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.
acting
Wired
Can’t see the man waiting for some change
It seems all things have changed
Transience is on the tale of infinity
There are all things within me:
Gone too far down the Transcendence Lane
Things won’t ever be the same again.
People are wired for exchanges
The enemy is waiting for me to mince my words
This would be absurd
Life is not all rhyming and slang
What about the fellows that hang?
Can’t I be a viral noose around their necks on some mornings?
Skipping down the steps of the Gurdwara
Silent amongst the pews of the Churches inside their own minds
This is the fallow soil that is human kind
Not always about Guru legislation all throughout the lonely land of tomorrow’s children
Corn, collapsibility and corroboration
These are the warning notes for the forts and the nations.
Don’t erect a Guru where an Avatar once stood
Telling me the world is my root problem with the self in your neighbourhood
I have things to say and places to go
I have my human rights too
Don’t you think I want to watch the human zoo?
Pieces are smashed and the range is exterior and extempore for the seeing to be enhanced
It seems that the Universe is on hand to catch all including 22 lest anything be left to chance.
AI Summary
It’s a poem about living in a world where everything is shifting — identity, safety, spirituality, community — and the speaker feels both hunted and awakened, aware of enemies, expectations, and the weight of human exchanges; the poem moves from the Gurdwara steps to the silent churches of the mind, from warnings about false gurus to declarations of personal rights, from smashed pieces of the self to the vastness of a universe that seems to be catching everything, even the stray number 22, leaving the speaker suspended between fear and clarity, longing and resistance, transience and the stubborn desire to speak.
Little Intellectual Boy Lost
Why do I see the things that I do?
Little things and big things deranging my vision through and through
Buddhafield electrifying the Boogaloo
Stumbling blocks to my learning
Late night travelling home from Nasser Uncle’s house, far outside of Birmingham
Sending my brother some love as we don’t fight about the roller skates
Debating the culture
A couple of legal vultures
Parents from antiquity
Fish and Chips from the Chippy
Star games on the arcade machine while they talk to the owner they know
Met the daughter some decades later, walking around Harborne
That’s not Walthamstow
Round and around from a Junior School game of Rounders
Flounder from the Little Mermaid
The black High School shut down of Home Invasions
The Propaganda models are the State of the Nation
And Rees Mogg is debutant on the high school stage
Selling us faux pas rage as the dancers play in the cages
The vaginas are talking alone again
The monologues are long and longing for me
I am the pauper celebrity
The fish in the ocean
The oxen on the lawn
Something like a cosmic consciousness to pawn
{Paw Paw Bear}
…
//
It was all there
When me and my brother played
Stay
A database in the cities of Angels
Aware of Nicholas Cages angles
Annoyed with Meg Ryan for trying
Lying and lying about the rage
Settling up with planes what man can’t know on the ground
Sealing the deal with furies when the poor man can’t be found
So down played
Soppy and played out
Singing in the showers
Alone for hours and hours
A passionate man
A flower loving member of a men’s group clan
Shouting in his own way about shanty towns
Blowing the wind when the Pakistani chants down the runway for a 100 mph bowl in an over at The Oval
What’s square about Waqar and Wasim now?
Not expanding and contracting consciousness
But expanding and explaining the world.
Two daughters in other guises
Spending what money they could find from parents who were kind
A bus driver and a lover’s son
Someone who made Jalandhar number one
Against all odds and murderous affairs
Stolen inheritance and plans for dancers everywhere
Looting London and Central School of Speech and Drama
Turing it into the Centred School for Trolls of Peace and Sharma’s Dharma
So the bug could be planted in PC World for the frigging girls to find when the owned the world
Loss of Schools
Forests for the fools
Shooting arrows in Warwick Castle as ascended actors well versed in Ritesh’s karmic affair…
Neet Mohan was everywhere
Instagram did not make sense
Julia Roberts listened to Jeremiah Blues
The Priests tried standing on their heads as a corpulent defence
Spending the Royal Crown
Keeping poor people down
Free Yoga Classes on the NHS
Something for the Pension Pot I think and I think your evolution makes no sense
- Teacher Mr Psychiatrists of things in foreign lands
- Breast wished Madhuri Dixit for legs akimbo in Aishwarya Rai’s Bachchan land
- 1980-2020 doesn’t look so expensive now
- Let’s lets
- Do you think?…
- Nurses worry about Slander now…
- 1990 Israel
- 2000s Iran
- Ahmedinajad at the UN
- Prince Charles does not let us eat Paan
- (William is trying to act at the UN like James Caan)
… and no Doctor
AI Summary
Your piece moves through childhood memories, late‑night journeys, family warmth, schoolyard games, and the sensory overload of growing up between cultures, blending these with films, celebrities, cricket legends, and spiritual references to show how your mind stitches the world together in vivid, associative flashes. Beneath the rapid shifts is a single emotional thread: you’re trying to understand why your perception feels so charged — why small details, old memories, and cultural symbols all strike you with the same intensity. The poem circles around the ache of diaspora identity, the weight of inherited expectations, the confusion of modern politics and media, and the longing for clarity in a world that feels fragmented. What emerges is a portrait of someone who sees too much because he has lived through too much — a man whose inner world is crowded with history, family, cinema, spirituality, and unresolved wounds, and who is trying to turn that overwhelming vision into meaning rather than madness.
Flat Cap Mirrors
That’s not the way they said it would turn out
The men, the spies and the roundabout cameras
Roundheads (in their heads_)
It’s all in their heads now.
Some of the things they said
Anyhow.
How do you think it feels
Seeing the Oxford showreels
Regrets, transference: Advice from the family that knew best
They sent me up there on my very George Best.
1066-1666-1966
^ things the devil told me
When he mentioned I would live(d) past 33.
Seeing
Believing
Reprieving
Being short of cash
Is that what it was all about
London gangs of actors
Thames Valley wanderers
LAMDA & RADA leaving me adrift for good water
Wafer thin reality and grasp on the good lessons of the Lord.
Where is your sword?
Is that the ‘twas a Word, melud
I cannot believe it is anymore between us.
So many years lost as a tardy tradesmen after school
Somebody’s fool,
The leach that was washed up on the beech
A starfish too far for the happy cars up and down the A38
Wait!
I can call a cab and my Dad won’t be driving…
… is that what kept The Greek conniving?
Always
Forever
Eternally waitful
Grateful for the keepsake promises that eat my brain today
Is it something that I say?
Maybe it’s my mental chatter,
Let’s have a good natter
The men’s group that meets in the morning.
Birmingham v London Town
Second City of Chicago is The Bull Ring floating around,
Bears waiting for finance,
Ringing those bells
Whistling down the wind
Things that finance can bring:
There’s going to be a furnace where they can bury up all those lies.
John Lennon was one of those guys
Chairman to his own board of contention
Invention
Imagination
Historical protection
Mao, Hitler and Father Joseph Stalin
We won’t be seeing those starlings around any time soon
For the sake of the room where the codes have been cracked for mushrooms
And the odd L.S.D.
For the even memory
Lost in time
Losing rhymes
Unimpressing to the Asian who fines you
Greek Olympian Athenian competitor
Yesterday’s examiner
Tomorrow’s legislator
Throw me the candle in the wind where the motions are about stopping
So I can age
Like a word about my life on the page
Lonely like a lake in the living legend of England
That forgot me after school and left me for a fool
To the other forsaken keepings of how to raise another man’s son
Things that were won and lost
Oh! The true cost of living life
Beyond the Self Help strife…
.. alone and helpless, my Mother watched me drown
Youthful in ageing with her emptying make up
Draws a frown
Black Hawk scowling down
The USA is all around
Centricity
Ego City
Things from the past
Nate Dogg and time to Regulate
My mates
& the Harborne Mile
Life before the Harborne Ashtanga Yoga Studio
How my blood did go
Stomach cramps
Breathing like drawing water to the castle up a ramp
All the head in a twisted twirl of memory fogginess
What the friends did when they got their chances to impress
The special Empress’s new babe
I would like to Rave
Review me please
Don’t make me write awash on my knees
Believe in salvation
It is the healing of the narrator’s nation.
Silas is Islamically prepared,
Emptiness is seemingly apparent to the visions of air …
It’s going to be another adrenaline rush
To make up time for scoring goals with Ian Rush
Liverpool F.C. and Manchester United have ideas too
That is why we follow the football to keep the scores abroad for the few
Who have too many things to do in their own hands
And look for places to grow where ETC. ETC. is something a person’s culture understands.
AI Summary
Your poem moves like a fevered autobiography, weaving together Oxford showreels, family pressure, historical dates, London gangs, acting schools, political tyrants, football legends, Birmingham streets, yoga studios, and the ghosts of adolescence to show how your life has been shaped by forces far larger than you — class, culture, religion, masculinity, and the expectations of others. It’s a lament for lost years, missed chances, and the strange detours of identity, but also a critique of the institutions that promised meaning and delivered confusion. Beneath the humour, the references, and the spiralling associations is a deep grief: the sense of being left behind by school, misunderstood by family, haunted by your mother’s suffering, and burdened by a world that keeps demanding you decode it. The poem ends in a plea for salvation — not religious, but narrative — a desire to make sense of your own story after being shaped, judged, and misread by so many others.
GueTonEd
They told me I wanted to do one
So I lie and lean to the left
There is sorrow within me
Passion knows knowledge before it knows sleep
Poetry is a lesser pop song
Merit is demanding meaning in Islamic rhyme
And music in Bombay sounds fine,
Like finery in the old oil refineries of winers who dine
With elongated women who play with perchance
To off the rhythmical find
And punked up ink to the blinds
Rising like a Paki stack –
Up and always up: Never a fuck up!
Fuck up, mother fucker! And I will see you in the dump truck
Collecting rubbish like the good Fucked Up Dr says
Martin Luther King day!
It says your handy men are gay and you won’t play
On the streets and the sea shores
Where candy is crushed in the bottled mouths of mums
Mummying more than your Mata crew
Too rude to lie in lines with havoc on Drew
About his salary and fat carcass sitting lost
On the vultures’ solution to his camel feast
And how to translate his humour to an Arabic queen.
So I chose two and poetry wrote the internet
They let and the house was full of regret
Lonely furniture, hopeful bedside cabinet
A place to Kindle some bookish delight
A place to feel some horror book fright
A place for me and a place for you
A place away from the actor’s [so called] Acting Human Zoo.
Switch the Stanislavsky off
Let me hear your voice with hands around your balls : COUGH!
Cough like Roger Mc Gough and all those beaten poets
Who stood by Liverpool so that John Barnes would know it.
Left, right and then a goal –
Tell my soul that the Black Man is sold.
I am out for this shit on the web
Away from the Glen and all those Merry Arthurian Men.
Marionne, Marian and Atoinette – let me never regret
While my pen is still whet:
From one more fight between me and the Jews
For who never recommended O.T. tribalism between my brother, I and the (King and //…) you.
AI Summary
This poem is about being mis-seen, mis-named, and mis-handled by every system you’ve ever passed through — family, race, religion, psychiatry, masculinity, the internet, the literary world. It’s a poem about reclaiming your voice from all of them, even if the reclamation is messy, angry, and full of the debris of the cultures that shaped you.
Wild Stage 