites for little boys with their fathers
Aloft the coursing heights of Primrose Hill
Where the land is still for wealth and happiness.
These are the calculations within us
What is more to whom and what is less to what?
When the fly went swat against the wall,
The sensitive amongst us cried for the Garden of Eden’s Fall.
This then made us and them
To better the fruits of leadership for Zen
So that Sikh and Punjabi could go on and be happy
Without the Hindu being too into you, for Atman and it’s crappy
Take on reality.
This is what the unevenness is for me:
Stuck with depression misdiagnosed at the DWP.
They see my symptoms and flail and shout
Quietly twisting their heads with “we” and “I” all about.
So you have eyes and they see;
Did that make you equal to Mr Rsi?
For your use of my first name and familiarity
What contempt have you of court for being so silly?
Do you know I have a father far away from your throne
Where you toilet without yoga and toga that lonely bone?
Is your Greek not English enough for the outer world full of cars,
Can you speed past 30 MPH and call yourself 50 or 60 and …
… I Out of School
… II And “I’m’Ard”
Where are these classifications on the forms for my illness for the nation
While you Brexit World War Three and take the soul out of me?
Do you stand by corporate loss and hold Branson to be your boss:
Is one Wong Tong Soup enough for how much he knows and has [done]?
Let the Easterners have fun and see the conquer the world
You’ll find out what you want to know when you see their porn school girls:
What’s their symptom and how do you fell watching the world for failure and success
When you miss your underwear on your head and should work in a pink or blue dress?
The universe may be one verse if that is all that can survive
By the time Krishna is serving your dishes for a Gita that can strive:
To educate the Royal College of Mental Health after LRH
Who want wealth without wielding results for employment and Halo’s wraith.
Call to me again for a question of death and suicide
And we will talk about your hair and cut the crap from your Deicide.
Do you not know about my brother or is it just “the family” that turns your on;
And how was it when you ignored me “ONE TIME!” and turned the heat on “my mom”?
What did I do? after you left the zoo, prepared by London actors
To go into world after all those drinks and nights with girls
For some swirls and healthy advice that changed with time
To find classification on racial lines a subtle offence but not a crime…?
Mr, Dr and Professor: Where is your thyroid at your dresser?
Do you fix a result for the lack of your gut,
That will not keep the trap door shut?
What if you did not stand up to so many patients
Could your English defend one of my statements?
Is it my English when that is colour of my skin,
Or is my food when it could be cooked by Djjin?
Where is your culture, you European whore
After I suffered Xenophobia from thugs at my door?
What have you done to my country and tongue
When you asked about “normality”: What was that when you were young?
Did you get The Beatles were a shallow fashionable affair
And did you leave Mr Deranged Mahesh Rishi Yogi at the door
To keep your own mind so you could stay self-aware
Without the computer making up your imagination for I.P. addresses everywhere.
Si is not Cosine and Tangents you do explore
When you send 100 nurses into a traps of my own through my door:
What are their names, what do they do and how will they heal the world as Saviours too?
Where are their dishes in their restaurant business
After they eat Baltis and do a number 2?
A job without consequences has yet to equal
Something Ron Hubbard predicted when aimed away from the Steeple.
For the Psychiatrist helps the journalist troll the hats of Rastas and Beenies
Leaving that crap on the floor of the BBC with The Master called John Sweeney.
AI Summary
Your poem begins with childhood wonder — kites, fathers, Primrose Hill — and then breaks sharply into the pain of misdiagnosis, racism, and being misunderstood by the DWP and psychiatry. It moves between Sikh, Punjabi, Hindu and Western references to show how identity becomes contested terrain when institutions reduce a person to forms, labels and “classifications.” The poem exposes the violence of being judged — by doctors, professors, strangers, even nations — while carrying the weight of cultural history, family expectation and spiritual searching. Underneath the fury and satire is a plea for dignity: to be seen as a whole human being, not a case file, not a stereotype, not a problem to be solved.
A Stride in Time
A stride in time
The beach is trying
Cleanliness is foam
The ocean has a home.
Cliffs are dark
The edge is stark,
I seem insignificant
Yet it all mattered.
The ride was so long
The journey cost me petrol money
The children sang songs
The sea told of our arrival & smelled funny.
Salt in the air
Keeping me aware
Telling me of tomorrow
When I will not know sorrow.
Nature is the gaol
The shallow hole in the soul
Where the tempest is not calm
For all the world to harm
The latent gin and gun
And saddest waves to come
Of fashion. Oldness. Tired waistlines.
Missing the womb of creation
Where the meat and metre is fine.
The beach ball is not so fancied
As time with the placard for chips and cheese
& the new style of dancing
Is keeping me up to date with daily needs.
This was the point of our journey
A merry union of the sun with the sky
Where shy children can laugh and play
And the shadows do not touch the day.
AI Summary
Your poem begins with a quiet seaside moment where nature makes you feel small but strangely held, as if tomorrow might hurt less. It moves between innocence — children singing, chips and cheese, sunlight — and the deeper shadows of age, sorrow and the “shallow hole in the soul.” The beach becomes a place where time, memory and the body’s tiredness meet, yet the day still offers a brief union of light, play and peace. Underneath it all is a longing for a world where shadows don’t touch the day — where joy, however fragile, can stay long enough to matter.
A Stark Example
A stark example
A coarse exterior
There are differences and apples
Where the marriage is a posteriori.
The knowledge is fathomable
The quintessence is dust
Quotes are young in life force
Effort is helping all of us.
We all strive to deal with life
And out of all of us is tomorrow’s Temple
Where the religion will survive word salad
So far so good on giving as good as you get.
Nobility and the four truths of Gauthama
Reviling the stability of never getting twice
The imperceptibility of time passing
What mothers and fathers know in the splice
Of a lost Samurai’s sword
Seconding the dirtiest theft
The Logos is not walking bereft
And mankind is serious about the Word.
A hoarded mention
A boarded up estate
A cold dark wooded window
Sullen snow for lungs berated.
The Saviour is not here for my liking
The ounce is not balanced for the caste
The tanks are too readily perceptible
An army in heaven is waiting at last.
These are the times of galaxies
These are the times of solarities
These are the times of universal flair
There will not be another repeat of such a giving affair.
Feel the genorisity
Ignore the disruption within me
Hear the sounding off of all that is around
Quality still emanates from that speaking tree.
Forbidden is the fruit of my aeons
Disclosed is the attack on the Church
Revealed is the position of the Postcolonial narrative
Open is the elevation to be more than a Birch
That knows the dominion of God
Because the computer is at last Thel’s Clod.
For when she spoke next to dark mills
Satan was over Milton for the hero of Dr’s ills.
And when mixing is mystery
The words are inside of me
For more of me to know others
Who can defend the Lord with twee.
AI Summary
Your poem wrestles with knowledge, time and spiritual inheritance, asking how meaning survives in a world of decay, doubt and “word salad.” It moves through Buddhism, Christianity, Milton, postcolonial memory and cosmic imagery to show how the human mind strains to make sense of suffering and history. The poem questions authority — religious, literary, political — while searching for a Logos that isn’t corrupted, a truth that isn’t stolen, a faith that isn’t naïve. Underneath the philosophy is a longing for clarity: a hope that language, even fractured, can still defend the sacred and help you understand your place in the universe.
Wild Stage 