Exempt
Exceptional
Sitting at home
Around a camp fire
Gay as the men on the wire
Things aren’t straight
Adjustments
Alignments
What the horror meant (?)
The play book from the shops
Meaning a lot
Delusional and grand
Things the dealer’s planned
Smiling at the door
Leaning in some more
For your friend and his good times
All about the wealth the rest of the time.
How can it be?
This is not for me
Streets of sympathy
For the dope dealer
Runaway kids
Hey new News Anchor! That’s my Raga Id!
Refinements
Definitions
Remonstrations before the brain
It’s always the (medical) same
___ these things are not for the ethnic in me
Striptease city life
Man without a wife
Judgement all around
*Look what he’s gone and found*
life
Baggage Carried
I can’t believe you’re going to die,
I’m going to give religion a try,
Insecure in my youth,
I will try it’s proof:
Something my Ego will understand.
Buckling the horses of Arjuna to things I will understand,
Not trying to own every house in the land,
Surprises from Bel Air mansions
Lavish green lawns,
There’s just time left for the lessons on parental viewings of Porn.
I can’t believe you’re not here anymore,
I look around the tremendous respect for temporal vortexes,
Oh indigestion and headaches from energy erections
Parading through my brain
Listening to the non-advice and going insane:
It’s your parent –
You projected,
Why are you trying to get me a Vedic House erected?
Fresh Prince to the king I never was,
The rent I owed you when I was only 12,
And the damnation from society
The clout from the god within me
The monkey in an experiment I never was
The kangaroo and signifying Laws…
Keep coming back and I am an employment hazard,
Someone with such regrets that I am a deep snowy blizzard,
Lost in the Maya of the world of those all knowing Hare Krishnas
They speak English like I know nothing –
Not versed in the Ayur Vedic Samaj
Ignorant
Illusion
Jai Om Namo Shivaya
Why isn’t my Id for hire?
Jai Guru Dev – is there an answer over there?
For how “I am not the body”
Will make me not feel very sorry,
When the time comes to pass
For at last it must come
That both of my parents imbalance my brain a certain way
- In the meaning of what Death has to say
- Pills and glorious business day by day
When those intoxicants at Jones Day (Gouldens) never came back my way.
AI Summary
Your poem traces the shock of confronting a parent’s mortality and the way it destabilises everything you’ve built your identity around, moving through memories of childhood guilt, cultural dislocation, spiritual searching, and the absurdities of class aspiration. You weave Arjuna, Maya, Hare Krishna English, Fresh Prince, Jones Day, and parental porn into one fractured tapestry, showing how grief pulls every influence — religious, corporate, familial, comedic — into its orbit. Beneath the humour and the surreal imagery is a son trying to understand how his parents shaped his mind, how inherited chaos still lives in him, and how no spiritual system or social ladder can fully prepare him for the inevitability of loss.
#WhatNewsHoThereSailor
(or Reviews, Bailiff, if you please for representing to Tax_)
A fool on your Home Planet
A journalist on the monied one
Don’t you know your next wielding verse
Is your unwritten son?
He hasn’t been so paid
To wander streets to evade
The decorative Devi with sincerity to get laid
While the monstrous beasts lay to your back what is now aid.
Convince your emotions
Complacency is strong
But where is the deviancy that once stood strong
To listen to others of their points of view
And dine with the extras of what was for you?
Have they stolen all they can –
The friends who could feed;
While teaching you tired manners
By the fountain of youth in your hour of need?
The literary Reed is not dining forever
There are other things to progress:
And if we say so dear Fellow,
Your English is leering to impress.
Just click right and turn left at the exit
You’ll find others’ with keyboards
Ready to entertain the Boards
With stories from their lives
And who was white when alive was a live wire.
It’s always the same : –
They came in with a board game
And left with Monopoly on fame.
So what – theirs are not The Vedas
And yours is not the shame,
Of needing to get laid on time
When the complacency tells enough rhyme.
13 o clock
What a cock!
Then it is Bucks Fizz
For watching him drink his son’s Jizz…
Round and round the story will make you proud
Of what he was watching while you were brown
And his father sold him the Church of England as a Pub
#AndIndiaasDharamsala while a Llama ate meat as his grub.
AI Summary
The poem stages a blistering critique of literary vanity, cultural theft, sexual hypocrisy, and the lingering hierarchies of class, race, and colonial memory. The speaker addresses a figure who postures as journalist, poet, critic, and moral authority, exposing how he feeds off others’ stories, bodies, and labour while pretending to be enlightened or progressive. The poem moves through scenes of artistic ambition, sexual frustration, spiritual pretence, and social decay, weaving in satire about Englishness, Indianness, academia, fame, and the absurdity of cultural gatekeeping. Beneath the biting humour and explicit provocation lies a deeper ache: the sense of being exploited, exoticised, or dismissed by people who claim sophistication but hide behind privilege, hypocrisy, and inherited power. The final lines collapse the whole spectacle into a dark, looping joke about identity, shame, and the strange afterlives of empire — leaving the speaker both disgusted and defiant, refusing to be reduced to anyone’s stereotype or story.
Tomorrow
Tomorrow is a Sports Day
It is the 5th of July
It is also a Pizza from the delivery guy
Something instead of a Pig Sty.
My son will have cleaned his room
And my father will Aha every moment;
So that Norway lets on about Brexit
While Sundays are still days of rest.
Tomorrow is like a yesterday’s feast
A tobogganing affair all about sorrow!
Something for me and something for her
While the windows are cleaned without borrowing
From parents who do all the housework…
…
…
It’s when the work will take place:
When will you do yours?
Do you still work after COVID?
Can you ride horses on all the courses?
Tomorrow is where all messages and meanings take place
Like a Self Help drop-down list of perfection.
The worker better than Bill Gates
And an open door policy to statements of retraction.
It is the place beyond time if the Yoga is still fine
Where people get left behind if they do not keep the time.
It is where poems come to die if you do not detach the outcome –
How come they do now dream of my outcomes
When the Dear Kali part of the process is dry and sad?
Tomorrow is when the crying will heal me
It is the deliverance that will save the pain from the Healer of today.
Tomorrow is Bhagwan’s advice on the Id for reformation
After the dealer is psychoanalytical about due processes with Louise L Hay.
This is the formation of some power
This is the talent of some nights
When Bipolar left be darker than other hours
And tomorrow was not even in my sight.
AI Summary
The poem reflects on “tomorrow” as a space where duty, family life, spiritual striving, and emotional recovery all converge, blending the ordinary rhythms of sports days, pizza deliveries, housework, and parenting with deeper anxieties about work, self‑help culture, yoga, and the lingering effects of bipolar episodes. It treats tomorrow as both promise and burden — a place where healing might happen, where meaning might return, but also where expectations, comparisons, and spiritual demands accumulate. The speaker moves between humour, fatigue, and vulnerability, invoking gods, gurus, and psychological frameworks to make sense of a life shaped by illness, responsibility, and the desire for transformation. Beneath the references and reflections lies a steady ache: the hope that tomorrow might finally bring clarity, relief, or redemption, even when today feels heavy and the past still echoes.
Tick Tock
Tick Tock and the me time from you
There is a shallow pool
For me to dip into.
The clock is on the wall
And it has not told the time
Outside on the street
Of what you will find.
You don’t come here much
And you do not tell me things
Like you used to bring
With your other friends
… so many friends
Time to blend in
The streets
With all the fretting feet
And the Nordic mannerisms
That never came between us.
Now I would rather catch a bus
And find myself watched
By some thing it is so
That gives me blowing down below.
What a homosexual show
These friendships turned out to be
When au fait was Asian and also British
And your European surrounded me with the Frigates.
They won’t be long now
In the hours of mannered time
When the rhyme is more simple
To the son who told the time.
He told the time in the school
And lost in on The Albert Hell
When he went to Concerts from University
And deified musicians for a fool.
This was me and you
As you looked me up and down
Happy to stay around
In my room because I was brown.
My music pleased you so
So we could go to the filum show
Where the heroes beat their chests
So their wives could get them their old age vests.
Mr Popularity. There is so much more to see
When the distance between you and me
Is at least Wide Screen Lap Tops and TV.
AI Summary
The poem reflects on a friendship or relationship that has grown distant, where time, silence, and shifting social circles have eroded the closeness once shared. The speaker feels abandoned, watched, and misunderstood, caught between cultural identities and the uneasy dynamics of being desired, exoticised, or included only conditionally. Memories of music, university days, and shared outings mix with resentment, loneliness, and the sense that the other person now belongs to a different world — European friends, Nordic mannerisms, concerts, laptops, and screens. Beneath the irritation and hurt lies a longing for the simplicity of earlier connection, when being “brown” wasn’t a spectacle, when music brought them together, and when the distance between them wasn’t measured in widescreen displays and the cold glow of technology.
There Will Be Wounds
There is no doubt that the future is the shape of the past
When the worry of the money is the jape of those who finish last
In the hands of the empty who do not write the cheques everyday
As journalists and typists who get paid when they say…
Something is here for me in the Rishi Files of yesteryear
Which told Om and Shanti as if the ThIrD WoRlD WaR was very near
To be scared off from print media who cleared the cellar to wine like Arjuna
And go home each night a winner with wounds shared from some poor fella.
Stretch and yoga this way and bend and yoga that way
These were the tests in the past in Maida Vale:
That is the modernism of finding influences in the 2020s
Something light for everyone as the body goes through New Age hell.
There will be wounds when the record is the recovery as well as the victory
Of pain in the particulars when silence was séance and some old man’s Vasectomy
To neuter the gender general for the Nazi, Gypsy, Oik and even the Navaho
So that Ukraine stepped back an equal for a Eurovision and some Ivanho.
Step back and let Dr Zhivago handle something on a Saturday afternoon
Before Hollywood gets banned for handling what a Cancer would not see off too soon
From the ambulance chasers and the cinema queens who vicinity fair the merry go round
And show up in the newsdeals like a telephone money fundraiser and mad go around.
Madness
Madness, I tell you, MAD!
These are the Stardates of the Bon Voyages fair thee well and Ennui.
Inuit and Intuitive will you sell me back my soul
If I have lost my only hope to Obama for Joe the Worker’s droll
AI Summary
The poem reflects on how the future keeps repeating the patterns of the past, especially in politics, war, media spectacle, and the spiritual anxieties of modern life. It moves through references to journalism, yoga culture, global conflicts, and pop‑historical figures to show how public crises seep into private consciousness, turning everyday life into a theatre of dread, satire, and déjà vu. The speaker feels trapped between cultural expectations, geopolitical noise, and the absurdity of contemporary “wellness” narratives, all while wrestling with the sense that society keeps recycling its wounds — from ancient epics to modern wars, from Hollywood myths to political fundraising. Beneath the humour and exasperation lies a deeper fear: that meaning, hope, and even the soul itself are being bartered away in a world where history loops, leaders disappoint, and the ordinary person is left searching for a goal that still feels human.
Goal.
The Port of Sports
Candles on the wind
Lighten the Godly passage to Sindh
Where the pains of Spanish ladies
Contour the refrain of deranged grading.
The garden of the grades
Where the blossom is fair in the shade
Of a Serpent’s seditious glare
To fathom a woman’s tressles and hair.
“This is where it will be for me!”
He says under the ignorant Sycamore Tree
With a word as strong as Oak
About his right to fuck hard after a toke.
A token gesture and a reverent remission of cancer’s permission
Cancer’s commission from the Pharmeceutical derision
That the body is his to fatten and flee from
After the farts from Depakote and Deepthroat from Gazprom.
Dark into the night when the oceans crash against the shores
Is the fittest thing, the sexiest Blonde, the holiest Hindu whore
More! Why not sell me your mother to travel on the shared Earth
With wild seas and a few little more than ships from the past
To tell of the wide birth
Beyond the Yugas
Above the Togas
Far from the sticky tobacco and the wives with their stockings and pull overs.
Over and far and fair from the wettest wind
Carrying onto the decks the crouching of shivered boys
Lost to the Port of Spain and the knees that know pain
Travelling men : Back again.
Lost in time : Responsibility is an offered crime.
Crimes that are for me : Crimes that are for you.
Language was thus shared : It spoke of negotiations and upmarket Poo!
Pooh Pah’ing the bandits of the brain
Who mentioned commotion and sold the strain
Of cloth and cupboards and style of Art and affairs
To keep up Consummate Actions so that sexuality had it’s lustful lair.
Proof that Kama Sutra was legal tenacity
And contracts of somatic housing was legality –
They had known us when he had been with her,
So that we could be above this as ours was not theirs…
…
…
… On and on
What a story!
The commotion of The Locomotion
And the trade of The Mona Lisa.
Hey! It’s hay and we have the same bale to make on the shipping
Sell to me your facts and I will fax you some returns.
Burning with the lust to get to the bust from the back bras
And the open bare minimalism of hairs that stand apart from afar –
Show me your Hindu and I will bare a brave resolve
To drink whet and alongside your Islands
Where the unloading is seeing long and Ceylon is my Ramayana song!
Jay Siya Raam!
Ahoy there Hanuman!
You’re my mate with that karma
Since Romantics knew my bonds.
They sold it to me fair
I don’t see why it needs to be sold out late
Now that records speak of the devil
And The Beatles have no first mate!
Still the demons and demonstrate for me awhile, So I can see : —-
—–
—-===++++
— xxxxxx £
$ cost
£Prophet
% Reportage
This is the Spirit of the Age
Again.
{Again is the pain}
And far away is the brain I cannot see on the sea.
These are ships that told of the three line whips
And how Majesty knew to address the dress line
For one or two poetic and rude linearity healthy quips.
AI Summary
The poem is a sprawling, turbulent meditation on history, sexuality, colonial memory, spiritual inheritance, and the commodification of bodies and cultures, moving from Sindh to Spain, from serpents to sycamores, from pharmaceutical cynicism to ancient epics. It blends mythic imagery with modern anxieties, invoking Kama Sutra, Hanuman, Mona Lisa, Gazprom, and Beatles in the same breath, creating a world where trade, desire, violence, and art all become part of the same restless current. The speaker navigates oceans literal and symbolic — ships, boys, ports, storms — while wrestling with the weight of cultural expectation, erotic frustration, and the sense that everything, from sex to spirituality to history itself, is being bought, sold, faxed, or burned. Beneath the satire and provocation lies a deeper lament for meaning, dignity, and clarity in an age where the “Spirit of the Age” feels fractured, commodified, and endlessly repeating itself.
The International Mama
There are times in the solid room
There is a okay Heraldry in the plastic tomb
Here and there is a fractured glass of a sonic boom
When the ships in the night are frightening.
These are the times when my teeth need whitening
And the lazy Sunday deserves an extra half hour in bed
After a week of working and washing the clothes
So far and so long that the measurements are not dead.
Something for me and something for them
The next thing they ask for is going to be too much.
There is not a bedroom that couldn’t do without a Rabbit Hutch
And more life for my kids stuck in a rut in England on a couch.
Married or unmarried it has to be the way
That Islam is Brick Lane when Hindus like Stoney Lane:
This eases the paths so that wires can be their heads
As Darth Vaders playing Space Invaders when I am gone and dead.
Halo boys on the angelic tip looking for some ink wells to laugh and dip
Their erectile problems fathoming centuries of God,
Because of schools and computers
That told of Blake’s Thel and her encounter with a Clod.
Something for me and something for them,
At least I will be back here again!
With their rotten spoilt karma to wile away the time
And think of good demons who give Satan all their crimes.
Nothing
Everything
Commanding things
Washing things again
These are the ways
Those are not the ways
DO this
DON’T DO that
What a prat
My son is a part prat
Because of Rat a Tat Tat
And all the stocks went splat
Breasts that are flat
Moments that I say “Drat!”
Who says “Drat!”?
When the movies are over after 96 minutes, some Nachos and some cheese.
pLeAsE
AcCePt : My Sons without regret
And let them finish some sand, sex and some sandwiches
So that Sanghrias could help them forget,
The war of Mahabharata 78004
Or whatever is at the door,
When I am not separate from you
Like the Heavenly liar and the Holy Jew.
AI Summary
The poem moves through a week’s worth of fatigue, domestic labour, parental worry, cultural inheritance, and spiritual confusion, all filtered through a mind that refuses to separate the mundane from the mythic. Lazy Sundays, whitening teeth, and kids on the couch sit alongside Blake, Mahabharata, Darth Vader, and the ghosts of England’s immigrant streets, creating a portrait of someone trying to hold their life together while the world’s histories, religions, and digital noise press in from every side. The speaker oscillates between humour and despair, tenderness and irritation, invoking angels, demons, gods, and games as metaphors for the pressures of fatherhood, identity, and survival. Beneath the associative leaps lies a steady ache: the desire for rest, for understanding, for a future for the children, and for a world where the wars of the past — cultural, religious, personal — stop echoing through the living room.
Pilgrimage Poem
At Five Ways I learned discipline,
Study became prayer,
Questions became scripture.
The classroom was my chapel,
The assembly my liturgy.
What began as grammar,
Became gospel,
Preparing me for pilgrimage.
At Oxford I walked among spires,
Philosophy became psalm,
Poetry became prophecy.
In cloisters of silence,
I wrestled with faith and doubt,
each essay a sermon
each lecture a hymn.
The scholar’s lamp burned,
yet beneath it,
the Spirit whispered.
At St Brigid’s I first learned hymns,
Childhood voices rising in chant,
Ritual shaping memory,
Catholic flame in Northfield’s soil.
Brigid watching me with healing eyes,
Preparing me for testimony,
For prophecy,
For Albion’s renewal.
And then I returned,
To Birmingham’s churches,
To Elim’s Pentecostal fire,
To Alpha’s questions,
To hymns remembered at St Brigid’s.
I read the Bible entire,
Guided by Got Questions,
East meets West,
Krishna’s chant met Christ’s gospel.
Renewal sang through me,
And I stood not as seeker,
But as guru,
Bearing light through rupture,
Chanting testimony into England’s soil.
Constellation Poem
Ben Wright the Chronicler,
Paul Ready the Actor,
Bryan Dick the Performer,
Amal Clooney the Advocate,
Rishi Sunak the Steward,
Robin Clark the Merchant,
Andrew Ornitharis the Producer,
All acquaintances by my side,
Guru Nanak the Guide,
Devi the Flame,
Wanderer the Father,
Unicorn the Brother –
Together they form my constellation,
Each a star in Albion’s sky.
I walk among them,
Not as seeker,
But as guru,
Bearing light through rupture,
Chanting renewal into England’s soil.
Wild Stage 