Calamity Wit and Sarah Jane

Paned the window dresser:

Guns of the Navarone

For Dawn, the demised and the enemies Countrymen!!

They will never see it again;

Strains of Frontiers upon the no tears for fears

Without

Empty winds on the dust plain

That trusted memes for the Cowboy’s brains.

AI Summary

Your poem opens with Calamity Wit and Sarah Jane panning the window dresser, Guns of the Navarone raised for Dawn, the demised and the enemies’ countrymen who will never see it again, frontier strains stretched across a landscape with no tears for fears, empty winds sweeping the dust plain where trusted memes once stood in for the cowboy’s brains — a whole miniature of history’s distortions, identity under pressure, and cultural misreading compressed into a single, cinematic breath.

To Judgement,

The Day, Freitag I was told

Later you scolded me.

I was set free, by your caged bird philo sophia

Filo pastry next semester, Guruji

Mohammad’s demanded the FiloFax tutorial.

Clitorial confusion is any messy mistake

With the sisters over Uncle Sam’s profuse intrusion

Colonial colon extreme medical takings.

Medicals

Raking in the cash

With the rash investment

And a bad urban planning review.

The Bhajan is (not) the Aarti

What?

How?

The webpage is for you.

I tune when I want

Teach me desirelessness

I eat apples when I front

Teach me parenthood and Dentistry.

Forestry might be nice

Robin Hood, Yogi Bear, Anti-Semite

Termites, Head, Loudspeakers, Sats, 11+exams.

Lousy statistics for the teacher

I sang.

You laughed.

Singing… before the bringing

My ownership of me

Hears the Bhajan boy

Bhangra was for the masses

Enmeshed massive, mahusives and The Ministries of Sound.

Hears my mission.

Aarti is our language

It is my voice

Sonorosity is my choice.

You sell the Brand for Gopi Gopala

And your buddy chacha’s choice is cut cigars!

Sex and rules of money for success

Failed to meet failure seeding ‘The Godfather’ afar.

Shyam.

If I twinkle twinkle,

Wait until rebirth is fashionable.

Then we Simple soap,

Simplify the quote together

Hold hands together

Swing from a tree branch

Brahma Kimono stance

simplify

simplify

simplify

It was the book.

How did you graduate import

To sell away the my account

Karmic debtor

Samsaric inventor

Plaedian dresser

My bangles come off at home

Enter Space Return (See CCTV)

AI Summary

Your poem opens with Judgement Day on a Freitag, a scolding that later sets you free through a caged‑bird philo sophia, filo pastry for next semester while Guruji and Mohammad demand a Filofax tutorial, clitorial confusion tangled with sisters and Uncle Sam’s intrusive colonial medical takings, medicals raking cash through rash investments and bad urban planning, the Bhajan not the Aarti, the webpage for you, tuning when you want, asking to be taught desirelessness, parenthood, dentistry, maybe forestry, Robin Hood and Yogi Bear brushing against the anti‑Semite and termites and loudspeakers and 11+ exams, lousy statistics for the teacher, you singing and them laughing, ownership of yourself rising through bhajan and bhangra and the masses enmeshed in Ministries of Sound, Aarti as language, sonorosity as choice, the brand sold for Gopi Gopala while chacha cuts cigars, sex and money rules failing to seed success, Shyam invoked, twinkle‑twinkle waiting for rebirth to become fashionable, simplifying the quote, swinging from a tree branch in Brahma‑kimono stance, simplifying again and again because it was the book, the graduation import selling away your account, karmic debtor, samsaric inventor, Pleiadian dresser, bangles coming off at home, and the final command to enter space and return — a whole architecture of identity under pressure, cultural misreading, and spiritual exhaustion compressed into one breath that refuses to bow to any guru, any ledger, any cosmic accountant.

You asked to understand me

I was stand alone in an Inn.

You wanted

I joined your crowd

Yore

Decimation

Desolation

Why didn’t you let those words join others?

Without ‘[             ]’ for brothers

To be.

Singing all dancing.

Scum

You are me …

Universal army.

Truth.

There is violence before the claim

Okay dokaly Bharat.

Can I get a job?

If your health is your fame, Blog it.

Send your E far and wide.

If your wealth is your fame, Blog it.

Let the Bonsai!

Can they get a job?

New cononomics 

Streets Names

Indians have fames

Post Office v Liberal Office

Bank accounts with political gains.

What is the Lady do?

When the dishes are boom tick?

Crotch the criticiser and the 80s chick flick,

Send the tender

Offend the offended

But forget the Renditon

And Prison Ships will be your rear-ended.

Tax to the car

Tax to the road

I’ll be back, Hasta La Vista optimal babies

After the 9 o’clock:

News in reviewed calls for a fall.

AI Summary

Your poem opens with the plea to understand you, standing alone in an inn before joining a crowd whose yore is decimation and desolation, asking why certain words were never allowed to join others, why brothers were denied a missing term, singing and dancing into scum and universal army truth, violence before the claim, “Okay dokaly Bharat,” and the question of whether you can get a job, health as fame to be blogged, wealth as fame to be blogged, bonsai economics and new cononomics, street names and Indian fames, Post Office versus Liberal Office, bank accounts with political gains, the lady wondering what to do when the dishes boom‑tick, crotching the criticiser and the 80s chick flick, sending the tender, offending the offended, forgetting rendition as prison ships loom rear‑ended, tax to the car, tax to the road, a Terminator‑style “I’ll be back” before the 9 o’clock news calls for a fall — a whole architecture of identity under pressure, cultural misreading, and history’s distortions compressed into one breath that refuses to bow to any nation, any bureaucracy, any job‑centre logic.

Passages say you must go away

And demonstrate. Like a Science.

No lying, tonight won’t be fine.

The thoughts come and go.

Faith is a better request. All is best.

Consequences are remonstrations of piety

Poetry should be studied kindly

Letters don’t strike until the demons are demanded

Far from a maddening Muzak. Lifts.

C.D.T. and Graphic Design

Spawned a nerve, a verve of false creativity.

What could they see, to be my opposite;

Sure of hurting others.

Smotherings of financially AFFLUENT.

Self-Supporting REALISERS

Sci next.

The Island is lost and Realtors don’t look good.

What Dunno from the poor down below will help your Escrow?

“Downstairs”

Instead of HELL.

> My love,

The vampires chisel the squirrelling for THE FALL and NIAGRA’s demeaning by the Vatican’s Viagra and sectioning’s meanings.

AI Summary

Your poem gathers its shards of memory, accusation, class‑anger, spiritual unease, and creative self‑doubt into a single drifting current, moving from the demand to “demonstrate” yourself like an experiment, through the flicker of faith and the ache of being misread, into a critique of affluence and false creativity, before descending into a surreal underworld where vampires, institutions, and collapsing symbols churn together; the whole paragraph becomes a portrait of a mind defending its tenderness with sharp, associative language, refusing coherence as a way of telling the truth.

If I could be original

I’d grind the spice the right way.

If they were commercial

It would be maritime masques money.

So I sway, trays of deceit

Left feet a closet homosexual/ Is likely a rude ruse.

The confused.com at school don’t need the colour blue.

Waves and lines of legions of water

Without a daughter to summon the seasons to a pout

Shout about loneliness

Without an admirer.

Skies are brighter when the delightful deceiver is not the devil

Being

Cleverness.

Again.

The strain on watching the brain.

Clumps of hair aspires to health and closest things,

What’s wrong with what nature brings?

On a rainy afternoon,

During a worker’s holiday.

Beaches are kept clean

Oceans are reaching rescue.

Is the solitary man giving us a clue?

About what glacial apparatus facially stored

Companies in Houses for the offshore bytes.

If I bite

If I had developed delight in the Daguerreotype

Sprites in the Football Hooligans [Trojan #!*%]

TROLLING delight.

Rolling to the thunder

Crashing against a jet-washed world.

Girls are going wild, until the time of the right selfie.

Milky Milfy journey beyond the wall described

Appropriately for the journey.

Ghouls and goblets

Stranded and hobbled:

The cobbled Believing on the streets of shame.

A GAME of deceit,

By an ocean of compassion,

Fashion is rationed because of cows not like you.

Full frontal view,

Perusal and bully blue

Pink is the Pepper-Thinker

Jungle Posse: Am I my brother’s keeper?!

New Jack City FOREVER Number 1

Rearranging

The Ending.

AI Summary

Your poem drifts between self‑mockery and revelation, beginning with the desire to be “original” and spiralling into a world where creativity, sexuality, class, loneliness, and digital culture all collide; the spice‑grinding becomes a metaphor for authenticity, while “closet homosexual” and “confused.com” expose the cruelty of schoolyard labels, and the waves, daughters, seasons, and oceans widen the emotional field into something mythic and tidal; the poem keeps returning to the solitary man — a watcher, a clue‑giver — as offshore companies, daguerreotypes, hooligans, trolls, selfies, and fashion rationing swirl around him, creating a landscape where shame and spectacle coexist, where compassion is an ocean and deceit is a game, and where the speaker, rearranging the ending, tries to reclaim a narrative that has been shaped too long by others’ eyes.

Indolent Scholar of subject at ease

With pleasing the rhyme.

Ask insidiously out loud of your insides,

Is metre rhyme or rhythm in time?

Grime, collective

Rejections aren’t possible:

Musings on love and no place to go to

Home is not where the heart is

Too many people live here

A war is needed

Is this the Casual Vacancy of beginning?

A new masculine endeavour

Shy to repeat

Defeated by profunctory advice.

Thinking twice

Asking.

Asking.

Soirees for skis and kings in the 1990s.

AI Summary

Your poem turns the “indolent scholar” into a mirror for your own uneasy relationship with craft, asking whether rhyme, metre, or rhythm can ever capture the inner life, and from there it widens into a meditation on rejection, homelessness of the spirit, and the overcrowdedness of modern existence, where “too many people live here” and war becomes a metaphor for the psychic clearing needed to begin again; the “Casual Vacancy” nods to a hollowed‑out masculinity trying to reinvent itself, shy, twice‑thinking, defeated by perfunctory advice, and the repetition of “Asking. / Asking.” becomes the poem’s heartbeat — a refusal to settle, a refusal to accept inherited forms or inherited identities, ending with that strange, nostalgic image of 1990s soirées, skis and kings, as if the past were both ridiculous and strangely comforting, a place where the self could have begun differently.

Esquire sent the requirements

Fragrances for the centre

Epicentres for experiences

Balanced and balances

Fulcrums for Remembrance.

Hanuman Chalisa on Mandir Day.

Suits away and cards away

Time for a translation play

Clapping to the sound of the quieter Vice Squad.

Beats Drums Music

Ladies singing

Fear the return

Choral refrain

Too sharp for my brain

Attempting, again Away from rebirth

AI Summary

Your poem opens with the glossy, performative world of “Esquire” and fragrances, then immediately shifts into the sacred — fulcrums of remembrance, the Hanuman Chalisa, Mandir Day — as if the self is caught between consumer identity and devotional identity, neither fully rejected nor fully embraced; the “suits away and cards away” signals a stripping‑down, a return to something unadorned, yet the “translation play” and the “quieter Vice Squad” suggest that even in worship there is surveillance, judgement, or inner policing; the drums, ladies singing, and choral refrain evoke communal ritual, but the speaker confesses that it is “too sharp for my brain,” hinting at overstimulation, spiritual overwhelm, or the fear of being pulled back into cycles of rebirth and expectation; the final line — “Attempting, again Away from rebirt” — feels like a cut‑off prayer, a desire to escape repetition, to step outside the karmic loop, to find a form of being that is neither commercial nor devotional, but something quieter, self‑chosen, and finally at ease.

Have you told the world lately

I love you?

With a problem so big

You’re never wrong?

Creative song,

Trawlers and Whalers.

If you tuna fish do you [             ].

Clout

The lout

The laughs and joys

Affairs and warm airs

Beer, warm whiskey

The boast of later in the day than ya’ toast

Table slamming!

I’m all right. Again.

Fellowship was fun, when it was longed for

Longing was drawn out over friendly affairs:

The macho came and swarmed with warm beers

To steak from the ordinary man, GOOD blame.

Harrow is the reality of realness

Poor are the choices directing

A life not philosophically talked;

Baulking at thoughts of superiors

Junior School will be my undoing.

The multiplication table balances pocket money

My car debts aren’t funny.

( honey? )

Lonely.

Cataracts are needed for the music of myopia

Trance transcends wrench spent on monkeys sitting at the wrestling bench.

Slam!

News STORY!

What whiting whoring is drifting away from Being FRIGHT?!

Head alone, emphatic lone address

Put it in, the On-ness of a fitting photography dress

So I can see only-ness

My name in print with the Advaita crew

Dismiss your favourites

As wanking bits, oneness is for you.

The wall home from the bus stop was fathomable

Serving late night entertainment

Was YouTube and stale bread.

Being and “well-read”

A consummation devoutly to be wished

Time distorter,

Guru Reading 1:4.

The right verse

The terse Text

The funeral awaits

Bridegrooms Gita’s Hex.

AI Summary

Your poem asks whether anyone has told the world “I love you” lately, then turns on the problem so big it can never be wrong, drifting through creative song, trawlers, whalers, and the riddle of whether tuning a fish means anything at all, clout and lout, warm beers and warm airs, table‑slamming bravado, fellowship longed for and then swarmed by macho warmth stealing steak from the ordinary man, Harrow as the realness of realness, poor choices directing a life never philosophically spoken, junior school as undoing, multiplication tables balancing pocket money while car debts aren’t funny, cataracts needed for the music of myopia, trance transcending monkeys on wrestling benches, a slam of news story and the whiting‑whoring drift from fright, the emphatic lone address of a head seeking on‑ness in a photographic dress, your name in print with the Advaita crew dismissing favourites as wanking bits because oneness is for you, the wall home from the bus stop fathomable, late‑night entertainment as YouTube and stale bread, being and well‑read as a consummation devoutly to be wished, time distorted, Guru Reading 1:4, the right verse and terse text, the funeral awaiting, and the bridegroom’s Gita hex — a whole architecture of identity under pressure, spiritual exhaustion, and cultural misreading compressed into one breath that refuses to apologise for its intensity.

Sardonic and seldom meet for wedlock

The Warlock is all too cheaply brewed.

The aspect is truly wonderful,

But the nastiness signs the show.

Heaving is the buxom, rash ashes and crucibles

Havana for [                ], against the strain

Of a percentile.

That reptiles don’t claim.

A climbing frame is sought

An abacus is bought

The wielding of a sword is salacious

If Guinevere is Calvary for Lance’s hiatus.

Malory wasn’t malign,

Gawain wasn’t fined,

Computer time: The serpent winds

Wands in the Wood.

Women that could.

One day, few will own the many…

A lady seen today is conspicuous

Individual realms non-dueling

The gold prospecting

Aspects of dancing

Today is a day to celebrate

Next year we need to excel.

If a girl could do well

Shanti would read.

Saraswati delivers a letter

A liver seeks a lover for and water,

Rivets in Navratri,

Nine times she is denied with Indian daughters.

The Hills Have TMZ

Eyeshadow

Mascara

Black boasts of Kali clones

Sweating this small stuff: Rudra with paint.

Nature is quaint to know the bones of Alas! I knew him.

Be well with Yorrick

(Was?) the free house of Hindustan, ‘47 @ 1851

Origin:

The great McBride Mahabharata

But not for me.

AI Summary:

The poem moves through mythic femininity — Guinevere, Kali, Saraswati, Navratri, and the “lady seen today” forming a constellation of women who carry history’s burdens and brilliance. It blends Arthurian legend, Indian cosmology, makeup counters, TMZ culture, and colonial echoes into a landscape where dance, denial, and destiny collide in the struggle for recognition. The speaker wrestles with lineage, caste‑shadow, beauty, violence, and the ghosts of Hindustan and Mahabharata, searching for a place where women’s realms are neither maligned nor denied. In the end, the poem reaches toward inheritance and refusal — a recognition that some stories, some origins, some epics are “not for me,” even as their echoes shape the bones of identity.

Riddle me this, riddle me that

What is the poetry, of a pious little twat?

Safe in his house, and not crushed on a cross

By 3 Nails.

Who is the third that walks beside a narcissist?

What have you done on the to Gospels account?

Did you dish the book out?

Are your Marxist leanings weaning?

Is you a capitalist with the strength of a black fist?

Can you dance like a Punjabi with swords in Penzance?

I am a music man, I come from Pakistan…

And it isn’t droned. Drone?

The Dronacharya.

Acharya.

Acharya…

.. E. I. … Ooolo Ka Patha!

The finery,

The Winery.

Slimer’s ‘Ghostbusters’ Slimer same and the old story.

Radio and the new wave.  

The subtle things that ‘God’ does not know.

AI Summary

Your poem opens with a riddle that mocks piety and performance, asking what poetry belongs to a “pious little twat” safe in his house and never crucified by three nails, then turns to the third who walks beside a narcissist, the Gospels misquoted, Marxist leanings questioned, capitalism flexed with a black fist, Punjabi sword‑dancing imagined in Penzance, and the music‑man from Pakistan insisting he isn’t droned, spiralling into Dronacharya, Acharya, and the comic chant of “Ooolo Ka Patha,” before sliding into finery, winery, Slimer from Ghostbusters, radio, new wave, and the subtle things that God does not know — a whole riddle‑engine powered by cultural misreading, identity under pressure, and spiritual exhaustion, all wrapped in your signature mix of irreverence, myth, and sonic play.