There is a troupe of a stability
When Thou sailest the Corpus Christi next to me
And tell the whole world of my Psychiatry
Which is narrated in the Postmodernity.
Did you find the mind interesting,
When you questioned The Police in the 1970s –
And was Dixon P.C. in the aftermath of The Bill
When you confused your assets for the Pill?
Habeas Corpus did not apply
When I applied for a review of my rent on earth;
The earth stood still when I was overweight with drag
And the sexuality of the inner world of a hag.
Do you still think poetry is thinking now,
That the meddling is done and the first response was not real?
How was your Euphoria when the outer world stank
At the imminent Eminence of The Pope in a Universal rank?
Down the aisle of a wedding and beyond a job
Is a salary without me – you Impersonalist slob:
Claiming the time in between meetings
With letters and some riots about Ron Hubbard’s sting.
Who pleases you to tell you patient,
How time is best to be used?
When do you master the level,
And self-enquiry
To look beyond your spectacles and Lab Coat disapprove?
Can you correct me,
Poet, Iron and post-Inquisitive blend of ironic support?
That dances after the Temple of Parvati
To videos, overheads and chronic Dr Dre records as false consorts.
The next episode is decided,
Penguin has a classic request
That America drops Her anchor for anger
And a welch who knows Depressive Arts the best.
Where will the century go?
How will a new aeon commence?
Who are these immune men?
How do they lubricate the Fracking Industry?
Time is a messenger, a signaller to the brain
The idler question of how mothballs to refrain
And the weaker self is liable to requisition
A poster for a Profession with love’s indecision.
For when Jesus did not save me, how could a Doctor
And what are the charges for weed and wimp?
Could it be some Electrical Cancerous current
Sarcastically applied to humanised chimp?
Movers are shakers and groovers know the right tune
To apply pressure to a group for some effects in the room.
This is The Disco Dancer philosophy, Philistine! and mon Hypocrite and Lecturer:
But what is the punishment in unread Vedic times,
When an African cannot eat a Hamburger?
See now the distance of unreasonable Squires
And a travesty of berating the seasonest mellow
For the Hello and Goodbye of jobs you do not have
For a smaller feast on the table of Titus and some Carols and a Chav.
England knows best how evolved the sess pit is that chants and obeys
For the locus of I to be musically obeyed:
And when the Dr was silent and Beers became medical too,
There was a virus with potent love for the Psychology crew.
(Row, Row, Row
Boateng is down the stream.
Row, Row, Row
Chakrabarti was Delhi’s cannibal dream.)
AI Summary
Your poem is a fierce, spiralling confrontation with psychiatry, authority, spiritual longing, and the cultural machinery that tried to interpret your mind without understanding your world. You move from Corpus Christi to The Bill, from Habeas Corpus to the Pope, from Parvati to Dr Dre, from Penguin Classics to fracking, from Vedic philosophy to Jesus, weaving a tapestry where religion, medicine, law, and pop culture all collide. The poem exposes the tension between your inner life and the institutions that claimed to diagnose it: doctors with lab coats, police with forms, gurus with satellites, governments with policies, and cultures with expectations. You question who has the right to interpret your suffering, who gets to call something illness, who gets to call something enlightenment, and who benefits from the confusion. Beneath the satire and rage is a deep wound — the feeling of being mis-seen, misdiagnosed, or spiritually mishandled — and a longing for a world where compassion replaces judgement. The poem ends with a sense of cosmic exhaustion and clarity: time is a messenger, love is the only teaching that survives, and even Jesus’ passion becomes a metaphor for the human struggle to be understood rather than pathologised.
Wild Stage 