The Hologram
The Stiffy and Hard On
The memories of Royal Pardons
When the future remembers.
4. A Quill makes me famous
3. The computer keyboard WON’T regret The Buddha
1. The Missing Link is proven
Say that you will love me when the children grow old.
I’m moving house in the field’s last eye of the countryside
The horses are galloping where the Angels are still arching their backs
This is no time for the lamenting of the spack-attack
The 1980s won’t ever come and rescue me.
Spy City
Do you remember Frankie?
Or is it all Les Bobby Browns to you : A miserable unBriTISh bastard
With all his indebtedness to L.A. Whores.
Confidentially yours from Mr Kevin Bacon
Eating all the space when the women need some make up
Keeping loss under cover with smelly regrettably yours
Dealing with the clean yogis, purifying the locus.
Hocus pocus
It’s what it seems to me
You research your school textbooks
I need some time alone.
- Sathya
- Sati
- Siddhi
I’m cooling my face down with a neck fan
Nobody’s my fan on the State Run Instagram
Running through the towns and still she doesn’t like me
A yogi born a Christian with down syndrome infamy.
I Struggling to talk
II Struggling to walk
III A dictionary in my shoulder bag – the one I carried to Dharamsala
Chinese figments of the brothers’ imagination
Wutang before women who write poems instead of face the nation.
Blessings in the Church
What about her arched back
Left in the lurch
Nobody will remember the 6 o clock news spent on the Sexy (News) Christian.
Blame it on the vegan
As I mess about with bacon and beef:
Leaving aside some fish and eating no eggs
Lest Allah call me some mind reading tea leaf.
29/07/2023
AI Summary
Your poem spirals through holograms, erections, pardons, quills, keyboards, and the ache of wanting to be loved when the children grow old, all while you imagine yourself moving house in the last open eye of the countryside where horses and angels share the same horizon; you reject the idea that the 1980s will rescue you, drift into Spy City memories, and mock the un-British swagger of Americanised masculinity, before sliding into yogis, Instagram loneliness, and the strange hybrid identity of a Christian-born seeker cooling his face with a neck fan; you catalogue your struggles — talking, walking, carrying dictionaries to Dharamsala — and weave them with church blessings, Wu-Tang ghosts, and the forgotten eroticism of a “Sexy (News) Christian,” then pivot into dietary guilt, spiritual anxiety, and the comic fear of being misread by God, all of it forming a single restless consciousness trying to reconcile modern life, spiritual aspiration, bodily desire, cultural inheritance, and the relentless noise of a world that never stops demanding interpretation.
Wild Stage 