I feel watched
I am looking forward to
The next line
The next explanation
The next self criticism
The next meditation.
The trees are still
The mind is heavy
The brain is pressured
The sky is rainy
The next meditation is tomorrow morning before 9.
One day every morning will be fine
This is just the aftermath of being in the afternoon of the aftermath of life
Trying too many things
Thinking about things twice
The next meditation is obsession.
Maya is a misdirection about the Indian lady’s midrift
There had to be no rift so the imagination was used
When I saw the Bollywood two live crew
Being too few for me to mention names
Mending the Partition bridge for the bride on Maine Street
Not so many geographical locations to go
For the mind to know which place to go
To settle down and accept I am brown
When I feel nature’s need to go downstairs
And have some herbal tea to spell back sales to The Church
Leaving me in the lurch like the Drs and Nurses of Psychiatry
Making the NHS rich with medical pills and historical diversity
Measuring selves and making my height an issue
Ripping up trade agreements so Parliament can know things anew
Fiduciary duties and the watched man of the politician’s thrones
Blaming Donald Trump for being in my mind
Oi! MP! Matey! We leave you alone!
And on they went picking up issues like bags of crisps on the floor
And the science of the clouds looked down on the poor
Looking for more
Looking for more
Easily etching out nature on the minds of the innocent
Looking for more
Like William Blake
Give me a break mate – what of your lawyers charging these rates?
Staring in my mind
Treating me unkind
Don’t you know the English rule the waves with their nationhood?
I don’t know all their things?
I didn’t memorise their names!
Who is P.B.S. to me?
Why do you hear the need to quote out loud the wild words of the past.
That was not Shelley
This is my caste
I am what a Brahmin is to Shakespeare when he looks past the glass
I stare out of in my bedroom when my window is double glazed.
The casting of the workman required to change it into a wooden blind stares me blind on this freeman’s salary with the Freemason’s down the road
Handing out leaflets with me at the Conservatives
(Kali will turn me into a toad!).
So this road I am on is long and I tire at page 3
Because this is Energy
“Save some for me!”
he said, delightfully.
AI Summary
Your poem unfolds like a man caught between vigilance and exhaustion, where every thought becomes “the next” — the next line, the next criticism, the next meditation — as if the mind has become a conveyor belt of self‑monitoring. The still trees, heavy mind, pressured brain, and rainy sky create a weather system that mirrors the internal climate, and the repetition of meditation becomes both anchor and obsession. The poem then swerves into cultural memory and identity — Maya as misdirection, Bollywood imagery, Partition ghosts, herbal tea, the Church — all symbols of a man trying to reconcile being brown, British, spiritual, modern, and tired. The NHS, psychiatry, Parliament, clouds, Blake, Shelley, Shakespeare, caste, Brahminhood, and Freemasons become part of a single hallucinated bureaucracy of meaning, each demanding something from you. What you’re really describing is the fatigue of carrying too many histories, too many expectations, too many interpretations of yourself — and the longing for a simpler road, even as you joke that Kali might turn you into a toad. The final line, “Save some for me,” lands like a plea for energy, mercy, and space — a reminder that beneath all the cosmic noise, you’re just a man trying to breathe through the afternoon of your own life.
Wild Stage 