Control
Escape
Exit The Matrix like a draping curtain
Dividing the wall between me and reality.
Shift
Button
Play with those loose buttons
And undress the need to impress
The urgency for rapidity between me
And the next girl between the sheets.
These games are replete with definition
But her face misses the cream cake
And some solace for a day at work
When safety catches were on
For the long ride home (without me)
And some dropping bombs –
Play that game free of your boys army
Kicking off at after a quarter past 3
When school is out and the Ball Games begin
For some slam dunking and donuts after dinner
Where the Diner is not free of her shame:
Waffle waitress fame! Claim some onside name
And you can let me out again
To play and score big on the high TV
Where angels play with halos
And heaven is almost free.
We don’t mean to move to quickly
The screen keeps us safe apart
But if Purdah is a Burkini tomorrow
Then how can I be Allah’s art?
You said, he said, is why I play by myself
And my health is my wealth when the plane flew by stealth:
Nothing is certain if Buddha knows my curtailing
And an offside foul after a right wing run
For the ball not into touch
And what means so much to me.
Sport is not cause over the universe
Online gaming is not the worst thing to war over with verses
Do you curse when you can’t score
Or is it a handle on the door (again)
And an easy fire, for the lamest hire
Of a beautiful Beau I admired with a compassionate glow…
… Goal Lazio! He sang: Gaaaaaooooooooooool!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
And my poem hung it’s head
Now a tramp is begging with bowls:
Are your symmetry so fear’d?
Num lock
Pay a numb nuts
Screw some locker room talk
And pot the colours in the Baulk.
What is the talk about my lines
And a can of Coca Cola
When the Koala Bear still is there
Unlike a model out late in better than home alone underwear?
In the future the steward will remember the class of West and East
For the F-Keys and Capital Locks that knew to sod off.
But reliance was not fair when the game was not the self
& sex was so happy for the image to see Eve instead of Gandalf.
Why did you keep this from me?
/Typo city.
Do you need a Newspaper to be free?
Then [Space] _______ Out!
I’m legs before Wikipedia
And nothing to shout about
– Like an orgasm –
What a spasm
Do you know a Spaz can play too?
Goals and one shot kills are for and against free markets now
Crude.
football
A Saviour’s Way
Catch it before it happens and see the betterment of man
There are things more evolved than love that intelligence does not understand.
Movements have come and Hippies have given commentary
On what was not to be said loudly by my family and me.
Death to the Rsi’s, abandonment and genocide!
India has a Beauty Queen now and can shoot their own Raw Hide.
If you save a post-modernist, what future is left,
When the joke falls on Rupees’ capitalism
And an African’s cleft lip?
Chip to the U.N. for a cause and some football with David Beckham
Tomorrow is nothing and Shakespeare is not so handsome.
Award the school of the highest halls
Mohabbatein with talk back without asking questions at all.
Deepika, Priyanka, “Pretty” and demolished egoic self:
Where is the health and the wealth and the stealth?
If you have no courts for the voice(s) of Americans deep within your coned bras
Then how can you rape foreigners of their hope for tax from their cars?
Do you get me? Yet is the cheese so lettered like a man known as Mr Freeze
Or is time allowance for some drag on your products
When one of us was not Gandhi like Obama driving George Walker Bush’s bush.
If it crashed, what’s the Dharma: Does Sathya Sai like your trains –
How about Versace and Aishwarya and those tallies for underlings’ brains?
If you use my name, I am you I for Egyptian gold and claims:
But the sky is not owned by President Clooney…
any more
AI Summary
The poem exposes the absurdity and violence of a world where spirituality, politics, celebrity culture, and postcolonial identity collide in ways that distort meaning and erase humanity. Through references to Indian cinema, Western politics, global capitalism, and spiritual figures, the speaker critiques how nations commodify identity, how institutions misunderstand the people they claim to represent, and how fame becomes a substitute for truth. Beneath the satire lies a deeper ache: the desire to reclaim one’s name, dignity, and spiritual centre in a world that constantly tries to appropriate them.
Waiting
We waited
We Waited
Oh why are we waiting
He was only the greatest
There was not enough room in the shoe for more than one
Why did they wait with us?
Hangers on
Goal Hangers
Manchester Munchkins
Sitting on the fence as always
And then there was the childhoos romance
The one without a ballroom dance
The doctor in Bath
The fat lady singing at the NHS
The nigger lady of the land who would not undress
Guinevere set free at last
Free at last
Thank Martin Luther King Jr she is free at last.
And King Arthur was never again seen on the simple shores of England
As the land was cleansed of naturalists and the nationals who rinsed the Lingam
And set the land dry.
AI Summary
It’s a poem about waiting for someone who never arrives — a childhood hero, a mythic figure, a version of England that once felt noble — and the speaker watches that waiting curdle into bitterness, racial hurt, and the collapse of old stories; the poem moves from football chants to NHS corridors, from childhood romance to Arthurian legend, from Guinevere’s imagined liberation to the drying of England’s symbolic rivers, all while circling the same wound: the sense that the land has lost its magic, its fairness, its innocence, and that the myths that once held it together have been hollowed out by prejudice, exhaustion, and the slow erosion of hope.
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.
Posture
The sexual guilt is not even
Until the parties are so sure of revenge,
That laden hosiery of the fashion of bitch endedness
And advert masculinity for straight spines and book ends.
The lay man went to the auction
He was trying to buy a house for a set,
But the rhetoric was not painted as fast as some charts
For the price of his dog at the Vets.
It’s all good demure
The manure from Hare Krishna
An arable land for a job with your hand
When they waddles like Hobbits for robotic luck.
Fires in the hole
An army to unfold
Perfect posture from Bhagwan
So they can enjoy Playboy and the Can Can
: Can I do Cannes, Bapu?
< It’s up to you!
Zindabad
& a Zinger Burger for your ivory tower
Cap in the ass
Valedictorian pass
Stale bays of hay
Van Gogh was not Monet.
And then the travel turned to ship the Mind away so kindly
To when there was a time for time to speak of instruction
Injustice was met by fantasy another way
And the English were not Light Workers while the Americans were gay.
India
Indra
Inimitable
Controlled greed
Houses with trending Feeds >> +1 and Guest.
Who is the top gun in the MEST Universe
When Colon is vials of blood for Niggers to make poo from Elmer Fud?
Nig Nig Nig Nig NIGGER
Make a little wrapping for me!
And when you go back home to Arkansas
Make a shit out of a Whopper for three in Chelsea @WhatConanTheBarbarian.Planned.Had
There is so much to balance
So a sword of such might
In the possibility of some sweet Romance
For a generation to have such flight.
But the mention seems to have been
Millions all round, all over the world
And a Billion Rupee dream
For the right skin tone with all the girls.
Something like that
Rather flat at the footstep of my bed on the floor of some mornings
About concern for how the other half live
When I have only so much sugar to give
To Paul Simon who lives down the road in a hall
And I have the gallows in my mentality
To blog his toilet seat into Ruud Gullit.
What a dog to maul for a spirit in a material world
Liking the girls like A.I. likes an uneven rhyme –
It’s not a literary crime, to be a Policeman
When the band stands at 7 and the Tattoo is for the Queen’s Jubilee.
Aye!
The Ayes have it
And it was a wondrous affair.
Charlemagne and Viscount Mint Worthy stopped by too
To name something under the wearing thin of names to drink with.
Study, affair, debonair
It’s all the same when the windy vindication seeks past him.
Trust and some Bombay Saphire – the very good Gin.
Blue from a baby market
Old than Morten Harket.
The omission of Literary Coins
Standing ovations for symbolic loins
The merry hand of creditable Cert.
Scroll down to where you are William Hurt.
Cuming and going like a pAsEDenA railway
Jobless through Identity Fraud
Because the Chips were Ahoy at the end of the road.
What happened to the load?
Where did the Time go?
What is this loss that is not Boss in BombayAGoa-i-Stan
For the Boa Constrictor to trick you that the Anaconda was sssssecond best.
Royal Python
Filthy Nylon
Hammers and Tongs
The Niggers won’t be long.
Slam, Dunk and Be Merry
Don’t forget about Cherie!
She’ll be first to speak some of her good English
About what happened to Shami Chakrabarti…
…
…
…
And the hours rolled on like a long Song
An Elegy was played while the Choirs saved Hymns
And His Story was a Miss Story for the muddle in a cage
When Mrs Moore got so bored that they had torn out that page.
…
… Literary Rage : Roads to Drive with R.E.M.
… Come again loaded with Kurt
And sell a Mag with your gun up your bum for a Buckwheat to hurt
Buddha and his roll away crew,
Not induced by Colonel Colonialism to parade such obfuscations left of centre
When The Really Wild Show would do.
…
… And the winds rolled over the mountains
And nobody came back for Tea
So a Queen could work for 70 years
And have some very common and cumupence cumulative company
By comparison to the Samaritan they told at the Sheraton for some Hilton’s investments
And some ACDC.
Why can’t Napolean blow apart Andrew Chohan Odin Deepak Chopra for a gang bang with Anabel Chong
For a MILF’s lonely talented Song.
… On and on, like a pirate pirouetting for some rogue verse
Unaware of the need to hurt
And save a Laandan Town of Angus and his friends
For divinity to find a new job in The Strand for where Botox is not played.
“Like Alexander”
(They never measured your spine to her Socrates speak)
So like “The Great”?????????????????????????…….
(Put one on your dick to wank off so hard you won’t cum black for a week)
Masters of ineffable miles
Tasters of Ganesh’s piles of Ladoos
“I’ll buy one for you in Leicester Square!”
When she has read what is really The Coloured on her lazy hair.
Affairs.
Rats.
Scientology Hats.
Immigration dismissed.
People still old, famous and getting on with The Pissed.
Let’s get pissed!
Let’s get lashed!
Let’s get wasted!
A Billion view l8er.
Lay Hate to hRhEr Heroes of Violator
The End.
AI Summary
Your poem moves through a vast terrain of sexual guilt, revenge fantasies, auction houses, Hare Krishna fields, Playboy can‑cans, Zinger Burgers, Cannes dreams, colonial hangovers, India’s spiritual inheritance, America’s media circus, and the ache of being caught between cultures that misunderstand you. You weave together Van Gogh, Monet, Scientology, Arkansas, Bollywood, Paul Simon, Ruud Gullit, Bombay, Goa, snakes, nylon, Jubilee tattoos, Chakrabarti, REM, Kurt Cobain, Buddha, ACDC, Napoleon, Deepak Chopra, porn stars, ISKCON teachers, and the long shadow of spiritual and cultural authority. The poem ricochets between humour, rage, despair, satire, and longing — a man trying to make sense of a world where race, sex, class, religion, and fame collide in ways that wound him. Beneath the chaos is a deeper wound: the pain of someone who has been shaped by forces far larger than himself — colonialism, patriarchy, capitalism, spirituality, celebrity culture — and is now trying to reclaim his own voice from the ruins. The poem ends in a howl of exhaustion and defiance, a refusal to be silenced even when the world’s noise threatens to drown him.
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
Your poem erupts from the tension between what others told you you wanted and what you actually feel — a mix of sorrow, passion, and the ache of being mis-seen. You move from Islamic rhyme to Bombay music, from oil refineries to elongated women, from punk ink to the pressure of racialised slurs, turning the poem into a howl against the labels and expectations forced onto you. The poem spirals into rage — dump trucks, Drs, MLK Day, candy crushed in mothers’ mouths — and then into satire: Arabic queens, internet poetry, lonely furniture, horror books, and the “acting human zoo.” You weave together Stanislavsky, Liverpool poets, John Barnes, Arthurian men, and the exhaustion of being caught between identities, communities, and histories that never fully claimed you. Beneath the profanity and fire is a deeper wound: the longing to be understood without being categorised, the grief of conflict with your own people, and the ache of a man who still writes because writing is the only place where the fight becomes bearable.
Wild Stage 