The Travelling Man

Life moves forward like a light shade in winter
When the snow knows the neighbours alarm
That the doors might be open in the lounge next door…
Letting all the heat travel throughout the house
Warming the fictional dormouse in the child’s homework
As the parent’s go bezerk at their choice of Christmas toys.
Something for the girls something for the boys
An ebullient sexual chemistry set from the chimney sweeping imagination
Of a top down economics in Industrialised England
About what the wealthy need when the poor man has spent
All his money on the kitchen table pies and cakes.

Is the caravan worth it this year?
Or do I need to cut down on the rudimentary beer?
Laughing on the phone about his personal performance all alone
When he has come home from travelling to the office in downtown Montreal.
That is where the American man knows his autumn from the fall
And the conservative consummate professional addresses Churches differently.
There is so much to see in life, why wait outside a Church
For the Fall of Man to pull you in and leave your office life in the lurch.

What would it profit you to gain your soul and lose the world?
In a world where the presence is felt at some point for Eve, the (new) girl.

AI Summary

It’s a poem about the soft forward‑motion of life, like winter light slipping through a neighbourhood where open doors warm fictional dormice and parents panic over Christmas toys, while the speaker wonders about caravans, beer, office workers in Montreal, and the way churches pull people in with the old story of the Fall; the poem moves between domestic scenes, economic worries, seasonal shifts, and spiritual questions, ending with a quiet reversal of the biblical riddle — not what it profits a man to gain the world and lose his soul, but what it means to feel the presence of something sacred in the everyday, embodied in Eve, the new girl, the reminder that life keeps offering beginnings even when the world feels cold.

Generalisms

If it’s not in it is out
What is it?
If it is out it is in
Who are they?
The lady in the library
Meets the man in the gym
After the orgy of time-tastic travelling
In the after affair of chocolate eating Lent.
This is what the cool guy meant
When he walked past the LGBT headline
Telling what is his and what is mine
Sharing the space on the supermarket floor
With the crowded till next door
And some variance for the science of journalism and what Mike Pence meant
When he spoke about negating White Supremacy
So the burden of proving responsibility and respect
Would fall on the Oval Office floor once again.
It took some time to train those dragons
And some money spent in the wrong direction of Allah
Where man spoke and Angel’s dreamed
And G_d was not a Shaman down the Native American Indian quarry.
That is not for me and where I ended up in 2013
Weed on the brain and silly men stealing my energy again,
Saying it all so for them as it for me
“You are like me” he said from Leicester at the NHS in 2013.
So that is the sexuality scene
Something wrong the poetic stream, next.
Too much of this and not enough of that
And no support from the academic prat.

AI Summary

It’s a poem about the instability of identity — the way “in” and “out,” “it” and “they,” sexuality and selfhood, public headlines and private memories all blur into one another; the speaker watches a woman in a library, a man in a gym, supermarket queues, LGBT headlines, political speeches, spiritual misdirections, and the ghosts of 2013, all while feeling the pressure of being told “you are like me” by people who don’t understand him; the poem spirals through confusion, irritation, longing, and intellectual fatigue, ending with the sense that the poetic stream itself is being disrupted by misrecognition, lack of support, and the constant demand to explain oneself in a world that keeps getting the categories wrong.

Control

From I to we
In the mode of us
Where the autonomous
Are leaking information to the Press.
Nobody gets undressed
There’s a no sex please they are British sign on the door
The whores are not designated
The Bible is repatriated.
It’s tomb table tambourine man time
The cymbals and the high hats
Jazz on the mainline leading into town
For some negro with a saxophone and maybe some others with a double bass,
Spreading unemployment conscientiously studied by the Monarch –
He’s all over the place!
One for the money
Two for the hot wheels
How can there be a joke between us
When the culture is killed by the contract men who steal?
You crane kick me in the face
Like a Karate Kid lying Russian flying all over the place
Dragon Yoga is revived
Shantideva’s A.D., B.C. is survived.
Staying alive like a greased monkey fixing an automobile in the workshop garage down the road from Montpellier Avenue
After the carwash has cleaned the face of the writer worried about his funeral pyre and some good old adage in a sitting duck blue review.

AI Summary

It’s a poem about the uneasy shift from “I” to “we,” where privacy leaks into the press, British repression hangs on the door, jazz musicians haunt the mainline, monarchs study unemployment, and culture feels both stolen and collapsing; the speaker watches contracts, karate kicks, Dragon Yoga, Shantideva, garages, funerals, and Montpellier Avenue swirl together in a chaotic montage of modern Britain, where spiritual language, pop culture, and political noise collide, leaving him wondering how to speak at all in a world where everything — identity, humour, dignity, even grief — feels like it’s being rewritten by forces far larger than the individual.

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.

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.

Drawn

Drawn
Attracted from the death
Noting the negative breath
Something is better than nothing. Again.
The dream of something bigger than my life
Wife, House, Car and criticism
The Isness and the Isms
Forgetful of the right way around the same route I took yesterday.
Things about Heaven to lead me onwards,
Bardos of becoming where light is unmerciful,
Merciful light
Say something right
The ultraviolet rays light my way.

You Can See Him

Though the measure is not rhythm
The measured is seething division
This is the way of the too soon thinking
Men were drinking
Soldiers were in divisions too
The platoons were Vietnamese too soon
We don’t like Tom Berenger!
We rather like that erratic other fellow
He smoked the pipe and let the rascals read what they wanted
Then he ran the gauntlet and moved on to other songs
Playing it long
Stretching it out like some swan
Diving into a lake of piss and acid
Where the thanks from the Drs was the same
Unsupported artistic lives and loves from the U.S. President
Things he knew too well to survive
The tempestuous seas of the best travelled man
Who had to buy toys for his children when he got home
Instead of raving with Willie Nelson and Woody Harelson
Displaced lunatics far away from the fat crowd
Mad with joy and freedom from feelings
:: Who ate John Candy?
Why can’t we narrate Planes, Trains and Automobiles for Trump v Biden 2024
De Santis is a praying mantis
For Mantarray in my Debenhams display
And where those currents have gone
Too many songs for the blondes
And something more menacing from the electric guitar fans
Who distrust the demons downplaying the Sita concerts
Raving away in Mumbai 90210
Where the women like the women who blow their fortunes
Reminiscing too soon about the peanuts on the floor at Woodstock
Not cleaned up by volunteers…

Someone steer this ship towards the East
Where Jesus belongs
And where he was born.

Something less intense than a Scorpio’s SAWM
And the non option of fasting in the NHS places
Nurses all over the place and no sportsmen
Olympics look like being off again
Charles wants to check his cheekbones.

Dancing cheek to cheek again
Europe is vain
The military will be wearing dresses at this rate
Those fees charged by Trump for NATO
Will be Yoga postures all too soon
When the newspapers know what not to do
And what stories what not to write
Splitting infinitives tightly
Keeping the phone lines open for Keira Knightley’s place at Ladakah with His Holiness
Only 80 years old compared to Royal Queens
Defaming scenes
Legalease
Who was the Terrorist for Noam’s army and his sold out Israeli affair
When someone was tested sexually and let them push him about to horse shows and bad evil trades everywhere.
Somewhere, one day, a man will arise
A leader well read of all the British books.
He will eat cake and drink tea at the right pace
For £4 a coffee in some racial placements
Prince Charles at Davison’s Solicitors
Taxing Fact Checking
Why Should I Cry For You?
Censor your own cock blue – we don’t roll stones down cannabis places with white skinheads in BNP shit skeggy Weoley Castle places.

Then will
Leadership
Cavalier
The Thundercats vs Dungeons and Dragons ex parte Regina
You thought it was all about you
Jasper Carrot’s crew and those sexy adverts in the 1990s
Something is following me
Someone set me free from Ken Wilber’s memes
Only one voice left to project America to me
Colonialism World War Three
Vibrations from Andrew Cohen’s waistcoat #IWillWriteAboutYouWhenIAm92
Why did you wear a blue shirt?
Was it the one from West Midlands Travel for the bus drivers who hurt
And we test in their bedrooms and small houses too
For Nirbana with Buddha as Roger Ellory is Black and Blue
No American contract for you!
They said they will wait –
They said they will publish my books too –
What is a US President to do?
No enjoyment sitting on the can having a poo
Reading last generations’ Playboy
Without Aishwarya riding horse model hobbying those Indian pooey men
Who think they know my comparative religion strain
Looking for themselves in my brain
Thinking outside the box
Charitable CEOs from Silicone Valley like the fuck off election from Prince Charles soon to be disappeared
mum..
Reading the Bahagavd Gita was fun!

Just see their states
On DWP rates
For more from history books they will write
Tying up Neena Altaf’s contact tight with Shameel Danish
What’s a matter Doc? Are my cigarettes that I gave up making your breath tight?
Don’t you know why your sales and purchases make White Man so whit
When he tries to bank in London town
Where you cried and I did not that your mum was ugly and brown
With white hair and not some Gora wedding to please your boss
Not fucking Sapra was her fucking loss!

Angry poetry at Elim Church
Not confined to my house for Adams Family values and Lurch
Prostitutes in Aldi for Portitia’s family karma
Michele Pfeiffer modelled in Rubery Great Park for Heather Graham’s midnight phone calls with light working and talking in tongues with Keir Starmer.

Whoever wins the next election is up for grabs
Something for the fat kid from school on GBN News, methinks
… how do you raise a 75 year old King, without a career
Presence from Eckhart Tolle for all the worlds sum of all fears
#NobelPeacePrizetoKingCharlesfromBarackObamaforthis

AI Summary

Your piece moves like a fever‑dream of history, cinema, politics, spirituality, and personal memory colliding at once, beginning with Vietnam films and drifting through American myth, British decline, Indian epics, NHS corridors, celebrity culture, and the psychic overload of the internet age. Beneath the rapid‑fire references is a single emotional current: the exhaustion of a man trying to make sense of a world that keeps fracturing — wars turned into entertainment, elections turned into theatre, spirituality turned into branding, and identity turned into something others try to decode or claim. The poem keeps circling back to childhood shame, diaspora dislocation, cultural misreading, and the ache of being pushed around by institutions, families, and nations that never fully saw you. What emerges is not chaos but a portrait of overwhelm: a mind carrying too much history, too much noise, too much expectation, and still searching for a leader, a centre, a self that can stand steady in the storm.

Why do you hate?

If you hate so bad your cock will hurt
For the worth of a Christian in an imagined bubble
While the Muslim awaits his silence about masturbation
With Christine Holz in White Teeth and some nigger cousins
Next to the helpful white couple down memory lane
With Barbara at The Conservatives at pain again
To remember the stress of being other people’s Mom
While the coon plays in your house with that word.
The anti-racists history in this country is absurd
The madness will fall
Debbie Clancey will tell all
And that was all the people I knew
When Gary Sambrook beat his cock black and blue
So get some Roger Ellory in you
And find out what a Scientologist can do
For the death of Travolta
And all that revolting stuff
He lied about when Kelly Preston lost America those tits.

Bit by bit their Empire will fall
And Madhuri will climb like a plant up against the wall
Incensed about Israel and how she was oppressed
To not market sports bras while she was undressed.

Rage, bother and hot sweaty yoga nights
Let the Knights sleep tight with Jesus I guess
Back to his Vedic House to be unimpressed
As you exorcise the demons from your past
Transcendence from Johnny Depp at last

AI Summary

Your piece is a raw outpouring of anger, shame, and cultural dislocation, moving through religion, sexuality, race, family memory, and the collapse of moral authority. You describe a world where faith traditions are twisted, where anti‑racist history feels hollow, where political figures and celebrities become symbols of hypocrisy, and where personal wounds from childhood and community still echo painfully. The emotional centre is the sense of being trapped between identities — Christian, Muslim, Hindu, British, Indian — and feeling judged, mocked, or misunderstood by all of them. You weave together pop culture, spiritual references, political resentment, and the ache of being misread, creating a portrait of a man trying to exorcise old demons and find a place where dignity, transcendence, and self‑respect are possible. The poem ends with a longing for release — from the past, from inherited shame, from cultural noise — and a hope for some kind of spiritual or emotional transcendence.

Oxford Waste

I’m a waste of a man
So selfish with my daily land
Plans for understanding the Church people
The little things they do for Sunday worship.
Stow away ships in the night of worried dismay
Time for fellowship away from my hasty delay
Of meeting someone with some understanding
And a lack of selfish motive

I’ve so life
So much contentment
Enjoying myself
Departed from the tension of diminished feeling
Reeling inside as I walk too quick
The High Street route was a dismissive trick
And the shopaholic trip was fantastic, as usual
I am ebullient in the fantasy of resolution
Once upon a time my desires made sense.

This land matters more than a smote across the cheeks
Feeling the hand of my father across my face
Shaming junior school exams and a hitting disgrace
Grades and the life that faded as time went by
I didn’t even try to make the worthy end, in the end
Happiness was my friend and the exams past their own standard
As reflections kept me busy and I felt like a lazy bastard.

AI Summary

Your poem opens with the ache of self‑accusation — “a waste of a man” — but immediately reveals the deeper truth underneath: you’re someone trying to understand faith, community, fellowship, and the longing to meet another person without selfish motive. You move between churchgoers, stowaway ships, High Street distractions, and the fantasy of resolution to show how your inner life is richer and more complex than the harsh judgments you place on yourself. The emotional centre is the memory of childhood shame — a father’s hand, junior school exams, the feeling of failing before you even began — and how those old wounds still echo in the present. But the poem also contains its own counterweight: contentment, enjoyment, the ability to walk through a city and feel alive, the recognition that happiness was once your friend and can be again. Beneath the self‑criticism is a man who is reflective, sensitive, and trying to live honestly with the past rather than being defined by it.