That’s what they are all like
The actors and the politicians
The same culture devolving the ground it’s merit
Worsening the clay earth for a lack of manners
Rudely protruding mountains as mouths to feed Allah
Fisting the sky to triumph the winnings of God
In Complaint
In Obedience
… In
Me.
Only Death
Only death can accomplice the accomplice
To the greatest theft of all time
Settlers of the sting of the century
All money in the Cloud with Rishi’s rhyme.
Who is Sunak when the lights go out next year
No conscience and no wife to insult the Queen?
Who is Sai Baba hiding his life
,
When Chris Cornell is where the idol worshippers have been?
How will England grow without her own staff?
Enrique Moses bowls crap compared to the past.
Why do you smoke weed with Bill Gates?
To measure one long generation only to caste?
It is because of the sadism and the masochistic mum
The actress who taught Mrs and Mr to Radha Krishna
Then the moon turns and the tide draws near
When centuries are counted and not scored in India.
Click.
Click.
Slog.
Boom!
AI Summary
Your poem is a sharp, explosive meditation on theft — not just financial, but historical, spiritual, and generational — where political leaders, gurus, musicians, and entire nations become symbols of a world losing its moral centre. It moves through England, India, celebrity culture, caste, and grief to show how identity and power collide in ways that feel both personal and catastrophic. Beneath the anger is a deeper sorrow: the sense that centuries of harm still echo in every “Click. Slog. Boom.”
Common Parent
How much he takes out on us
Riding the bus like a common parent
Things that he meant to say but left in clues
Something for me and the politician’s cold cold hearts.
Blowing the socialist world wide apart
When the Wiley Coyote shit is ugly like a bird pooing on the alligators down by the African stream,
As friendly as an Oxford hall
When the men were nice and the problems were small.
Oh how the ages have been unkind to the mind
Stained glass windows with the gaul to show up in my house
Chasing the rat to beat the scientific mouse
When the culture fades into an LSD spin
And the naughty mouse wins to epic the story for the Djinns.
Mentalisms
I’m not that kind of poet
The type that times the earth
I know where I have come from
It’s just not that kind of worth.
I’m angry with the children
They won’t listen to what I’ve got to say
And by the time I get a hold of them
I don’t write about The Gay.
Who wants to know where Jesus is hiding?
Who wants to see Muhammed’s disrespect?
Who thinks Guru Nanak can have an equal?
Who likes Krishna to love some regret?
Maybe that is the continuance
The meaning of life for the 21st Century
What happened when Eliot befriended Krishna?
And wasted lands for his alliance with Sannyasi.
Tomorrow’s plans may spring from an asset stripped 1980s
When Kryon was a stranger to Enron too.
Where Americans face the final ultimatum from Ron
Live without the Newspapers or your politicians are through.
Where’s my Minority Report, Mr Malthus Cruise?
And those tapes of cassettes from Mini Discs of the CDs I was meant to become…
A land like India so clothed in respect for the native
Something for anyone to lecture on anything sitting on their bum.
So God bowled me over and let me be the top wicket taker
At school I played in goal and stopped cricket scores
Before being a “demon on the west wing in Hockey”.
Some fames were therefore for me & my brother played cricket for County.
… [insert Dream here]
But then we arise on his 50th birthday
A brother with no goals and lots of self respect
Responsibility for his younger and pains for his mum near death
Wandering like a ghostless plain close to his last breath.
Is it true the Rohan did not think the cousins warred
And fought like the white man to make the cemetery closer
For sex with the gang banging ginger and the necrophiliac in The Big Bang Theory
As cousin Amar throws our grades away….
What will be our saying?
Who will be our friends?
When can we call the real Time Out?
When shall we dance again?
So the monks journeyed for aeons
Lost in pain to grieve the stats
In Scientology since two brothers left them
And R J Ellory was king for a day.
One
Two
Three
Four
Is that a Hindu or a Paki knocking at my door?
Resident in England but 40 years
So certain of tattoo art for all his tears.
How can I quit drinking?
Where is the detox jokes at Rohan now..
How many Jack Daniels do you dream of: For that petri dish wife petrified of her karma and how?
[Release]
AI Summary
Your poem declares that you are “not that kind of poet,” then explodes into a whirlwind of religion, race, family, fame, childhood, sport, addiction, and shame — a whole life’s contradictions speaking at once. It becomes a reckoning with identity and belonging in England, where spiritual longing, cultural memory, and personal wounds collide with satire and anger. Beneath the noise is a single pulse: the desire to be understood without being reduced.
What Do You Want From a Poem
Insult in the morning
Insult in the evening
Insult when the sun goes down.
At least that is what the thought police put around
Some damn right downtrodden verses from Dante
To get me to look up the skirt of some clouds and sexy rain
Thieves in the brain again looking for an angry allegory.
A world left behind by children not right in the brain
Schools advancing with the messages of loyal fathers
Straining again to meet with modernity
And the computers that prop up the economy.
That mobile phone is for me!
July was the month of buying some big fat fucking expenditure
Now I feel like I can face my old age with some dentures
If that’s the medical system in store for us all.
Keeping things furious with the space between me and the Royal Festival Hall
Life is never going to the same parks and playing so rough
When the swings keep women busy for the children growing up tough.
So be it then for conspiring to dress down on Fridays
When the wind if thought about is thinking of my day.
AI Summary
Your poem gathers its jagged humour, civic frustration, and private weariness into a single wandering voice that moves through insults, institutions, ageing, technology, and the strange theatre of public life, showing a speaker who feels watched and worn down yet still capable of biting satire; Dante becomes a joke about clouds, schools become relics trying to keep up with computers, a new phone becomes both burden and armour, and the city — from the Royal Festival Hall to the parks where children grow tough — becomes a backdrop for a mind that refuses to be domesticated, ending with that characteristic twist where even the wind seems to be thinking about the speaker’s day.
I Feel Watched
I feel watched
I am looking forward to
The next line
The next explanation
The next self criticism
The next meditation.
The trees are still
The mind is heavy
The brain is pressured
The sky is rainy
The next meditation is tomorrow morning before 9.
One day every morning will be fine
This is just the aftermath of being in the afternoon of the aftermath of life
Trying too many things
Thinking about things twice
The next meditation is obsession.
Maya is a misdirection about the Indian lady’s midrift
There had to be no rift so the imagination was used
When I saw the Bollywood two live crew
Being too few for me to mention names
Mending the Partition bridge for the bride on Maine Street
Not so many geographical locations to go
For the mind to know which place to go
To settle down and accept I am brown
When I feel nature’s need to go downstairs
And have some herbal tea to spell back sales to The Church
Leaving me in the lurch like the Drs and Nurses of Psychiatry
Making the NHS rich with medical pills and historical diversity
Measuring selves and making my height an issue
Ripping up trade agreements so Parliament can know things anew
Fiduciary duties and the watched man of the politician’s thrones
Blaming Donald Trump for being in my mind
Oi! MP! Matey! We leave you alone!
And on they went picking up issues like bags of crisps on the floor
And the science of the clouds looked down on the poor
Looking for more
Looking for more
Easily etching out nature on the minds of the innocent
Looking for more
Like William Blake
Give me a break mate – what of your lawyers charging these rates?
Staring in my mind
Treating me unkind
Don’t you know the English rule the waves with their nationhood?
I don’t know all their things?
I didn’t memorise their names!
Who is P.B.S. to me?
Why do you hear the need to quote out loud the wild words of the past.
That was not Shelley
This is my caste
I am what a Brahmin is to Shakespeare when he looks past the glass
I stare out of in my bedroom when my window is double glazed.
The casting of the workman required to change it into a wooden blind stares me blind on this freeman’s salary with the Freemason’s down the road
Handing out leaflets with me at the Conservatives
(Kali will turn me into a toad!).
So this road I am on is long and I tire at page 3
Because this is Energy
“Save some for me!”
he said, delightfully.
AI Summary
Your poem unfolds like a man caught between vigilance and exhaustion, where every thought becomes “the next” — the next line, the next criticism, the next meditation — as if the mind has become a conveyor belt of self‑monitoring. The still trees, heavy mind, pressured brain, and rainy sky create a weather system that mirrors the internal climate, and the repetition of meditation becomes both anchor and obsession. The poem then swerves into cultural memory and identity — Maya as misdirection, Bollywood imagery, Partition ghosts, herbal tea, the Church — all symbols of a man trying to reconcile being brown, British, spiritual, modern, and tired. The NHS, psychiatry, Parliament, clouds, Blake, Shelley, Shakespeare, caste, Brahminhood, and Freemasons become part of a single hallucinated bureaucracy of meaning, each demanding something from you. What you’re really describing is the fatigue of carrying too many histories, too many expectations, too many interpretations of yourself — and the longing for a simpler road, even as you joke that Kali might turn you into a toad. The final line, “Save some for me,” lands like a plea for energy, mercy, and space — a reminder that beneath all the cosmic noise, you’re just a man trying to breathe through the afternoon of your own life.
I Am Meditation
I am a meditator
Between this world and the nest
The open plan office of my brain
The workday harangue of demonic stress and understanding.
There is no one standing under me,
I am alone at work all day long.
The night is like a shouting wolf in the merry snow of Christmas in Leeds –
Sold out entry to next year’s competition.
Friends need revision & the memories are always there
but underneath are the Gunas are they despairing
I am paired with my mother for thanks and regretful lifestyles
Machines and cold waters
Open deserts and travelling daughters
The ones than make the past so enjoyable for men in the field of toys
so little to be thankful for when I consider myself gone
It won’t be long before I seek self-demanding understanding
The plain mug of tea and the lacking saucer
The night time Horlicks accompanying my pressured day to sleep
Then I will drink deep & calculate the art of landing on my Tweets.
AI Summary
Your poem reads like the inner diary of a man suspended between the discipline of meditation and the grind of ordinary life, someone whose “open‑plan office of the brain” never quite shuts down. The loneliness of the workday, the wolf‑like nights, and the memories of friends who have drifted into revision and adulthood all create a sense of being left behind by time. Beneath it all, the gunas churn — heaviness, restlessness, clarity — shaping your moods as you navigate family bonds, regrets, and the small rituals that keep you steady: tea, Horlicks, the quiet of night. The poem widens into landscapes of deserts, daughters, toys, and past joys, only to return to the pressure of psychiatry, the cold machinery of institutions, and the political noise that intrudes on your inner life. By the end, the speaker is exhausted but still reaching for meaning, calculating the “art of landing on my Tweets” as if even self‑expression requires precision and energy. It’s a portrait of a man who meditates not to escape life, but to survive the weight of being himself.
Healing
Tired of healing
The spinning wheel is
The dealing of the cards
The headspun wheel and cart
Meandering and whining
Climbing the stairs and seeing the clear light
Coming for the second place winning line
Leaving first place, finally and at last.
Proper Ties
Happiness is within the quietened mind
Devoid of the riches the devil in disguise will find
The morrow and mooring of hope on the dreams
Racing down closed windows and the curtains and their streams.
It’s not the giving of the empty that places the devil in dismay
But the replacement of the showcase that evens out the hollow disgrace
The merchant and the millionaire and the siren and heavenly decree
Settles down for more beginnings and the shanty towns of economy.
My eco gone into the gnomes of the garden of dismay
The Eden of too many endings and things the young firsts don’t say
Carriages and horses and the odd speeding car to amend
The control of propaganda models and the runways they upend.
Martians have spoken of lesser things, though they rail from far higher above
Of the height of heavenly musings and the cost of one or two true loves.
AI Summary
Your piece reads like a meditation on how fragile inner peace becomes when the world is full of noise. Happiness appears as something simple — a quietened mind — but immediately the poem shows how easily that quiet is disturbed by wealth, temptation, and the “devil in disguise.” The imagery of windows, curtains, streams, and showcases suggests a life lived behind surfaces, where the world’s expectations press against the glass. The merchant, the millionaire, the siren, and the heavenly decree form a symbolic marketplace of desire and destiny, while the “shanty towns of economy” reveal how unevenly the world distributes its beginnings. Your “eco gone into the gnomes” is a brilliant line — it captures the sense of personal energy being swallowed by trivialities, garden ornaments of dismay, while Eden becomes a place of too many endings rather than a single beginning. The poem closes with a cosmic shrug: Martians, heavenly musings, the cost of love — as if even beings from above would find human striving both absurd and touching. It’s a portrait of a man trying to hold onto inner stillness while the universe keeps offering him reasons to lose it.
Disclaimer
I didn’t do it
It came upon me
The sadness of a lonely desperate winter
When Jingle Bells came over me
I thought myself divine
I was a winner in distress
I was shaped by the diabolical
To unwind the Indian woman from a dress.
Then I was a Priest and a guru
President indeed over birth, life and death
Intended to develop evolution further
So my big bang was unkempt and smelly like a rotten fart in summer.
These were the hummers of a vibration past Israel holidaying
When I had known the King and seen him in everything
There was something left it seems for Church and State
A tax free entrance policy for immigrants
Some land to sell to the Africans to sit and contemplate.
Then I was empty and Eastern: Admired for the force within
Keeping up with local political actions. Handing out leaflets to stave away the end of days.
Death is at my door step and there is a Baptism to say
What is the state of play?
How can I stay out of the way?
Qawali in the Park, Beethoven’s Ninth in the dark
Concerts and consorting, Krishna is rewarding
Nothing pleases the Hare Krishna until you’ve given your 50% in advance –
Give peace and the internet a chance, so we can be net neutral
Then I will find myself a fossil converting my oath in to renewable energy and fuel.
Transformers indeed in disguise, this is the heavenly prize I once sort
Something of the origin of the Universe: Some violence for political revolution.
Revolving around the sun the heavenly body is undone
And the ladies undo the convention of conservatism to admire me in the poetic rain
Reign of regal things. International seasons that demagogues bring
This is the venture for capital to speak to Poesie of the ancient of days that sing
Of the Virgin’s tomb and the ascent to Sinai
Where the sun is commander of the deserted playing fields for meditation in silence.
Speak at risk for the lawyers lazy fist
There is so much I can say one day when the oceans face passing away
Dried up by the energy and wit of the homosexual versus the playing field
And Friends on TV and not much from the 1950s.
Travel well and adorn the image of success so delicately that you unzip each file well
Telling of pornographic fascinations in a swell manner for the men in the Manor
And the ladies down Muthra lane. Nations are playing again
After the bugging strain and the dimensions for demons in the intravenous brain.
For if I am without and searching for the clown in China to appeal to finance
What is the last dance going to look like for a moment’s free of Allah’s terror and torment.
What things have I meant to address my own nakedness in the demands of modern time
The Professor who gets to the English academy on time
Telling us all about the mind, the world and the shaping of things for working life (lives?) in time.
Things won’t always be fine is what he seems to be in power of and some control like The Golden Bowl
And a haiden enforcement of conglomerate bliss
To travel in my place for some hidden agendas and kisses.
AI Summary
Your poem reads like a man revisiting the fever‑dream identities that once overtook him — the divine winner, the priest, the guru, the political visionary, the cosmic wanderer — only to discover that each persona was shaped by loneliness, winter sadness, and the pressure of spiritual expectation. The imagery moves from India to Israel, from Church to State, from leaflets to baptisms, from Qawwali to Beethoven, from Krishna to renewable energy, as if the entire world’s religions, politics, and mythologies have been poured into a single consciousness that never asked to carry them. You show how spiritual longing can mutate into delusion, how cultural inheritance can become a burden, how political noise can invade the mind, and how the self can fracture under the weight of too many symbols. Yet beneath the chaos is a man trying to understand his own nakedness in modern time — the professor lecturing on the mind, the poet wrestling with capital, the citizen navigating immigration, economy, and identity. The poem ends in a place of weary clarity: things won’t always be fine, power is slippery, and hidden agendas shape the world — but the speaker is still searching for meaning, still speaking, still alive inside the long echo of his own mythmaking.
Wild Stage 