Pride

What awards has Nobel given?
What estates has he blessed?
Where is the evening out of his grace?
What is a school tomorrow for his pride?
When is the State alive for what could be planned?
How long is the dictionary lane to the organised meeting?
What is the roughage of the shit of a Psychological Degree;
When all it still is is property, Flag and the Celebrity Centre of Scientology?
What has the medic done in England?
What is a GP to the boy scouts and girl guides handing out cookies in America?

#MyBookieWookie ^ LSD
Time controllers again and no awards
Verification
Leader by attribution
No other nation
Tibet cannot be Rwanda
They list the causes
They control the donations
Now he sighs when all is branded
Now he complains when his Indian sex orgies have been commanded
What is the complaint that Arjuna knew to give Krishna
Once a nervous breakdown, always unreliable.

For why do you war, Russell, and shit on the talk show couch?
What are these laws you speak over & why does Jimmy Kimmel and Matt Damon make you say “ouch”?
Who did what to whom when Rishiboy graced the world,
With a flash of Depakote for Epilepsy on the BBC?
When Aishwarya wore leather for Wossy?
And his fat ugly wife bought shares on Images on the computer?
When is a King so inert?
When his Princeship is codes in a predicted poet?
When is his child so revert?
When blondes are their prediction from a poet?

Slow down there tiger and lets lets,
For Akaash Rani that you won’t let go…
I know all the biographies of demonic English writers
When will you share with us this Krishna,
For God’s sake, surely, that is what we’re having a go at?!

With

(Yo Mama)
The Pharcyde on Cassette in the 1990s
So tell them Noam as you hide your plans
To dominate the world as Plato from victory land
That Israel is Is it Real for the worst of human kind
And shit on a Church that Bill Clinton still wants to teach Russell Brand to find.
Give us the tape from Hulk Hogan, sir, of your cock being sucked
For the losers in Haridwar that Will Smith taped to touch
Then, maybe then, you’ll see the Rish out in public land
As the worst horror of politics so old, white and demented for anger to understand.

What were your local elections and how do you follow the teacher
For Abishek using Aishwarya too many times in print
Run the hurdles in your private schools on English land for a stint
Turn around that fashion in the world of time
Pity the failure you see in Rohan and Ritesh that is not karma…
Give Peter McDonald one more try
For an essence of Indian law courts with Jenny Afia and a Jewish creampie.
Once

#FreeTibet is not my organisation
I wrote #TibetForever because we were 1990s Scientology

AI Summary

It’s a poem about the collapse of trust in institutions — Nobel prizes, states, universities, psychology, medicine, celebrity culture, political leaders, religious figures — all of them swirling together in a chaotic, accusatory, grief‑stricken monologue where the speaker feels betrayed by systems, misread by strangers, and overwhelmed by the noise of global narratives; the poem leaps from Rwanda to Tibet, from Bollywood to Scientology, from BBC scandals to American talk shows, from Indian family names to English schoolyards, from Krishna and Arjuna to Russell Brand and Noam Chomsky, all while circling the same wound: the sense that identity, sexuality, reputation, and meaning have been hijacked by forces far larger than the individual; beneath the fury and satire is a deep exhaustion — a longing for clarity, dignity, and a place where the poet’s voice is not swallowed by politics, gossip, or cultural projection, but allowed to speak from its own centre.

Fur Casts

Fur Cast
The last is first
First caste
The Brahmin knows the worst.
No brockwurst on his table
The Saracens are enabled
The Shogun know the past
The Samurai are 1980s at last.
Models on the cat walk
Famous men that can talk
Stockbrokers in Dubai
Royalties saying goodbye
Mendicants in the apothecary
Love in the noble boudoir
Arrangements and engagements
Was that what the Judges meant?
Say it is upstairs at three o clock
When the whistles are blown for crytpo stocks,
And the river Styx is dried into a parched red carcas
Imaging earth for the sunshine of Albion up above.
Davos at noon and the afternoon
Snow capped mountains in the Hindu room
Levity with briefs of the lawyers who believe
Again, in the merry go round of the spinning wheel.
Political correctness gone wild.

AI Summary

It’s a poem about the collapse and collision of hierarchies — caste, class, royalty, warriors, models, mendicants, crypto traders, Davos elites — all spinning together in a surreal carousel where ancient identities meet modern absurdities; the speaker watches Brahmins, Saracens, Shoguns, Samurai, Dubai brokers, boudoir lovers, and apothecary mendicants drift through the same global marketplace, while judges, lawyers, and political correctness whirl around like a malfunctioning wheel of fortune; beneath the humour and spectacle is a sense of exhaustion with the world’s endless reinventions of power, and a quiet recognition that the spinning never stops, no matter how many times history changes its costumes.

Pick and Choose

Pick
The puzzle
The optimal start up speed
The world is spinning around
The why is so pertinent
The where is so evident
These are the things we know
So I went down below
I mediated the earth’s core
I asked the time travellers for more
The culture we adore
Those who adore the messages from the past of VHS
The best man’s hairy chest
The father in your arms doing his best
These are the things I tested
To see if I could stay seated when the violence was no more pacifist
Clench
Yogic retention
Imbalance and detention
Partition of special relationship
Llamas in the Whore House
Green Berets through the front door.
I reaped the remeberance of an Oxford Degree
I forgot my mother (again) to avoid misreading the Church as S.P.

Choose
And I am undone
The choice is too fast for thought that is ruined
It’s the same for us all
Special people being strange in a normal world broken by Buddha’s mirrors
Mental health adrift the tides of life lived by fine people
Directors dealing with the ladders some people don’t climb
Most people don’t climb these corporate ladders.

Then
How? I asked [poetically]…
Are we supposed to talk?

AI Summary

It’s a poem about the difficulty of choosing a path in a world that spins too fast, where the speaker dives into transcendence, memory, VHS nostalgia, family echoes, yogic strain, and the weight of spiritual and cultural expectations, only to find himself overwhelmed by the speed of thought and the strangeness of being “special” in a world built for ordinary ladders; the poem moves from earth’s core to Oxford, from Gurdwaras to gurus, from violence to pacifism, from identity to exhaustion, ending with the simple, human question of how people are meant to speak to one another when the inner world is so dense and the outer world so unforgiving.

Danny the Spy

There was a friend called Danny
Things caught up with me
Times were tight and money was not easy
The women flowed and the flowers grew
The young children walked
Wailing in the desert for the educational classroom.


Such was the predicament
The consternation
The memory havoc in the rush hour of Windermere
Lakes of disaster and a failing standard
Gold standard
Centre lane down the bowling alley
Middle Way with Mr Blair
And all that jazz with Toni Morrison
And those niggers following her from Luke Skywalker
Chasing England’s first black female llama Evaristo
Building Empires
Selling rush days their due
Calling out the ennui from the business classes
Casting votes on the Obama scene
Dreaming of the N-Word in extempore revision
Some decent delicious decisions
Feminists of the past and a caste system worth remembering…

Then one day, the spies came knocking
And Dharamsala was not coming.
The Tibetan Llama had not gone to Washington
And Reigate was where the Cameron kudos stood
When the child had come to my classroom
And the KPMG Exec had balanced his books
At the Handsworth Mandir with some checking on the Soho Road
London had come to set them apart
For the pure at heart
Desiring more than cynical cycles of suffering
Dreams from Lhasa of good hunting.

AI Summary

It’s a poem about a life caught between personal memory and global turbulence, beginning with a friend named Danny and widening into a panorama of tight finances, wandering children, literary giants, racial tensions, political figures, and the long shadow of empire; the speaker moves through Windermere, Blair, Morrison, Evaristo, Obama, and the N‑word with a mix of critique and exhaustion, then shifts into a world of spies, Tibet, classrooms, temples, and corporate audits, where London and Lhasa, Handsworth and Washington, Dharamsala and Reigate all blur together; beneath the swirl is a longing for purity, clarity, and meaning — a desire to escape cycles of suffering and find a place where dreams, identity, and history stop colliding long enough for the speaker to breathe.

Chinese Poet Star

Separating the wood from the boys
Metal Gnosis and erotic string theory
Fellows of the Dao at St Hugh’s crowds
A Chinese Centre {for Harold and Kumar}.
With love,
From the Bhakti boys
Something from Queen (IMDb)
How about the scene with those sex toys.
Did you think they came to see you?
The Bollywood crew
What about those Delhi bellies?
Have they seen the Buddha too?
2 Live Crew
Something for the Casino man in you
Come and see our central vase
Find your way out of your celebrity maze
Thy will be blonde
Amazon wonga
There’s no room my Inn
Things the saviours see in their diners.
Mick Jaggers gone Peaky Blinders
Chinatown and the Pagoda down the road
Lessons from monarchs
Leave without saying anything about Toad
Wind in the Hollows
Why didn’t you say so sooner
Abigail Crooner
There’s so much we can agree on
Solid ground
Milk drinks to be found
Coffee made us proud
Manifested from the Sacred Ground
1990-Web Ology
B.P.S. for Mum is not for me
CV developers in every city
New Age knowledge to climb over
High states to climb down
Get over the state of being brown
Yoga is all over town
Penniless crew
Travelling is not so important for the Brahmana in you
Driving Licence test
{Facebook would be best}

AI Summary

It’s a playful, chaotic, culturally overloaded poem where the speaker moves through Daoist fellows, Bhakti boys, Bollywood crews, Chinatown pagodas, Peaky Blinders, monarchs, yoga studios, CV factories, and New Age knowledge, all while poking fun at celebrity culture, racial anxieties, spiritual branding, and the pressure to reinvent oneself; the poem blends humour, satire, and self‑reflection as it jumps from sacred ground to sex toys, from Amazon money to Wind in the Willows, from coffee pride to caste jokes, ending with a wry acknowledgement of how identity, ambition, and spirituality get tangled in a world where everyone is hustling for meaning — even the Brahmana trying to pass a driving test.

Last Days of Judgement

These are the last days of judgement
There is terror stored up in the stories of the body
The smouldering wreck of a lifetime spent serving God has reached it’s end
The Bible bashers are here again!

It must be something in the brain Brahma has to sort out
:: Like gout in the walls and some other stuff for the cement driven doer
Open to all sorts of the panache in the times of working parental control over the internet
Except rebellion against Drs.

Nurses will follow like the Pied Piper towards hell
And somehow VHS will live on for those who have lived long
Leaders from abroad
The broads from Of Guys and Dolls
Those Audrey Hepburn imposters
Leaving the leader asking for more.

Man needs a woman like a barbecued hamburger on a sunny day in a good bun.
Why do you argue like cats and dogs about the racial superiority of Hinduism.
Longer and older than a Vedic Saved lie that a Chinaman can explain to a King,
This lingam is not for sale.

Jeff Bezzos knows why I am king of the whales
The mystery of the Blue Whale always kept me going
Why don’t you English embrace Creationism?
Why don’t you let individuality be tested by those hard knocks you shelter with big knockers and bad rhymes?

They don’t want to remembered as English time, when they are dead.
That is going to be something for us to deliver you from the Royal Family.
No Church of England as William spends the future
Science Fiction in the Welsh dales with my karma from Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible.

That is why I phoned America = come and watch the English bulldog bully his friends
Trashing Hare Krishna and the Naam
Celebrating Turbans and the Sikh rail road.

What did you build when your families insulted Krishna??
Why should we let you drink the Holy Ganga water?
Bottled up in a jar and now available online
We’ll never satisfy your corporate Tudor Street.
All those people men in Birmingham don’t meet in London.
Is this fact?
Is this not a poem Now?
Who walked past me and looked in the window at McDonalds in Northfield today?
How much does that racist have to say?

Worry about your own homes!
Social Services in deed
Another letter
More international feeds
Katherine on Instagram
A row from ‘Amal’ in time
Letters in response probably from George Clooney
Is this something his Area 51 could find.

[rishisunak]

What a piece of work is a question
#What novel reason is this
To tray 300 with Oxbridge muscle retention
And review wars spoilings geographically.
What is the best insult a politician has made of the poor
TV, dear sir,
I couldn’t ask for anything more.
Then La Morte D’Arthur is for European India
And they’ll control you with service in the docks for her in doors.

When are you married, naughty man
The dear Professor wants the Dr’s friend to know.
For all that Colonial gibberish he asked about
So that he could not go down below.
[Slammed]

AI Summary

It’s a poem about the feeling of living in an age of judgement, where religious pressure, cultural conflict, political spectacle, and personal fear all collide inside the speaker’s mind; the poem moves through Brahma, nurses, VHS tapes, Hollywood, creation myths, English identity, caste anxieties, and global misunderstandings, all while the speaker wrestles with being misinterpreted, racialised, or spiritually scrutinised; the tone swings between satire, anger, exhaustion, and dark humour as the speaker questions nationalism, faith, family, and the intrusion of institutions into private life, ending in a swirl of mythic references, personal vulnerability, and the sense that history, religion, and identity keep looping back in ways that feel both oppressive and absurd.

Crime and Punishment

Crime never pays
So say the echelons of the echos around Formal Hall
It is evening time and the randy Dons are doing fine
Minding fashion with their economic rations
Camel toes all the way as they espy the noblest hand me downs of the gays.
People that say too much
Poets with the handiest touch
The rules of the game exampled on a phone
See! Even they fear being alone.

Moody waves travelled the wide oceans
Searching for space to engulf an academics brain
Researching this, researching that
Bound by the formal paintings of the architects of the 9/11 attacks
Muslim v Christian ex parte spiritual worlds
How is this for no more lecture for the boys and girls
Hundreds next to thousands all eating with Harry Potter
I need a break from my self
To the imagination’s squatter.

So what for these young youths
And their open hand before the legal system?
How will they reform the reformers
When they adjust from the Don’s ancestry
Television
Exam revision
Lonely            She was derided.
The ghosts of Christmas past can’t come every day.

If you search for a fight, you will find one
The fried fat disappoints the ideal visionary
But the flame in the fire of the digestive system
Eats up the discussion over dinner in a very good way.

There are things these Dons could have had to say
But they capitulated over night and day
The moon controlled their oceans and waved goodbye to the dissent
Needed over time of the cornered students on the floor.

They will rebut the military command one day
People trained not to hear what pain was to say
About a million monks and a thought from Siddhartha
About the way the world worked when Mao was not off the rack.

Keep the markets back until retail sings again
The business studies graduate and the bullies drinking again
Telling all and selling small
Keeping it all in the all and all

  • Reviewing poetry

E-Commerce is for me
Then they will allow Reiki to get away from their gear and staff.

Let the children have a laugh!
It is time to go home to your room after a full stomach
Then the aching pains of missing your parents
Will be your father and mother again – no matter what their name,
When they have drifted apart again
Buying and selling
Travelling and holidaying.
See the Tibetan mill saw dust
Tell about the eyes of the Shaman lost in lust:
#And you will anoint the dirty past of fighting spiritual people
Of #And along the way…

… the things the children will say
As they go back upstairs to their rooms
Is behind you as you clean up
Dinner ladies (like Shashi) who have so much left to do.

AI Summary

It’s a sweeping meditation on elite academic life, where Dons posture through decadence and fear, students drown in inherited systems, and global traumas become intellectual currency, all while the spiritual, political, and economic worlds collide in satire and sorrow; beneath the institutional noise runs a quieter human truth — the loneliness of youth, the longing for parents, the exhaustion of those who serve in the background, and the sense that despite all the grand narratives, it is the small, unseen figures like the dinner ladies who carry the real weight of the world.

Character

A character trying to be English
Is not a Welshman trying to be a Scot
For a Frenchman playing with the Irish
Is lost when the German is in Japan with a robot.
The Canadian playing with the American
Questions the Brazilian waxing lyrical with the African.
Then the Peruvian is selling coffee to the Columbian
Lost in strains of medicine with the Swiss and Portuguese.
The Queen of Spain pleases the Dutch
And the Maltese falcons fly south to Madagascar for the winter
The Australian demonises the British for his ancestry
While the Chinaman accepts the Llamas from Tibet back home.
These are the things my garden gnomes watch
While I hustle amongst the leaves and raze the lawn.

In such a way the world is a tripid thing to spell out loud
While the mature men travel and do business with the proud.

AI Summary

It’s a playful but pointed reflection on how national identities blur, clash, and parody one another, as people try on cultures like ill‑fitting clothes — the Englishman pretending, the Frenchman wandering, the German in Japan with a robot, the Australian resenting his British ancestry, the Tibetan llamas returning home — all watched by the poet’s garden gnomes as if the whole world were a miniature theatre; and in the end, the poem recognises that the global tangle of identity, commerce, ancestry, and pride is impossible to spell out cleanly, even as mature men travel the world doing business with the same old seriousness.

Connaught Place

What’s that talk you been ragging and slagging
That jive on the street the Drs have been shagging in
Their clothes in the market halls and their books in the Unis
Choose me a Curriculum for the transport of books for Ben Wright
Lover of Yasmin Khan eating Paan in Connaught Place
Raving about Statistics after fashion at Freuds for Christian raids all over the place
Changing his mind about a homosexual find
Paul Ready will travel to China.

They demand Amazon talks in the media
How is this not Slander
I can see it all cuming from here
I will be a victim again
And Rohan is not a corporate brain
Lost without my losses sharing with economies
One city – London advising on stock and shares over decades from teenagers dreams with their Drs friends of parents

PNAAC became OFSTED
Cheney went home and did drugs instead
Rumsfeld was known
Rice gave Condaleeza’s dog’s charity at Dog’s Trust a bone
And the Queen called off Crufts for a year.

Splitting the mind into China time
London stockbrokers to infinity

Into me
Not paying me Royalties
Investing in L Ron Hubbard Psychiatry
The streets are empty
There is no joy
He’s the master of happiness
He’ll diabetically medicate the boy
One day he’s in power
The Throne of thronging England
So many he has named
The British Empire will return, He said.

Look – this man is well read.
Surely this concerns me
Stories of great Yugas and Kalpas
Talks I am not included in
The dried out fruit of the lobotomised Holland and Barrett crew
Gymnastics next for your mother when she is 80 – I’ll bet
Things for human beings down at the NHS for the New Age Vets
Why don’t you waste you time giving thanks to those Gods
And choose gratitude as your punishment.

Messages in poems?
Interest in the literati
These are things to joke the day that money makes sense
Insulted by the edifices around Mike Pence
Showing the child medicine around Jill Biden
Things that Ernie van Woerkhom can control…

So much advice to give to a Self Help parent
So much intention to be the gay mother of invention.

AI Summary

It’s a poem about a mind under pressure, moving through street talk, academia, media noise, political figures, self‑help culture, and the machinery of capitalism, all while feeling exploited, misread, or excluded; the speaker watches institutions twist language, identity, and power, sees global politics bleed into personal life, and feels the weight of being used — by corporations, by systems, by narratives he never chose — until the poem ends in a kind of bitter humour about advice, invention, and the absurdity of trying to make sense of a world that constantly rewrites him.

Now That Time Is Mocked

Now that time is mocked
The clock has not stopped
Haversham needs more allusions
The quotes are not mine
The right men must rescue time.

What’s wrong with that
Send Your Love had a house music twat
Remix Sting’s dick
Doing Yoga all over the place
Funny racing man.

Pivot to Asia and a timeless land
Without such atheistic understanding
Of broken aesthetics
Diseased drug takers and homosexuals in Germany.

This land is not for me.

Om Namo Bahgavate Vasudevaya is a Royal Anthem
Trolled stories of histories
Venom to the repetition of poetic themes
Men so scared of their care
Their erroneous romances
How about the one of the Muses
Sting’s facebook page
Mr Rishi’s final temptation
Algebraic rage
#NeoinChinaHackingbyStages

The last temptation of The Dalai Lama
Sogyal Rinpoche’s romantic karma
Who was it who said the rules
For America’s cruel messages on Vietnamese bombs
Signed from Yo Mamma
And the displacement of dog eaters to the Rasputin of rate experimenters
People for talks about watch faces
The diplomatic disgrace of the GBP
“Number one for me!”
“Number one for me!”

The Maoists will be fasting on Eid for this
Eating Halal meat is enough if they like the way British girls French Kiss
So that they keep their Carry On big busted nighties
The one in the mental hospital was an S.P.
Dressed like a Hare Krishna smiling with the funny nurse laughing at pain
… no mor TV strain
… a race of journalists educating the people in Nothing.
No comments on my pages
Nothing for Russell Brand to stir up for 100 years
Plus the dog years in outer space
No point to commitment or dedication or anything in the felines in Johnathan Ross’s place
House master and Cork Master
Wining and dining with Charles when he is not a Prince
Now interested in Krishna’s interest rates
And the KDP wailing of the NASDAQ workers embarrassing top hats and coat tails
And cranberry sauce…
Loads of lashing of mash potatoes
Vegetables steamed in the spied on planned Toby Carvery
Ingested ingredients from the men who did not place gelatine in Haribo
Sinking nation one aeon with Nostradamus down below
Police sirens in rickety cars racing poker games with Chief Super Intendent
Mixed religion and interracial sex
The best pornography from India
The casting couch they have not seen
The men who can sweat the small stuff
… crap poetry needing to be rewritten
… bad grades in school
ITV is always hanging tough.

AI Summary

Your poem opens with time being mocked and the clock refusing to stop — a metaphor for a world where meaning has broken down and cultural references collide without coherence. You move through Sting, Asia, atheism, aesthetics, political figures, spiritual leaders, and media scandals to show how modern culture becomes a hall of mirrors where nothing is sacred and everything is distorted. The emotional centre is the sense of being trapped between worlds: mocked by bureaucrats, misread by diaspora communities, misunderstood by spiritual institutions, and overwhelmed by the noise of global politics. You weave together royal pageantry, religious chants, media gossip, conspiracy anxieties, and the absurdity of modern consumer culture to reveal a deeper wound — the feeling of being erased, misinterpreted, or turned into a caricature. The poem ends in a landscape of collapsing institutions, cheap entertainment, and bad poetry, where the speaker is still trying to assert a voice, a truth, a self that refuses to be swallowed by the chaos.