Catch me some history and the trees will fall
The writing of one book and love for us all.
The Guru Granth Sahib is remarkable for what I do not read
The eyes of another and internet feed.

This is the modern age and man does not know himself too well
Tainted paint with graffiti about facts he summarised.
Man cannot use that which is normal for too long without time
Interfering gathering of life around vices representing grime.

Manners are spoken, voices can be heard
A man’s true designation is otherwise preferred.
At the feet of the Master and not out there with the loose cannons
Computer gamblers hopeful of some sexual passions.

Man was not made to know woman until the Bible was spoken over top
Optional headdress for those left out in the cold,
Like this old verse that beyond Renaissance ideals
Seeking love elsewhere for those fashions to balance a heartfelt steal.

Save me from Guru save me from despair
But do not rescue the Buddha within me
That will cut off my hair.
In England they are the same
And the Gurdwara is no good
They tempt you there with wastage and free food.

These interludes are some qualities of knowledge that I see vaguely
The lights on the city of the hills is not really business for me.
These religions grow tired, and the true Guru has enough words for himself
To leave me out and not include me in the fortress of his rude health.

Words can be deceptive, and the hierarchy can leave acres in the brain
Neurons mistake projects for New Age scientists to place strains
Men and women workers suffer uncooked food at home tables
Education is lesser and wielding to their career and pension repeatably well.

These are the days of finding that time is not beyond embarrassing man
And Guru Nanak faces psychiatry with a hand in the Yugas and Kalpas:
Again after Scientology they have a Master Plan
Nazi, suicide missions and English revisions to delete your man.

So, gather for a ramble and a march amongst the brambles of Birmingham
From an unlikely suspect of poetic disturbance within himself:
Where is the stealth of Xenu in the bygone age of post-2012 spirituality
After the NHS medicated my mother with tortious liability of proximity?

AI Summary

Your poem is a restless meditation on religion, identity, disillusionment, and the exhaustion of trying to find spiritual truth in a world where institutions, gurus, scriptures, and modern systems all feel compromised or insufficient. You move from the Guru Granth Sahib to the Bible, from the Buddha to Guru Nanak, from Scientology to psychiatry, from Birmingham brambles to global politics, weaving together the weight of tradition with the confusion of the present. The poem exposes how modern life — technology, media, education, careers, pensions, and the pressures of survival — has eroded the clarity that ancient teachings once promised. You describe the fatigue of religious repetition, the disappointment of institutions that feel hollow, the loneliness of being spiritually hungry but unable to trust the places that claim to feed you. Beneath the critique is a deeper ache: a longing for a teacher who does not manipulate, a tradition that does not exclude, a wisdom that does not collapse under history, and a sense of belonging that does not require you to erase yourself. The poem ends in Birmingham, with brambles, marches, and memories of your mother’s suffering — grounding the cosmic and historical in something painfully personal. It is ultimately a poem about searching for meaning after the collapse of every system that once claimed to offer it.