only Covent Garden will do
for the few
Crowds are not welcome there
Belgos is fair
The cobbled streets are uneven for feet
Where are the umbrellas?
Lazy fellas,
Why didn’t you walk by their sides
Handling their lives
With emotions unanalysed in public.
Build a Bear is fair

Where are the good table covers?
Lazy brothers,
Leaving the phallus unloved
So internet could fight glove
And no-one is wrong Law loves
Save the one who holds the dove.

Take a journey away from the confused estate
And mosey on down the random aisles
Away from your wedded one in stony garden
To the locus of London for tourists to pardon.

See them buying the ads. from shops of places
Your dad used to drive past as taxi
Piccadilly is now clamping down
On such men of their race being racy.

Let’s agree on the matter of healthy ice cream
And avoid a [               ] royale with cheese~ Burger King style
With the rich folk at Haagen Daz for delights ‘n’ dreams
At yellow Leicester Square monopolising un-adventure.

And we’ll call it a date.

AI Summary

Your poem opens with Covent Garden as the only place that “will do,” a sanctuary for the few where crowds aren’t welcome and Belgos is fair, the cobbled streets uneven for feet; umbrellas are missing, lazy fellas not walking beside the people whose lives they should have handled, their emotions left unanalysed in public, and Build‑a‑Bear becomes a strangely fairer world than the adults around it; you ask where the good table covers are, lazy brothers leaving the phallus unloved so the internet can fight glove, and Law loves no one except the one who holds the dove — a sly indictment of institutional innocence; you urge a journey away from the confused estate, down random aisles, away from the wedded one in the stony garden toward the locus of London where tourists pardon everything, buying ads from shops your dad once drove past as a taxi driver, while Piccadilly clamps down on men of their race being racy — a sharp, quiet note about racialised public space.

You propose healthy ice cream instead of a blank‑space royale with cheese, Burger King style, while rich folk at Häagen‑Dazs monopolise un‑adventure in yellow Leicester Square; and then, with a soft landing, you say: and we’ll call it a date — a line that turns the whole poem into a mixture of longing, satire, and the desire for a moment of uncomplicated companionship in a city that rarely offers it.

Swift days transfer the happiness
Success @ online meets reality,
The same script references against shoes and gladrags
Help the women. Belong in ‘[                  ].
Buy her a Mini. They look cool.
Waterfalls and fountains
Invest successful mountains
Challenges have been degradred too soon.
A rinsing a pincing a lazy person ‘thinking’
What’s a man trying to bet down to do?

That’s not poker
That’s not Mind
You’re ragging on me
I need kind.

Feline acquiescence is my adept
In private I know they are beyond shoes
So I have devised a scheme like Inspector Gadget
To address their holy blues.
They were not not their bodies until
Still.
‘Sex Symbol’ Is.
Okay address.
Your dress is yours.

Boombaclaats invest badly.
Didn’t you know we know these ‘tings.
“Race is not language”.
Hamlet’s melancholy was the world of power
Hurry up, I’m annoyed. Please! Ophelia went mad.

A is for “Attachment”
People are not Duplo lego pieces.
Break ups. Happen.

“Attachment”. Removed.

Find yourself

AI Summary

Your poem opens with swift days transferring happiness, where online success meets reality and the same script about shoes and gladrags tells women to belong in some unnamed space; you mock the idea of buying her a Mini because it “looks cool,” waterfalls and fountains promising investment in mountains while challenges degrade too soon, and a lazy thinker rinses and pinches at life, leaving you to ask what a man is even trying to bet down to do; that’s not poker, not mind, you say — you’re being ragged on, and you need kind.

You turn inward: feline acquiescence is your adept, and privately you know women are beyond shoes, so you devise an Inspector Gadget scheme to address their holy blues; they were not their bodies until still, and “Sex Symbol” simply is, but the dress is theirs — a moment of bodily autonomy stated with clarity.

Then the poem swerves: boombaclaats invest badly, race is not language, Hamlet’s melancholy becomes the world of power, and you snap — “Hurry up, I’m annoyed. Please! Ophelia went mad.” A is for Attachment, you say, and people are not Duplo Lego pieces; break‑ups happen, attachment removed, and the poem ends on a single instruction: find yourself — the only line without irony, humour, or cultural reference, the one line spoken clean.

A company has female member founders
Maybe from university
Where women attend with men
Dehumanise them.
They certainly came from homes.

Emo-press families,
Making it. The Other Is always The Big Brother
Correction at home is the theme.
Cain and Abel’s meme. Thank you!

Me me me
I-I ‘meditation’
How did language develop?
Star
T
Wipe the I across
For who’s cross?
The note of Theosophy
Was recorded and detailed: – Internet History
[                ] & ‘Astral’ @ Davos AND DELETABILITY
Anger without body aware.
Stolen works and polls and marketing sold unfair.
Pharmaceutical critique harnessed.

Ping.

How The Internet Was Raided.
L’Arc de Triumph
Pig.
A fancy phrase must be created.
To, Access legal fees, With love
You have office bumf. I don’t. With kind regards. Academic.

A Pope walks into the woods
Research Grants Utter
Is an online statement
A statement
An utterance
Relevant to “Thee”?
May I take my seat at The Question?
World War Three never stopped.
Tell Me No Lies – ‘to me’.

Whose property is the right language today?

{Shout. Shout. Let it all out.
The Billboard chart is not what it was about.
Jim never fixed it,
[               ] is off air.
The radio isn’t I-Pad friendly
Talks of fees for B.B.C. I-Player are here.}

Caryle and Ruskin
Country bumpkins.
Sssh!
Ismaili, Ishmael
I smile at male, Is Male I
Drunk in The Cloud
Who ate all the pie?
After beers with me dears.

‘The Young Ones’ aren’t near
To protest too much
So who is going to file Shakespeare where?

The loss of knowledge from absenteeism in schools with rectum failure
Tense with assertion of capitalism revision
Dot.Com BOOM’s disappearance
Levied the leverage rumouring of The U.K. M.P.s expenses scared scandal
Now. [                ] secret is regalia.

AI Summary

The poem moves through linguistic ownership — who controls language, who shapes culture, and how women, workers, founders, and families get folded into systems that dehumanise. It traces the rise of the internet, media raids, marketing theft, academic pretence, and the erosion of knowledge, showing a world where expression feels stolen, monetised, or censored. The speaker wrestles with identity, anger, religion, archives, and the fading authority of institutions, searching for clarity in a landscape of cloud‑drunk masculinity and collapsing public trust. In the end, the poem reaches toward cultural recovery — a hope that language, memory, and meaning might still be reclaimed from secrecy, scandal, and the noise of modern life.

Heggerty Haggarty walked past by
And Sepia print in my mind’s eye
Revelled in a pack of Revels
The revelatory minstrel within me.
Is there anything she couldn’t see
Beyond the darkness behind the thing.
[               ] is a push away
A solidarity
But her songs are not for me
The queen bee and the hive mind
Are land mines before her ‘we’.

[               ] was too posh to settle down
With the colour of her skin
When is’ness wasn’t around;
The queen of crown glory has presided a story
Neo-liberal trading patterns

Jazz-a-phoney: Come back to me kid.##

Take the shot!
Enjoy the thrill!
‘Shoot to kill is oversight’.
I came in peace to reduce the beast,
But the Priests won’t pay for the cars.

If the love of money is evil
I couldn’t show you affection
In public a statue like liberty
Is private to the phallus of our dejection.

The Priests won’t even salary up
And accept career to taint their ages,
So I don’t accept the revival,
Updating…
Versus beauty: Richard Swinburne
Internet is erasable.

AI Summary

Your poem begins with Heggerty Haggarty walking by, a sepia print in your mind’s eye revelling in a pack of Revels, the revelatory minstrel within you asking whether she could see beyond the darkness behind the thing; the blank space becomes a push away, a solidarity, but her songs are not for you, the queen bee and the hive mind becoming land mines before her “we”; another blank‑space was too posh to settle down with the colour of her skin when is’ness wasn’t around, the queen of crown glory presiding over neo‑liberal trading patterns; “Jazz‑a‑phoney: come back to me kid” becomes a plea, followed by “Take the shot! Enjoy the thrill! Shoot to kill is oversight,” and you arrive as someone who came in peace to reduce the beast, but the priests won’t pay for the cars.

If the love of money is evil, you couldn’t show affection in public — a statue like liberty becomes private to the phallus of dejection, and the priests won’t salary up or accept careers that taint their ages; so you don’t accept the revival, updating versus beauty, Richard Swinburne flickering in the background, and the internet becomes erasable — a final gesture toward the fragility of meaning in a world where nothing stays, nothing pays, and nothing blesses.

If an insult makes you large
Then land mass is a matter
Held aloof by quiet men
Who let the women chatter.

What is so funny about Canada nation
That America foils [                   ]?
And an undermine is their reputation
So Yanks can drink Loki Brewski.

Do you need to sell so many films
And approach the sense of humour as your sole right
Weening others to bankruptcy and credit card delight
For Actual non-interventions by court.
How clean is your Supreme Court?

You do not allow abortion
Yet stop the world’s contortion.
Is Canada treated fair
When it has lumberjack clean air.

Quebec City’s (own) architecture,
White blasé and La Rue de la Sincere
Just for laughs
Why the lovely language of Ontario
Toronto, Ottawa
New England

Gone too soon.

AI Summary

Your poem opens by saying that if an insult makes you large, then land mass becomes a matter held aloof by quiet men who let women chatter — a jab at performative masculinity disguised as diplomacy; you ask what’s so funny about Canada that America foils the blank space, undermining its reputation so Yanks can drink Loki Brewski, turning geopolitics into frat‑house mythology; you question whether America needs to sell so many films and claim humour as its sole right, weaning others into bankruptcy and credit‑card delight for non‑interventions by court, asking how clean the Supreme Court is — a sharp critique of cultural imperialism disguised as banter.

You turn to abortion laws, contortion of the world, and whether Canada is treated fairly when it has lumberjack clean air; Quebec City’s architecture, white blasé and La Rue de la Sincère, becomes a postcard of a nation that is both mocked and ignored; you ask why the lovely language of Ontario, Toronto, Ottawa, New England — all gone too soon — suggesting that cultural nuance is erased by louder neighbours, louder markets, louder myths.

The poem ends on a quiet ache: a sense that nations are not just borders but languages, atmospheres, and intimacies that can be lost, overshadowed, or laughed out of existence.

The intervention of breakfast or lunch
Or a daring demanding drenching tea
Stares me away from the lap top and crap net
That frustrates the amateur of technology.

Aren’t you grateful when they had no computers in the past?
Now your life and salvation won’t last,
Go and beg for the money that makes your next moments funny
Advertising what’s in my world and is wrong.

{Space}
If discourse is known and categories are sold cheaply
How do layers of the self become Hinduism’s defeat of me?
How is ‘the you’?
. Internet politic poetics . are yet definable through
Pages that have yet to be dreamed of
To cream off the top shelf demands
For those void of Karajan’s caravans
To be moved: The Category will lead to Categories
And the beating will drum the people’s defeating.

Down lines of marketing are away
Of Morten Harket’s non creation of Son of God’s as we pray
Would you advent against Yeshua his order of the right way
When he was ordered not to say the name
Tests against the foe resulted in the big “Do not”
That Maria Latinises intentionally to frame
The Son of Man as God
In her own prayer
When he ordered everyone
Never to swerve from His hair.

Sharing isn’t there
If the argument is acceptable
Behind textual referencing
Over centuries of defending.

How is prose when verse
Is so terse to the common woman,
So that man is her own to own?

AI Summary

Your poem opens with the intervention of breakfast, lunch, or drenching tea pulling you away from the laptop and the “crap net” that frustrates the amateur of technology; you ask whether we’re grateful that the past had no computers, because now life and salvation don’t last — you must beg for the money that makes the next moments funny, advertising what’s wrong in your world; you leave a space, then ask how discourse and categories sold cheaply can defeat the layers of the self, how Hinduism’s depth becomes a defeat of you, how “the you” is doing, and whether internet politic‑poetics can ever be defined through pages not yet dreamed of; you describe demands creamed off the top shelf for those void of Karajan’s caravans, categories leading to categories, the beating drumming the people’s defeating.

You move into theology: marketing lines drift away from Morten Harket’s non‑creation of the Son of God, and you ask whether one would advent against Yeshua’s order of the right way when he was ordered not to say the Name; tests against the foe result in the big “Do not,” which Maria Latinises intentionally to frame the Son of Man as God in her own prayer, even though he ordered everyone never to swerve from His hair — a sharp critique of textual authority and how doctrine is shaped by those who speak loudest.

You say sharing isn’t there if the argument is acceptable only behind centuries of textual referencing and defending; you ask how prose can stand when verse is too terse for the common woman, so that man becomes her own to own — a final gesture toward gendered language and the way power hides inside grammar.

Ability to swing in Amazonian densities
And spend the day after day to tomorrow and a day
Captured the essence of ‘monkey’.
It has family and stays together in a group
So the television crew can name it so.
Look how the leaves bend and grow
Adapt to their weight
So wait.
The monkey family has to know
Wise things too.

Where is the food for you?
In the questions to answers your gibbering to your masters
Hail Caesar when you didn’t please Cleopatra
What time is for you?
Egyptian seers are through
They chambered the masses
For after life classes.
How do you do? When judgement is for you
To eat and dine with a king
The monkey still
Has no fridge
And the shops that don’t need
Aren’t beneath the midge.

The lesson is taught & the wealth of nations debate
Hate 2 back 2 back and a fashion’s story
Sorry that poor are classified 2 horny rates
Tuning taste buds against bus driver for drawers.

Money used to be a tree
Then Bible history _ Odds are you will personalise it Christian.
I have no debt that my wine cellars forget
With 2000 year old adage and isolation.
What is your nation? What king of an idea?
How do monkey’s abate trees felling for paper rates?
Are they shined when gold is primed?
Subways have no day-light in them.

Do monkeys rape? How do they intend?
To be beyond seeing when surveillance is now their friend
Trackers aren’t barred
Caesar is paid
Tags and ‘Orders’ for ethnics
For the champine way.

AI Summary

Your poem begins with the ability to swing in Amazonian densities, spending day after day capturing the essence of “monkey,” a creature with family, group, and wisdom, named by a television crew who sees only what fits the script; leaves bend and grow, adapting to weight, and the monkey family must know wise things too — a quiet assertion that animal intelligence is deeper than human arrogance admits.

You ask where the food is, turning to questions and answers gibbered to masters, hailing Caesar when Cleopatra wasn’t pleased; Egyptian seers chambered the masses for afterlife classes, and judgement becomes a dinner with a king while the monkey still has no fridge, no shops, nothing beneath the midge — a critique of civilisation’s absurdity disguised as anthropology.

The lesson shifts: wealth of nations, hate back‑to‑back, fashion’s story, poor classified into horny rates, taste buds tuned against bus drivers for drawers; money used to be a tree, then Bible history, and odds are you will personalise it Christian; you say you have no debt your wine cellars forget, with 2000‑year‑old adage and isolation, asking what nation is, what king of idea, how monkeys abate tree‑felling for paper rates, whether they shine when gold is primed, and why subways have no daylight — a meditation on economics as a spiritual wound.

Then the poem turns sharp: do monkeys rape, how do they intend, how do they stay beyond seeing when surveillance is now their friend; trackers aren’t barred, Caesar is paid, tags and orders for ethnics for the champine way — a final indictment of surveillance, racialisation, and the policing of bodies, framed through the contrast between human cruelty and animal instinct.

Ave Aria Opera: lessons in love lie before you
A superiority over the human race: To disgrace.

Lines, genealogies and a police trace,
The mystery of life has no solution.
Inwards there is a legacy of debenture upon cost voices
Where there is no future beyond employment for the staged.

Practices and hopes, problematically serialised
Quantifying the calm joys of music like equal
And unequal sales of heads
Masques and head-wear and clothing

Around the sounds
Who doesn’t belong where they are?

Costume is attire
The history is unacquired.
The references at interval are for exploration.
Deviant creams on the T.V. for the classes to wrong their class.

Program is explanation
Program 2 Programming explains how you are,
So the night’s fair is reductable to ticket
And best breasts and dark suits are for shallow affair.

Conductor’s were the snobs that people portray
Then how would the lineage of supposed waltz have stayed
Through exchanges of tuition and tense educational isolation
To reflect the parents that bold.
They told of assurance that wielders chip away at
Aggressors to monied might against social flight
Narrowing the values of dreams.

Enlarged sensibilities phrase the voices
That make you vent frustrated choices.
To demand of stage operatics
National debates and inferior politics.

AI Summary

Your poem opens with Ave Aria Opera, lessons in love lying before you, a superiority over the human race that becomes disgrace; lines, genealogies, and police traces suggest that the mystery of life has no solution, only a legacy of debenture and cost‑voices where the future is limited to employment for the staged. Practices and hopes become serialised, quantifying the calm joys of music like equal and unequal sales of heads, masques, head‑wear, clothing — all circling the question who doesn’t belong where they are. Costume is attire, but history is unacquired; references at interval are for exploration, while deviant creams on TV teach the classes how to wrong their own class.

Program becomes explanation, and programming explains how you are, reducing the night’s fair to a ticket, best breasts and dark suits to shallow affair; conductors become snobs, yet the lineage of waltz survives through tuition, tension, and educational isolation, reflecting parents who wield assurance while aggressors chip away at monied might against social flight, narrowing the values of dreams. Enlarged sensibilities phrase the voices that make you vent frustrated choices, demanding of stage operatics national debates and inferior politics — a final gesture toward the way art becomes a battleground for identity, class, and the longing to be seen without being reduced.

Manifest a book for me
Dream leader of Waterstones city
The list for all history
Preserved for he and she.
[               ] the book of Islam
Bring back our daughters
Y.E.S,
I need the illiterates slaughter
Have they said there is a thought ahead?
Where money sounds music to their boss man
Y.E.S. they’re great.
Barnes is Nobbing and girating
The selection for ill health and racist hating.

When the Aborigine was seen by obscene ships
They were landed and gathering without the Word,
Now ‘Tribe’ ‘Animalism’ ‘Spirit’ ‘Behaviouralism’ move
To honour the guru and Priest to push forward.
Their connection with Nature is one day going to be
The unlawful laughter of a world without meaning.
Sometimes a Pope is not intelligent
Aping in public repeated repent
I never meant for your leader to come back
Teams and sides
Game Theory for rich and hairy
Wax on and wax off
Guru is hiding
..behind.. the darkness YouTube is now for comment
In the Yoni of the Yoga with a Yogini with(out) bad breath
Is Toga pitted against Spartan again.

Parliament is now Christian under Cameron answer
As details on the internet ’laptop my lover’
Computer is my enemy with ‘Electric Dreams’ for me
What book defined The Beloved and Bhakti?
Devotion isn’t mine to discover
Polytechnic, red brick, twin schools, grammar
‘Public’ does not do public
Tories stop [                      ]
A brain train in the US for music in private
Is not Beauty for Argument against God in hot climates.

Swinburne raises his ugly Name
W.W.3. without Blake
Is it the same?
Critique on internet banal treatment
William S., William B., William W.
No.
Have I lost history?
“A.” is for “Altruism”
Buddhism is too exaggerated.

AI Summary

Your poem gathers its fragments of religion, empire, booksellers, digital ghosts, and broken philosophies into a single restless vision where history feels tampered with and devotion commercialised, where colonial wounds echo through modern institutions, where gurus, popes, tribes, and algorithms all compete for authority, and where the self wanders through Waterstones, YouTube, Parliament, and the ruins of anthropology searching for a meaning that refuses to appear, leaving behind a landscape of satire, lament, and intellectual fatigue that reads like a scripture written after all scriptures have been exhausted, a testament to a world where history’s distortions, spiritual collapse, and digital disillusion merge into one long, unsettled question about what remains when every tradition has been commodified, misread, or emptied of its original force.

High ho’s and Long John Silver
Capital crimes of Somali times
Video piracy VHS: double tape deck deserves redress
Threats of police outside
St Theresa limiting police forces
Airplane Shirley and Fame Academy
Demanded high whales
The Crucible does not exclude [              ] profuse revisions.
Cloistered lives met ivory towers:
Alongside definitions for World Championship Snooker
[Black balling [                         ] ]
[ [                  ] the Game’s longevity]

The hollow cause is the remnants of Judaism
Is What job left for Shylock
The way is for him.
Capitalist intellect prove
Attested verified Wi-Fi ‘etc.’
Broadband is a stereo Christ.

‘The Self’ in language needs {Space} abeyance
To Carl Jung affected slamming of the I (Islam overt tax levy)
‘I am at the water but I am not the water’
Memories Dreams and (whose) Reflections
Done in private;
Atman and Brahman are one
Look within the kingdom of heaven is within you
He and he are one
Look within thou art Buddha
‘2 shows’ … poeticisation abuses
Telling
.. the world is refused
Judas’s punishment
Telling = taken out on mankind
-The fairyest tales children’s books cannot find
The hoarse voice 4 All
1 Sin
2 Forgiveness
3 Suffering
4 Buddhism
5 Omniscience
6 Not Buddhism
7 Omnipresence
8 Omnipresent’
I want
All children never had all.

A bible is for Christian their meaning is for church and private
are the rivets of their leader and their priests are to be put to test online.

AI Summary

Your new passage reads like a storm‑journal, a ledger of pop‑culture ghosts, colonial echoes, mystical fractures, and the strange comedy of modern authority, all stitched together by your instinct for collision — VHS piracy beside Jung, Shylock beside broadband, Long John Silver beside Atman and Brahman — forming a single field where history, myth, and technology blur into one long interrogation of meaning, punishment, inheritance, and the failures of every system that claimed to offer clarity. The blank spaces you leave — in “The Crucible does not exclude [ ] profuse revisions”, “[Black balling [ ] ]”, “[ [ ] the Game’s longevity]” — act like redactions in a cultural dossier, pointing toward history’s distortions, censorship of identity, and the politics of exclusion. Your imagery moves from the maritime outlaw (“High ho’s and Long John Silver”) to the digital priesthood (“Broadband is a stereo Christ”), from Jung’s shadow to the Upanishadic self, from children’s fairy tales to the architecture of sin and forgiveness — all circling the same wound: the world’s inability to give children, cultures, or individuals the fullness they were promised. What emerges is a critique of spiritual collapse, cultural misreading, and the commodification of belief, ending with a stark observation: that even scripture, once private and sacred, is now dragged into the public square to be tested, judged, and consumed like everything else.