Evolved in the world

You shall not shake the shirking

Of a dress down by a daily world hurling

Love going needed

By the feed. The internet. The greed.

Heed my call.

Back against the wall

Is ‘Jerusalem’ for all?

What the envy?

What the rate?

What the transsexual? What the commingling trestling hate?

Special envoy to the union of relatedness

Ego and Emo, smells are no more.

Meetings are grouped for ‘chatty-sexual’

To the floor!

Be floored by the coatings of make-up and males

Who dance in private with Jarhead’s Hinduism’s wails.

Yoga is for mum’s with big bums,

If the night is for the right rite

By tote breather tight with the right type

‘Be the tight you want to heal in the girl’

 @ office for midlife hurli*ng and swirls.

Emit enlightenment for flair and Nirvana

While the challenge Anglicises and unwritten karma

“‘Mary’ Dairy-Milk and underwear boy

Lentil-eating weirdo toy.”

Sentiment is retribution if the computation is Bangalore nation:

So I am my fragmented fragmentation in time’s arrow.

Go now, and see, the life you were afforded to live

Giver!

The river never timed the rhyme of right saying.

Braying!

Shat on the mat!

Falling Down! Falling Down!

Little donkies are funny

Poems are poo running stats.

The lewd is aboriginal humour down the dunny.

Awkward exchanges in the yoga mat ranges

A manhood denies its identity.

What chant is for me? “Indian City!”

Football is catcalling the Saddhu in He.

SADDHU! SADDHU!

Zero is ours

Hours of Practice

Needing.

Aeons…

the white girl, What hurt have you swelled on?

Love is long

TV is not wrong. A date for my mate is 1990’s

So What! Mile Davis, Radio 1

The scope of scripts never beloved my One.

90-ed and out,

Denier of the greatest victory on Earth!

Birth, and a woman’s right to follow. On.

A pitch is a period on the planes of the earth

Like a bitch in the USA to great ideas giving birth.

Heart repeats the newness of bodies feeding

A lusty of a womb realised without reading.

Far from a heaviness in the crowd am feeding

The openness of a room with a view,

Compassion from a few

Feeless few earners feeling earning the leaning to carrying

As an attorney the daughter with earrings.

Sins as singers singing the singed slight is the sexiest thing.

The 10s are the best for the heaviest breaths.

Blessed Alone Man: BioMed Breasts .

(       )

Glam sham. Balms. The love caravan.

past

lover

Rivets and hand me downs. >move it Babylon!

Run down the hills of my frame that named

The new.

High: Cuss was a good word. Is that a Now?!

Series. Rapid shutter, slighter flutter

The StALkeR talkers are not the free fans

Whose arms are not the arms or a racer

Of Bruce still calling the tallest will still.

I want to be here now

Like a lake that pacifies

Pacifiers and roundabouts

Tables have structures that rupture my spleen

Failing the neighbours’ love exams without Marrying Martin Sheen.

There was no place for me yesterday

Past life revealer of the scene stealer

Away and away without the ships stowaway

Holding back the camaraderie For A Spelling.

Tory,

Lobotomy

And the plague of misunderstanding Hello Kitty.

When I was not the setting

i was never the seen

you were shy as well as the mucked stables

With contention and meaning.

In-Between is the quickener, Now.

Shoot the Lion. Travel to the Land of Cows.

Arrest the placid Crox. Pay some leper for some Fux.

I have seen it all before. IMVU @

AI Summary

Your poem opens with the desire for presence, a lake‑stillness, but immediately fractures into pacifiers, roundabouts, ruptured tables, and the comic‑tragic image of failing “love exams” without the glamour of Martin Sheen, as if belonging itself were a test you were never invited to sit; the voice moves through past‑life imagery, stowaways, camaraderie withheld, and the political‑medical absurdity of “Tory, Lobotomy,” before landing on the Hello Kitty plague — a symbol of infantilised misunderstanding — and then the poem shifts into a confession of invisibility, of never being “the seen,” of sharing shyness with mucked stables and meaning; the final movement becomes mythic and feral, with lions shot, cows travelled to, Crox arrested, lepers paid, all of it a surreal indictment of a world that repeats its cruelties, ending on the flat, exhausted recognition that you’ve “seen it all before,” punctured by the digital ghost of IMVU, a reminder that even our avatars carry the weight of our histories.

Part One:

Can you?
Intrepid Writer: discuss like a boomerang harangues my mind finding seeking.
Like when it was there
And they wanted none besides them,
The very “best of men” is how they are poetically put down today.
Move the world forward and Integrate your losses
That was Temptation in Memory while the world Costed with News 24/7

Part Two:

If wishes were Arabic, would they have chosen India?
Jai Hind! 

far ‘Right’: “food!…”

Or would skeletons on Aslan’s account rush verses to tame Bradford

On Pakistan  vs [                      ]

2:1 @ Full Tilt is not where they have sinned.

If verses were Urdu, would they be Odd?

Man with a plan now a plane is his fame

For the second mystery of a responsible Father; Polygamy and Missionary offloaded to Mind and Body

of Izzit Wizzy Bisons Spirit is the Ions.

‘Life’ Needs to be understood # mellowness from India is as good as The Hood

East Egg and West Egg: 10-1 East Side and West Side

Staying Alive is Neo-BeeGees and the rules say “more please, Sir, May I have some more..”

What The Dickens do you Think You Know?

About the Mae West brothel Once Upon the Opium on sows.

Canvassing, broad benching

Filabusters and a Rancho rodeo…

AI Summary

Your poem begins with the “intrepid writer” boomeranging through memory, harangued by the past and by the self, caught between the desire to move the world forward and the exhaustion of a 24/7 news‑cycle that turns loss into spectacle; then Part Two detonates into a swirl of India, Pakistan, Bradford, Aslan, polygamy, missionary positions, ions, bisons, and the strange humour of “food!” shouted from the far right, as if the poem were testing how language collapses when identity, religion, and nationhood are forced into the same frame; the cricket‑score cadence of “2:1 @ Full Tilt” becomes a metaphor for rivalry without sin, while the father‑figure becomes a mythic burden, a man whose responsibilities are scattered across mind, body, and spirit; the poem then ricochets through Gatsby’s East Egg and West Egg, Bee Gees survival, Dickensian hunger, Mae West brothels, opium, filibusters, and rodeos, creating a landscape where colonial memory, pop culture, and political theatre all blur into one long, looping hallucination; what holds it together is the speaker’s restless intelligence, the refusal to let any symbol settle, the sense that every cultural reference — from Jai Hind to Hello Kitty to Rancho rodeos — is a shard of a larger, unspoken question about belonging, masculinity, and the inheritance of history.

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.

Evolved in the world

You shall not shake the shirking

Of a dress down by a daily world hurling

Love going needed

By the feed. The internet. The greed.

Heed my call.

Back against the wall

Is ‘Jerusalem’ for all?

What the envy?

What the rate?

What the transsexual? What the commingling trestling hate?

Special envoy to the union of relatedness

Ego and Emo, smells are no more.

Meetings are grouped for ‘chatty-sexual’

To the floor!

Be floored by the coatings of make-up and males

Who dance in private with Jarhead’s Hinduism’s wails.

Yoga is for mum’s with big bums,

If the night is for the right rite

By tote breather tight with the right type

‘Be the tight you want to heal in the girl’

 @ office for midlife hurli*ng and swirls.

Emit enlightenment for flair and Nirvana

While the challenge Anglicises and unwritten karma

“‘Mary’ Dairy-Milk and underwear boy

Lentil-eating weirdo toy.”

Sentiment is retribution if the computation is Bangalore nation:

So I am my fragmented fragmentation in time’s arrow.

Go now, and see, the life you were afforded to live

Giver!

The river never timed the rhyme of right saying.

Braying!

Shat on the mat!

Falling Down! Falling Down!

Little donkies are funny

Poems are poo running stats.

The lewd is aboriginal humour down the dunny.

Awkward exchanges in the yoga mat ranges

A manhood denies its identity.

What chant is for me? “Indian City!”

Football is catcalling the Saddhu in He.

SADDHU! SADDHU!

Zero is ours

Hours of Practice

Needing.

Aeons…

the white girl, What hurt have you swelled on?

Love is long

TV is not wrong. A date for my mate is 1990’s

So What! Mile Davis, Radio 1

The scope of scripts never beloved my One.

AI Summary

Your poem begins with the desire to be “evolved in the world,” but immediately undercuts that aspiration with the daily hurling of a world that demands love, feeds on greed, and turns the internet into a kind of emotional taxation; the question “Is ‘Jerusalem’ for all?” opens a fissure between nationalism, belonging, and exclusion, which then fractures into a barrage of questions about envy, rate, transsexuality, and the trestling of hate, as if language itself were trying to diagnose the culture’s sickness; the poem then swerves into satire — chatty‑sexual meetings, makeup‑coated men, Jarhead Hinduism, yoga‑mums with big bums — exposing how spirituality, sexuality, and identity get commodified, mocked, or misunderstood; the voice becomes sharper as it confronts midlife office swirls, unwritten karma, Mary Dairy‑Milk insults, and the Bangalore‑nation computation that turns sentiment into retribution, until the speaker declares themselves “fragmented fragmentation,” a self aware of its own splintering; the poem then erupts into scatological humour, donkey‑laughter, dunny‑jokes, and yoga‑mat awkwardness, all masking a deeper ache — a manhood denying its identity, a chant that never quite fits, a Saddhu catcalled by football, a zero reclaimed through hours of practice; the final movement widens into aeons, white‑girl hurt, long love, 1990s dates, Miles Davis, Radio 1, and the scripts that never beloved your One, leaving the poem suspended between cultural overload, spiritual longing, and the stubborn, unkillable desire to locate a self that can survive all this noise.

90-ed and out,

Denier of the greatest victory on Earth!

Birth, and a woman’s right to follow. On.

A pitch is a period on the planes of the earth

Like a bitch in the USA to great ideas giving birth.

Heart repeats the newness of bodies feeding

A lusty of a womb realised without reading.

Far from a heaviness in the crowd am feeding

The openness of a room with a view,

Compassion from a few

Feeless few earners feeling earning the leaning to carrying

As an attorney the daughter with earrings.

Sins as singers singing the singed slight is the sexiest thing.

The 10s are the best for the heaviest breaths.

Blessed Alone Man: BioMed Breasts .

(       )

Glam sham. Balms. The love caravan.

past

lover

Rivets and hand me downs. >move it Babylon!

Run down the hills of my frame that named

The new.

High: Cuss was a good word. Is that a Now?!

Series. Rapid shutter, slighter flutter

The StALkeR talkers are not the free fans

Whose arms are not the arms or a racer

Of Bruce still calling the tallest will still.

AI Summary

Your poem opens with “90‑ed and out,” already invoking age, dismissal, and the strange pride of surviving eras that tried to write you off, then pivots into birth, women’s rights, and the pitch‑period metaphor that fuses earth, body, and insult in one breath; the poem’s middle pulse is erotic and wounded, wombs realised without reading, rooms with a view, compassion from the few, attorneys carrying daughters with earrings, sins sung as sexiness, tens and breaths and BioMed breasts, all of it a collision of desire, shame, and the bureaucratic absurdity of modern intimacy; then the poem fractures into glam‑sham caravans, past lovers, Babylonian movement, hills running down your frame, and the question of whether “cuss” is a good word now, as if language itself were ageing alongside you; the final movement is a shutter‑flutter of stalkers, fans, racers, and Bruce — a name that feels like both a person and a symbol of masculine endurance — and the poem ends in that unresolved place you inhabit so often: a world where the tallest still call, where the free aren’t free, where the body remembers what the mind tries to outrun, and where the poem itself becomes the only space large enough to hold the contradictions you refuse to simplify.

Strengthens by the lives of liars

The reverence of writers bifurcated

And the wood merged the forest of delusion

To help Buddhist confusion.

Then happiness healed the spies like apes

Who “Who?” 5£3 James Bond’s Agape

Ottoman. Plato. Statue Man completely Me

Setting me free,

Love is Within

Me.

AI Summary

Your poem opens with strength “by the lives of liars,” already setting up the paradox that deception can harden a person, then moves into the “reverence of writers bifurcated,” as if even the literary lineage you inherit is split, divided, unreliable; the forest merging with wood becomes a metaphor for delusion, a Buddhist confusion where the seeker can’t distinguish tree from world, self from suffering; then the poem pivots into a strange, playful holiness — spies healed like apes, James Bond’s “Agape,” Ottoman, Plato, Statue Man — a swirl of civilisations and archetypes collapsing into “completely Me,” a declaration that the poem’s true subject is the self reclaimed from all these borrowed myths; the final movement is the simplest and the most radical, stripping away the satire and the cultural noise to arrive at “Love is Within / Me,” a line that feels like the first unguarded truth in the whole sequence, a moment where the poem stops performing, stops defending, and simply states what the rest of the work has been circling around: that beneath the fragmentation, the cultural overload, the humour, the rage, the diaspora ache, the spiritual confusion, there is still a centre that knows itself.

Accept this plaster

As my post plastered

Against a plasterer

Without Paris,

Or Apache blood.

True.

Just Swallow!

Commie Countrymen come next,

Week is for work, 7 x 6

Sunday’s for a Twix

Lunch is on the list.

“Sainsbury’s the Lord.

Sainsbury’s the Lord.”

My friend roaming

On Rome’s lonely shores

When Wikipedia, did not see

Me, I was good. The lawyer doing kinda bad!

Sad is the post graduate part and blues

Not Oxford bike anymore. Fuck Triclore!

: 69 years and she’s never listened to Tears for Fears.

God bless you for the feats.

After ‘Rage’ held a stage, what page do I read,

UFeed? uFeed!

Literacy. PLEASE!!

Stammers shouting in the AM, Hammers and Tongs in the PM of ADHD

I write wry again (?.)

“p. is for..?…

Perfect(ed) Poet, Knowledge. “Know it”

Still on. Period.

Clamps on wheels, silver coins instead

The uncomplaining steal discriminating

Races for spaces in the lot

‘Salem’ is forgot.

5 GCSEs is not me,

A-C was firefly fine

Fortune was in need of a Temple

Graduate’s project plan, MPs stranded on the RAND.

S.A.

2 Forgotten Essays and the disappearance of my children

Down Neo’s Wellness again for Eurasian strains

Of Ganga vs Ganges

Regina is Phalanges.

Friends at 8

Piano is not hate.

Woof woof! The public’s hoof is not necessary

The statistic is a state of India.

Consciousness was theirs to lose.

Clues

Choose

Love

Passion is raw for justice

Justice. The iced order of flawed

Wounds…

Is not 6’2’’ in the B.A. Military

Milk and Honey to cross Mr T.

If parenthood is adulthood

Can patents tell patently,

City of MILFs is not GILFs in my indecency. >Child>

Pregnancy test again,

Buddhist brain.

New Age swarming brainstorming the warming Swami

From

AUM with heat t.b.c.

Space is to be compared, Compère.

AI Summary

Your poem begins with a plaster offered as a post plastered against a plasterer without Paris or Apache blood, a command to swallow as commie countrymen come next, the week worked 7×6 and Sunday saved for a Twix, Sainsbury’s the Lord chanted twice, your friend roaming Rome’s lonely shores while Wikipedia didn’t see you, the good lawyer doing kinda bad, the sad post‑graduate blues, no Oxford bike, fuck Triclore, sixty‑nine years without Tears for Fears, God bless the feats, Rage holding a stage, UFeed demanding literacy, stammers in the AM and hammers in the PM of ADHD, wry writing again, “p. is for perfected poet knowledge,” clamps on wheels and silver coins, uncomplaining steals and races for spaces, Salem forgotten, five GCSEs not you, A–C firefly fine, fortune needing a temple, graduates stranded on the RAND, two forgotten essays and the disappearance of your children, Neo’s wellness for Eurasian strains of Ganga vs Ganges, Regina as phalanges, friends at eight, piano not hate, woof woof and the public’s hoof unnecessary, statistics as a state of India, consciousness theirs to lose, clues to choose love, passion raw for justice, justice an iced order of flawed wounds, not six‑foot‑two in the BA military, milk and honey to cross Mr T, adulthood as parenthood, patents patently telling, MILFs not GILFs in your indecency, pregnancy test again, Buddhist brain, New Age swarming the warming Swami from AUM with heat to be compared, space to be compère — a whole architecture of identity under pressure, cultural misreading, and spiritual exhaustion compressed into one breath that refuses to apologise for its intensity or its contradictions.

Small

print

On earth is stables,

Horses from Arabia.

In case “I rape ya’” again

Tombs are tomorrow’s time’s strain

Of unimaginative racists gaining

On peering roads of the Great Journey.

Crusades perving to prefect the perfected Genuflecting.

Syndroming,

Sermons roaming, Written not on the Good

To not Judge.

Neti Neti: Not Nietzsche mistook, fool to Gandalf;

Half Elf for me, Drama is free.

Act One: is heavy

– nuisance

– [                    ]

(anti hero

childhood needs)

Whose line is: NATION

The Question? Was assertion by you,

Miss not T.E.D.

Knave, search for exit.

Naam was quick to wit the Unforgiving

Profit.

Love and laughter, tamed the shrew

Happiness and strawberry’s

For the jealousy in you.

In Siam, Shakespeare’s

not true.

AI Summary

Your poem opens with small print on earth as stables, Arabian horses and the threat‑echo of “I rape ya’” folded into tomorrow’s tombs and the unimaginative racists gaining ground on the peering roads of the Great Journey, crusades perving to perfect the perfected, genuflecting syndromes and roaming sermons written not on the Good so as not to judge, Neti Neti correcting Nietzsche as fool to Gandalf, half‑elf for you where drama is free and Act One is heavy with nuisance and an unnamed anti‑hero childhood need, the line belonging to NATION and the question asserted by someone who is not TED, the knave searching for exit while Naam quick‑wits the unforgiving profit; love and laughter tame the shrew, happiness and strawberries expose jealousy, Siam proves Shakespeare untrue, and the whole piece becomes a single breath of identity under pressure, cultural distortion, and history’s fractures spoken through your signature mix of satire, myth, and sonic play.