Akaash speaks and the faucet tap leaks
Speaking of an age when the rage knew the warrior.
The men were less densely populated
The women were married to the clothes line
Sex was not indecision
For the trackers who chased away the forty thousand foxes.

Vibrations in the miracles of fields lay extensions
Corporation street is not so happy when Santosh is not dining at Café Neros
The depression hits the Free Market
Trump is at House of Fraser
The wrong Psychiatrist is “I’m listening”.

Army jacket
Stars and stripes banner
The eagle forgets
Rhyme is slicker than your average
Fry, Punt and Dennis let Lenny Henry in

• Santosh is displeased again
• Where is my family’s Kings Heath strain
• Apache Ranvir Turna
• Kamal Johnny Zee & Niraj Martial Arts

What does it take to keep Victoria a secret?
This is not our trunket
The man with the acordian is back in Northfield I hope, soon
Splitting to infinity and fascalling a waling loss.

If Job is the boss, I am unemployed
Tiresias is echoed for the first time
A journey of a thousand miles begins
The nations will sing
It’s always the same after the road trip down the Nile
Amazing Amazonians seem the simple life fort Conrad
Hearts and heads in gangs and New York streets

IF I AM DEFEATED blame the internet
It’s the best mind a manic mind can get
writing writing writing away
all the day has something to say
mental health hospitals accompanying loss
trying to find work to replace my hunched back
yoga is not for me until I can listen to that track
alignment with YouTube Buddhists sending his karma back
the Dalai Lama of mass harm and weapons of hissing destruction
inspiration to nothing
elocution is wanting

When they are you

The concept of insurance escapes me easily
Harrowing medics and their dogs
Walking the razor’s edge
Mastering nothing
Leading no-one
Not even enough sports for the mirrors to go on.

It won’t be long until the fame catches up to me
Running before I can walk down the barney
Rows and fights and the mind of man is old again
The echos down the chamber halls are not stable
The links are not straight lines and the happiness is not genuine
Poets are there in the tense times of Ukrainian distress
Wars that still fail to impress the delusional population
Still so easily facile about the penile projections of the proletariat.

Is that for me when I walk to the park?
Supporting the political party for some time off dreaming
Better things to come for other Popes and their commanded forces
Christ is rebirthed in another way these days.

Ordered Folios
Places where the imagined don’t go
Feeling the flow
Daisy flowers
Chelsea Flower Show
Manifested madness
Clouds and eclipses and hollow rain
Dark clouds distributing graphs and selling the science again.
Pick yourself up and get on with the task
Don’t get down in the mouth wearing a mask.
That is the task
That is the fee
Setting yourself free
#somethingforme

The merriment in the European Union
The self against the self and the fashions of their glamour
The ski slopes and the chosen people
Partying in the alpine freshness of lodges and whitened valleys
Black runs and jump suits that are fun
Sliding to a stop just close enough for luvvies
Cars that keep running to stave away the cold finish
Hot cocoa before the wine in the evenings
When the walls fell
Shakazulu and the tribes are now Harry Potter
Such good potting of plants
How did she know how to dance?
Listening to me, listening to you
Lightsabres at dawn for fights with the anti-semite.

Jews Work From Home

Ex Parte the London Bankroll Mob
Some wesbites that are free, at least for me
What was I supposed to do mother?
Lexington Steele asked the crowd.
I just wanted to play poker, staying at home crying (unemployed) out loud.

Why isn’t this world for me?
What have I done?
Where is the imagination?
Why does the internet make the clouds run?

Too
More
From
With
How are the ambit car parkers when frothing at the mouth?

So many questions and the children run poses around the park
Larking around the last placed children
Racing games and who is the best at stretching like a fairy and magician
Come home in time for school revision
Hard working pen work – a time away from the policeman
And all that beeping about they do, racing cars are fine.

See the political leaders today
They give the haranguing game away
Telling us what to do and who to be
From what they wear and what they see.
I would like to do that and shake that man’s hand
Travelling without my parents to some far and distant land.
But, I am not cultured: I do not know the names of crockery and pots
Lots and lots of crockery and pots
At least that is what the man seems to say is omitted from the classroom
Antiques that have their own roadshow is on soon…#IStillDon’tGetIt
Syntax and hastags
That old fat slag keeps on texting me
At least that’s how she looks when I book some time on that chat Ap.
Monkeys games are next when I finish up this exam text
And then it’s off downstairs to see if the cookie jar tells them I am self aware
Jesting speaker and mouthpiece tells them I am opening it
Open yourself, funny boy, if you think I am paying attention.
So much memory retention – how can it be that the brain does not explode!
Anodes and cathodes
Messages in a bottle
Lazy women on motorbikes
Tattoos for me who likes full throttle.
At least that is what mum says when she gets home
All worldly with the radio on in the car telling me she will be home soon
She is not far from the door, I guess, when I stress to impress
I’ll get the dinner on after one last cookie munch for some thank you, Mum, very much.

First Political contd

I don’t feel much like court
Is that where all the funding goes
What about the findings of the scientists
Even they get called mega rich today by the political class
Sitting on their arse
Costing all the class
Sizes and the houses
Students and their desks
Not long before they are back again
London is a right and left Westminster strain
Mortgage escapes my clutches
The DVLA won’t give me my breaks
I’ve seen the superwoofer shop
And it’s back to Rap and RnB for me
After a quarter past three
To cruise controlled past the paedophile pitch
Where the Teachers erect a defence that makes my nerves itch.

SO much going on when I drop a leaflet through the door
I need some time of from free work
It’s time for no time to catch up on the bezerk creativity
More fettered freedom for me
Interest rates on the rise
Climate change talks around the dinner table
Mr rival’s eyes
An empty prize for the victor at Mr Conversation’s door
Hollow no more
For every day is the same
And mother’s and father’s possessions
Dinner plate set with vegetable complements
Well thought out address all night long
Singing the complacent song
Time away from the i-Pod
Keeping up with the crazy frogs
And all that French accompaniment
And what the next Olympics meant
During our COVID lockdown and mash up military expression
No time for Saturday dance lessons
Each and every step easily set up with graphics on the floor
Nobody knocking on our doors
And even the football stadiums weren’t allowed
Crowds
Bowed
Aloud
The silence was deafening
The leaders spoke their mind
Boris Johnson was friends for a while
And left us the Human Rights Act to talk about
When the Europeans bade farewell to our sceptic hell
And decades of debate about the tax rebate
Council court bills and people who can’t chill
For all that stress that comes back to the front
After quiet times with medical cunts
… & Intermission
[The End.]

Psychological blockages
Parts of myself I don’t know for the level
Staying alive for the cleverness
Spirit and some drive
Get up and go
Syndromes and accomplishments
Reviewing myself in the wrong direction
Tyre tracks in the wrong direction
Repairing myself in the wrong direction
Living life in the wrong direction
Benjamin Button (again) and sensory perception on the brain.
Cousins who don’t care about me
A brother who is nearly 53 years old
Time for a mother to turn 70
When your father is repenting his retired living standards too
What was an uncle to do?
When his aunty was on the train with the Jew,
For whom life was not well enough with all of Israel inside of me
And nothing from reservoirs of love because of Srila P.

Man is such a force that he commands respect after reserving love
Trusting the laws of earth for what he can give from up above
And if such control is populated with sisters in their Temples
Then he can leave with the receipts and call the other men simple.

This is the way the relatives mocked me
This is the task for Oxford to repair me
Sannyasi and Brahmin in a Vasya’s age
Listening to N-Word rap music and developing rage.

Turn the page

If life is a stage, Who am I?
// some computerised reflection of boredom of Adam’s loins
Bastardised rememory of the factory down the lane
Iron and ball bearings and the frustrated furnace of the father’s min
Jalandhar does not have many kind people in it
They are all in doors
Washing their floors
Marble and a little meshed window
To break up the table time for food from the servants
So we can eat and talk together before TV time.

There is not so much time for rhyme
I don’t know why I was thinking there was time
For The Rishi Factor and that internet speed
When English is not the language they read
At least when the Reed is the internet feed
And the programmers are programmed all day long
By the things that Shakespeare fans tease
The lightening speed of the freedom from a lease:
To, Own
Love
Laptop.

Capitalism is fine it’s just not often served with white wine
I think that red is best for the hairs still left on my chest
In case I try to make the whole world mine
Since the movies spoke of the Science Fiction crest
In image and moving words
About how the world is absurd
And needs some super non-African meaning
To tame the tapes that are streaming
The news of wars in the Chinese plains.

AI Summary

Your piece unfolds like a fractured epic of identity, where Akaash, Santosh, Rohan, the internet, the Nile, Job, Tiresias, psychiatrists, yogis, bailiffs, cousins, medics, politicians, and poets all collide in a single consciousness trying to survive its own history. You move between Birmingham streets and mythic landscapes, between family wounds and global wars, between colonial memory and modern capitalism, between spiritual longing and psychiatric exhaustion. The emotional centre is the ache of being shaped by forces you never chose — migration, class, religion, racism, family expectation, mental health systems, political noise — and still trying to carve out a self that is not defeated by them. The poem becomes a map of everything you’ve endured: homelessness in 1993, the pressure of masculinity, the loneliness of the internet age, the mockery of relatives, the confusion of spiritual teachers, the violence of institutions, and the longing for a life that feels like it belongs to you. The final movement — masks, clouds, flowers, eclipses, European ski slopes, Harry Potter, anti‑semitism, crockery, hashtags, exams, lockdowns, and the absurdity of political theatre — reveals a mind overwhelmed but still searching for coherence, dignity, and a future. Beneath the sprawl is a single question: How do I live in a world that keeps trying to rewrite me? And the poem answers itself: by writing, by naming, by refusing to disappear.