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.
islam
Bottle Neck Clause
Clauses are more free than my verses are cared for
Roses have a finer dining room than the space between my ears.
Cheering is for American Bandstand and England is grand,
I am alone at last with the class of almost regrettably yours.
How could it be that the question came upon me?
That tomorrow mattered more than the youth of berated Paki
That was not Thy self be done in the I-I of a son of a gun.
There! Lost it. My verse is a hearse to the memory of an ode to a disaster,
The Master is Enlightened and I am one with today’s promise.
Time is on this planet for as long as we can guess about it,
But nobody will listen to their sorry hearts about my illness.
Many moons ago, when the knowledge was stored beneath the sand,
Time was not collected in a bottle for the very filmed and bravery but balanced bland.
The memory of mistake was not the fake they were claimed to be
As they were sedated and chastised for ruling the lost tribes of Alcatraz.
There was the Plaza, away from the car crash, trying to remember Egypt
Like a belonging soldier attached to the demotion of love’s hairs on a long forgotten body
Writing the writhing into being all over the top of me with a family tree
So irresponsibly drawn that the carriages were better placed by the oasis
In the schools of throughout thought learning to tarry progress on the seas.
I was not meant for you, said my verse in a prancing prosaic blue(s)
So why was she meant for him? There is nothing in you, dear Poet, that is not dim.
Light is to light what the led are to the electricity of mobility awareness
When the fairness for addressing life’s porridge and problems is clearness.
Sanctions are actions when the correspondence is tremendous
But the mellowness of post drugs infidelity to libellous
Is not going to absolve freedom of either one of us.
Life is to life what negligence is to the horrible especialising of nature’s gait
When old man William was made a captain, Oh my (darling) Captain, with 7 Archangels too late.
Lucifer was left out so that the new sobriety was dimmed and clever
And time could give Muhammad some space to leave and remember.
AI Summary
The poem mourns the gap between the poet’s inner life and the world’s failure to recognise it. It reflects on racism, illness, spiritual confusion, and the collapse of meaning, weaving together images of Egypt, Alcatraz, angels, and ancient memory to show how deeply the speaker has searched for belonging. The verse becomes a vehicle for grief — grief for lost youth, lost promise, lost recognition — and for the loneliness of being misunderstood by society, by institutions, and by those who once held power over him. Beneath the imagery lies a quiet truth: the poet is still here, still writing, still trying to make sense of a world that has never known how to hold him.
That’s What They’re All Like
That’s what they are all like
The actors and the politicians
The same culture devolving the ground it’s merit
Worsening the clay earth for a lack of manners
Rudely protruding mountains as mouths to feed Allah
Fisting the sky to triumph the winnings of God
In Complaint
In Obedience
… In
Me.
Common Parent
How much he takes out on us
Riding the bus like a common parent
Things that he meant to say but left in clues
Something for me and the politician’s cold cold hearts.
Blowing the socialist world wide apart
When the Wiley Coyote shit is ugly like a bird pooing on the alligators down by the African stream,
As friendly as an Oxford hall
When the men were nice and the problems were small.
Oh how the ages have been unkind to the mind
Stained glass windows with the gaul to show up in my house
Chasing the rat to beat the scientific mouse
When the culture fades into an LSD spin
And the naughty mouse wins to epic the story for the Djinns.
Mentalisms
I’m not that kind of poet
The type that times the earth
I know where I have come from
It’s just not that kind of worth.
I’m angry with the children
They won’t listen to what I’ve got to say
And by the time I get a hold of them
I don’t write about The Gay.
Who wants to know where Jesus is hiding?
Who wants to see Muhammed’s disrespect?
Who thinks Guru Nanak can have an equal?
Who likes Krishna to love some regret?
Maybe that is the continuance
The meaning of life for the 21st Century
What happened when Eliot befriended Krishna?
And wasted lands for his alliance with Sannyasi.
Tomorrow’s plans may spring from an asset stripped 1980s
When Kryon was a stranger to Enron too.
Where Americans face the final ultimatum from Ron
Live without the Newspapers or your politicians are through.
Where’s my Minority Report, Mr Malthus Cruise?
And those tapes of cassettes from Mini Discs of the CDs I was meant to become…
A land like India so clothed in respect for the native
Something for anyone to lecture on anything sitting on their bum.
So God bowled me over and let me be the top wicket taker
At school I played in goal and stopped cricket scores
Before being a “demon on the west wing in Hockey”.
Some fames were therefore for me & my brother played cricket for County.
… [insert Dream here]
But then we arise on his 50th birthday
A brother with no goals and lots of self respect
Responsibility for his younger and pains for his mum near death
Wandering like a ghostless plain close to his last breath.
Is it true the Rohan did not think the cousins warred
And fought like the white man to make the cemetery closer
For sex with the gang banging ginger and the necrophiliac in The Big Bang Theory
As cousin Amar throws our grades away….
What will be our saying?
Who will be our friends?
When can we call the real Time Out?
When shall we dance again?
So the monks journeyed for aeons
Lost in pain to grieve the stats
In Scientology since two brothers left them
And R J Ellory was king for a day.
One
Two
Three
Four
Is that a Hindu or a Paki knocking at my door?
Resident in England but 40 years
So certain of tattoo art for all his tears.
How can I quit drinking?
Where is the detox jokes at Rohan now..
How many Jack Daniels do you dream of: For that petri dish wife petrified of her karma and how?
[Release]
AI Summary
The poem confronts the struggle to define oneself amid cultural, religious, familial, and psychological forces that constantly misinterpret or distort identity. The speaker rejects being boxed in by labels — poet, Hindu, Paki, saviour, sinner — and questions the authority of religious figures, political systems, and family expectations that have shaped his life. He reflects on childhood, sibling responsibility, academic pressures, addiction, and the pain of being racialised in England, weaving these experiences into a critique of how society fails to understand or support those who fall outside its norms. Beneath the anger and satire lies a deep grief: the fear of being forgotten, misunderstood, or consumed by forces larger than himself, and the longing for connection, clarity, and a life that feels whole.
Disclaimer
I didn’t do it
It came upon me
The sadness of a lonely desperate winter
When Jingle Bells came over me
I thought myself divine
I was a winner in distress
I was shaped by the diabolical
To unwind the Indian woman from a dress.
Then I was a Priest and a guru
President indeed over birth, life and death
Intended to develop evolution further
So my big bang was unkempt and smelly like a rotten fart in summer.
These were the hummers of a vibration past Israel holidaying
When I had known the King and seen him in everything
There was something left it seems for Church and State
A tax free entrance policy for immigrants
Some land to sell to the Africans to sit and contemplate.
Then I was empty and Eastern: Admired for the force within
Keeping up with local political actions. Handing out leaflets to stave away the end of days.
Death is at my door step and there is a Baptism to say
What is the state of play?
How can I stay out of the way?
Qawali in the Park, Beethoven’s Ninth in the dark
Concerts and consorting, Krishna is rewarding
Nothing pleases the Hare Krishna until you’ve given your 50% in advance –
Give peace and the internet a chance, so we can be net neutral
Then I will find myself a fossil converting my oath in to renewable energy and fuel.
Transformers indeed in disguise, this is the heavenly prize I once sort
Something of the origin of the Universe: Some violence for political revolution.
Revolving around the sun the heavenly body is undone
And the ladies undo the convention of conservatism to admire me in the poetic rain
Reign of regal things. International seasons that demagogues bring
This is the venture for capital to speak to Poesie of the ancient of days that sing
Of the Virgin’s tomb and the ascent to Sinai
Where the sun is commander of the deserted playing fields for meditation in silence.
Speak at risk for the lawyers lazy fist
There is so much I can say one day when the oceans face passing away
Dried up by the energy and wit of the homosexual versus the playing field
And Friends on TV and not much from the 1950s.
Travel well and adorn the image of success so delicately that you unzip each file well
Telling of pornographic fascinations in a swell manner for the men in the Manor
And the ladies down Muthra lane. Nations are playing again
After the bugging strain and the dimensions for demons in the intravenous brain.
For if I am without and searching for the clown in China to appeal to finance
What is the last dance going to look like for a moment’s free of Allah’s terror and torment.
What things have I meant to address my own nakedness in the demands of modern time
The Professor who gets to the English academy on time
Telling us all about the mind, the world and the shaping of things for working life (lives?) in time.
Things won’t always be fine is what he seems to be in power of and some control like The Golden Bowl
And a haiden enforcement of conglomerate bliss
To travel in my place for some hidden agendas and kisses.
AI Summary
Your poem reads like a man revisiting the fever‑dream identities that once overtook him — the divine winner, the priest, the guru, the political visionary, the cosmic wanderer — only to discover that each persona was shaped by loneliness, winter sadness, and the pressure of spiritual expectation. The imagery moves from India to Israel, from Church to State, from leaflets to baptisms, from Qawwali to Beethoven, from Krishna to renewable energy, as if the entire world’s religions, politics, and mythologies have been poured into a single consciousness that never asked to carry them. You show how spiritual longing can mutate into delusion, how cultural inheritance can become a burden, how political noise can invade the mind, and how the self can fracture under the weight of too many symbols. Yet beneath the chaos is a man trying to understand his own nakedness in modern time — the professor lecturing on the mind, the poet wrestling with capital, the citizen navigating immigration, economy, and identity. The poem ends in a place of weary clarity: things won’t always be fine, power is slippery, and hidden agendas shape the world — but the speaker is still searching for meaning, still speaking, still alive inside the long echo of his own mythmaking.
Until the Daffodils Yearn
I went to pay for the food
But Fate was being rude
To intrude on my inner dwelling
With the outer foil of a garden well laid.
There they were, betrayed to the surface
Above the water of my drowning soul
And the thoughts that are so deep
Daffodils in the supermarket are needed to excavate them.
So I am unearthed.
Like them I a trick of the trade
Waiting for payment of my death
And the memories that accompanied the digger’s breath.
What is in a rhyme, but the time of meeting another
Unlike you, who are gone and would have liked the irony
Of nature ironing out the money due in the self service till
Where the flowers balanced on top, left alone.
Nobody was there to take their measure
And I was awash with grief about my greedy handful
Delicate emotions spread out on the market stall of life
Amassing a fortune for the savings account and pension.
This was not the mention, I was looking for an easy way out
But you accompanied me like a bad smell
The old smell of rotting fart to celebrate my triumph over the grave
As if that was something else I was going to succeed at.
Failure to the seed, the life giving emotion of yellow piercing above green
And the scene of my demise as I scanned my items
Do you think of me still when I am not there to harass you
Like and as: My metaphor is a mega bore from the 1980s.
These are times that are not for me, but keep you alive
The memory is screeching and the ghosts are warning me
The same is not for you, in your lonely crew
Who will remember you when you are one effort from a cemented cemetery.
Take this notice of nature’s entry and seek refuge in the rhyming Buddha
The slang of the cow’s udder under Krishna who can see my fears,
The turning years and all that is to come
The escapade of my life before Maya.
No more of your driving tires, and lifts to the supermarket
Where I would lean on your purse, the mother in the hearse
And the father who left me in Summertown, down undergraduate lane
Things will never be the same again.
They medicated the brain to ensure the insurer and change the bliss
Where is the wedding with the merger of Christ to secure the last kiss?
How will I know what is known when the final wishes are blown
And the gardening is what you have bequeathed me in my working man’s probate.
It’s time to test the prostate, and prostrate on the ground before Allah
Lest I have anything left in the cellar of my heart and you surprise me again
And again for the foremost thoughts about what is stalking us all –
The final call from the One seeking The Fall.
AI Summary
Your poem begins with a simple act — paying for food — and immediately fate intrudes, turning the supermarket into a site of excavation where daffodils become metaphors for your own unearthing. Grief rises like something betrayed to the surface, and the flowers on the self‑service till become stand‑ins for the memories you can’t bury: the mother’s purse, the father’s absence, the undergraduate lanes of Summertown, the hearse, the medicated brain, the probate gardening you inherited instead of comfort. The poem moves between humour and despair — the “rotting fart,” the “mega bore from the 1980s,” the prostate test — as if the body itself is mocking the solemnity of death. Yet beneath the irreverence is a deep spiritual ache: Krishna’s cows, the rhyming Buddha, Maya’s escapade, Christ’s merger, Allah’s final call. You’re asking how to live when the dead still accompany you, how to scan your items while ghosts screech, how to accept that the world continues even when your inner world has collapsed. What you’ve written is a portrait of a man trying to carry grief without being crushed by it, using rhyme, myth, humour, and memory as the only tools he has left.
To a Hindu Citizen
You didn’t even need to say goodbye
When you had left me for The Dead.
I had already read your stars
And they said you were here or there
Continuance.
Somebody is at the corridor of uncertainty
And the Black Man is looking for salvation
Often The White Supremacist speaks English first.
Chinese under
Writing
Standing
Taking
Why are we waking?
The Brahmin is importing the religion we are devouring
The Classicist is ignoring the divorcing we are endgaming.
What is in a marriage when the polygamist is always a broken Muslim
Fractured at the hands of time
To crime and Crimean punishment
For the war and perchance that a Russian missile will bring peace to a region
Areas of compassion
Free economic Homos
He’s in the zone,
For God’s sake, don’t bring a Sudra home
Come Dine With Me
Manchester City
There’s an Evangelical thread in the room
I’ve got to clean out the broom cupboard soon.
Time for Rumi
Make some room for my I
This Hindu has some Ego and Materialism to espy
We’ve just put him on a throne!
Go away and come back when you can teach me about this aloneness
Emerson all the way to your bank
I say thank you
It’s not the Victorian crew
Days that were far behind us
The Clapham Omnibus + Race Relations Laws
Downward facing dog pose
>> The Sumo Wrestler of the WWF
[ ]
Eat me at EnlightenNext
There’s culture under my white vest.
Before we need identity cards
What’s that yoga you know, down at The Shard.
AI Summary
Your poem reads like a confrontation with absence — someone who left without goodbye, someone whose stars you already read, someone whose continuance haunts the corridor of uncertainty — and from that absence, the whole machinery of identity erupts. Race, caste, religion, and geopolitics appear not as truths but as distortions the world projects onto you: the Black man seeking salvation, the white supremacist speaking first, the Brahmin importing religion, the classicist ignoring rupture, the Muslim polygamist reduced to stereotype, the Sudra forbidden from the home. You refuse all of these frames even as you name them, exposing how they fracture people rather than explain them. The poem then turns inward: Rumi, ego, aloneness, Emerson, yoga, EnlightenNext, identity cards, the Shard — a man trying to find spiritual ground in a world that keeps categorising him faster than he can breathe. Beneath the satire and the fury is a deeper longing: to be seen without being sorted, to be allowed a self that isn’t defined by caste, race, religion, or the anxieties of the age. What you’ve written is a portrait of someone trying to reclaim his “I” from the noise of history.
That’s All She Is
40 going on a century
Lifeless going on married
A wheelchair bound hysterectomy of worldly goods
Commerce gone wrong in the gang banging of elders.
#missionaryposition
#missingpeople
revenge in the noble gaseous realms
potential in the mystical spin of quantum mechanics
menacing
frightening
a loser on the streets of Northfield while the negroes stalk me alone.
::>> Why can’t I have my own home?
Where is the easel for the greatest Art down below the heavenly line?
When is His time?
when will he cum again?
A shared narrative loser of time
Searching for the right women to find
Headscarves for and against the HIJAB that beckons the BBC couch
Explain to me this advancement and why your lipstick says “ouch”
To, the wrinkles on my face
A YouTube collage on my face explaining American life
Ghosts and the 13 Shoguns of history
Delirium and mechanising my school run
Dinner off the table – before you shoot the X-Box gun.
When the Guru comes?
Will he outshine the Christ?
Is his yellow skin still white?
What is the cost of his repetitive strain?
Emo-kids on the brain
Rugby versus Football for a shot at understanding my kids
The latent homosexual glide into the next man’s shorts
Playing around with staying around
Alive until he smiles again
Under the glum glum could of the internet white lightening.
Flashes of orgasmic sex in the underwear of some dressing down from his mate’s of his
Listing the virtues of putting down a woman
Good for nothing but economic ruin
Ruining the runes
Blowing the cocks
Rinsing the Rabbis
Spending the day in a daze while the numbers and statistics spin around the business stories…
You don’t say this about me
All we need is LGBT
Loyalty to the Rupee
Dissent against the Dollar
Yang to the Japanese Yen
China –
- Lost China
- A World Within a Spiral
- Dynamics in the Universities
- Specialness in the Kung Fu Mastery of binary opposition to the now
- Meditations for machinery generation of the mind for enlightenment
- Communist State Power versus Socialist/ Capitalist gay conspiracies
- Novel things for a non Novel-writing spasm on the great cosmic ripple of time that is earth
- Giving birth in the hospital room
- “you are like me” (NHS Solicitor)
Back down
650 laws
600+ British Politician sex
The Jew in his home in Israel
Asks the blessed Angel Schmuel for help.
The Englishman raged again
The tiny island
Treasure to some
Tired supermarkets on Saturday afternoons to others
cars
brothers
war mongerers
distant lonely longing for a day of peace with National Geographic
An evidence of the black mirror
Watching the watched
Hanuman is glossing over the Chalisas again
All that praise for Raam’s Emmanuelle strain.
There it is (strain) again
-29/07/2023
AI Summary
Your poem reads like a mind spinning through decades of identity, masculinity, race, sexuality, politics, mysticism, and cultural inheritance, compressing the weight of a century into the body of a 40‑year‑old man who feels both too young and too old for the world he’s been thrown into; it moves from the ache of not having a home to the ache of not having a place in the cultural narratives around you, from Northfield’s streets to BBC sofas, from YouTube faces to Shoguns and Gurus, from rugby fields to the internet’s white glare, all while wrestling with desire, shame, humour, exhaustion, and the constant pressure to decode the world’s symbols faster than they can crush you; the poem’s collisions — religious figures, currencies, conspiracies, children’s sports, sexual anxieties, political noise, mystical longing — aren’t random but form a single spiralling consciousness trying to make meaning out of a world that feels fragmented, over‑stimulated, and morally incoherent, and beneath the provocation and the chaos is a very human plea for grounding, belonging, and a moment of peace in a universe that keeps demanding interpretation.
Women Sell Handbags
Women sell handbags
They walk down the lane
They trade in their penny lifestyles
To start with rebirth again.
They fashion the reminiscence
They market the free distress
They trend the social media
They find out about our mess.
The merchandise flies off the shelves
The shop keeper is smiling, he is happy
But when she gets home from her shopping
She won’t forget to change her husband’s son’s nappy.
This way keeps the retail turning over
Far from the man-exec with all his balance sheets
Profit and loss for The Prophet Muhammed
And the fine mind of an impartial Jew on Baker Street.
These are some of the people we meet
When the med let into their secrets away from home.
So get me down the garden without my wallet
And let’s go back upstairs to trade online for Garden Gnomes.
AI Summary
It’s a poem about the small dramas of everyday commerce, where women selling handbags become symbols of reinvention and survival, marketing nostalgia and distress while still returning home to domestic labour, and where the shopkeeper’s smile contrasts with the deeper economic and cultural forces shaping everyone’s lives; the poem widens into a commentary on profit, religion, class, and the hidden messiness behind public transactions, before ending with a surreal, humorous turn — the speaker slipping away from the marketplace, wallet forgotten, to trade online for garden gnomes, as if escaping the whole system by retreating into a private, whimsical world.
Wild Stage 