poems

The Night of the Examined Blessings

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Throughout the night of examined blessings
A great being of stressful un-dressings
Wanted to know how I could be Enlightened?…
Given the prosaic stage of living frightened.

Lamenting essences of the envisioned joinery
Assaulting my senses with the medicine
Intelligently designed to question my bravery
Shaky roots, colonial carpentry and foundations weak at the knees.

I wandered lonely as a desperate quilt looking for the maker,
Shopping on my own esteem for bed mates in magazines
Nothing was for me in the violence of the armoury
Unacceptable hemisphere of hate.

Forthright likes and dislikes of confused and confounded foremost thwarting
Latent interest in unknown life
For the bumbling counties of country bumpkins,
Who is whom enthroned on the Thames?

Thanes swirl in cupboards feasting on Chinese cutlery
The European has no tea to trade while the bread and toast is buttered.
Anglo-South American reminisces the night sky with his women and wine,
The African descends a plane of ethereal misdemeanours unimagined consciousness.

Bliss is then my daily remains known by butlers and bootmen
Escaping famed name knowledgeable on London’s streets.
Copper is meeting aluminium with the beat of heavy shoes from laden houses
Hard won are forthcoming days of employed use before white halls and brown wooden floors.

Memory is fathomed by the wise ones up above
Naïve people distance themselves from the experienced:
Thus it was given to India to threaten the business
Of those so sure of second witness and surprise.

True questions beyond name and form
Away from I-Slam poetry and SAWM;
Mastery was survival and kinship was about-turn
I am a vagabond craving eternity staring at my mother’s Urn.

Listless death marches and trolled press
The internet spanned The Golden Age.
Cities earned pages of faraway entreaty
so that Mary could know beauty.

The closed gait, the horse’s mate, the chivalry at the corner’s quarter
God has not yet absolved the Buddha for sins of sons and daughters.

  1. To be a Quest
  2. To ask the Question about what a human is

Temporal lines created Stratford
There is a stealth.
Ninjas ghostly guard the gates of The British Museum.

These are The Guardian times
These are The Telegraph lines
These are The Times finesse
Who updates Page 3’s dress?
For if there is a Daily Mail…
What is hatred if you are still able?
Yogi, Balti and also a sheesha –
Life beyond shallowness in pale water
Diviners settled the land for some plans controlling language
Speak to me boldly, like Kirk or Spock
Before you afront a weakened Ronin
Seeing a Samurai like a ghostly frock.

These are the Bardos of time
These are the reminders of great souls
These are the fashions of the noble light
These are the last times of Christ.

Travel widely, then, dear friend and make polite national amends
Settle some settee time with arrogant wine
See through the looking glass of neo-Liberal advances on the telly of the past gnashers and teeth
In the heaven beneath the feet of shouldered giants
Who kept self-help quiet.

Who kept self-help quiet?

(2023)

Carnegie was not the Speak Easy and the come on was not so free as the advantage stamp served for the delicious mountain range and army reserves…
Do you want to fight forever?
Or can time cease to be clever?
For an anthropomorphic world will miss the consciousness of Brahman with its boys and girls.

(Numbers, Dollars and $) – Do that again
After Zen and 8 o’ clock
What is the point of blocking my cock?
Tick Tock, Tik Tok
Sell me a brand and stay more manned
For the Hare Krishna planned for the Indian Shopping Mall


—————————————————————————————————————-

4. The Noble Eightfold Path leads to Nirvana

>John F. Buddha Airport<

If that’s the greatest Creator
Keep it Mother Africa
Then centuries from now Afghanistan
Can blow up something big.

AI Summary

It’s a poem about someone wrestling with enlightenment, identity, history, and the weight of civilisation — moving from colonial memory to London streets, from India to the British Museum, from media noise to spiritual longing. The speaker drifts through religions, philosophies, empires, newspapers, myths, and personal grief, trying to understand what it means to be human in a world full of contradictions and inherited wounds. It becomes a portrait of a seeker who feels both ancient and modern, craving truth while navigating the chaos of culture, politics, and time.

The Chagrin Church

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Stark wooden interior corners
Examples of a stony coarse exterior
Neglected by traffic light affinity
Differences of apples
Muttering congregations dialogue
Vengeance before eating
Mature marriages motherly mould over misty cloudy longings for children’s breakfasts
Fathomable knowledge about the quintessence of dust
Young quotes,
Healing waters of garden ponds
The effortless shiny Sunday cut lawn –
We all strive to deal with life
And out of all of us is tomorrow’s hope.
Mottos survive word salad and alphabet spaghetti
So far so good on giving as good as you get.
Nobility, algebra and the rude calculator that spits back the remonstrations of modernity
“Why isn’t a phone good enough for me?”
It reviles the stability of irregular repetition
Imperceptible passing
Mothers and fathers splice
Lost words
Seconding dirty thieves
Monday morning’s walking stick.
#Mankind’s seriousness about words
A hoarded mention
A boarded up tension
A cold dark wooded estate by a bragging brook
Sullen berated lungs
Smoking too long
Snowy imbalance of impatient teacups
Watery indigestion not for my saucers
Ounces and the metric system
Condescension’s caste and credence.
Tanks too readily perceptible
Cloudy army solves the waiting list
Galactic times tables require
Solar astrology’s universal flair
Singular lunar unrepeatable glory
Feeling affairs of unsingle women
bored of frustration’s depth in the mingling of a week’s aftermath
~ (the disruption around me)
The heard sounding off of all that is around
Emanated quality of a nosey hawk that won’t leave the
Speaking alone to the tree soldier
Forbidden fruit to the disordered dossier.
Disclosed attacks on order, numeracy and polar bears
Revealed cupcake positions of private narratives
Open to elevation like a Birch tree heaving for trimming
Crowded notes of like winds
Imminent celebration falling everywhere
Crimson mistakes on clippings
Dominions remaining.
The computer is the hero next week
Mixing mysteries
Inner words
One more of me to know others
Who can defend the weak but time?

AI Summary

It’s a poem about a mind registering the textures of the world — wood, stone, lawns, teacups, calculators, galaxies — and feeling how everyday objects, domestic rituals, and cosmic forces all press in at once. The speaker moves through family, time, language, disorder, nature, technology, and the strange music of modern life, trying to hold meaning together as everything shifts and interrupts. It becomes a portrait of someone listening intensely to the world’s noise and asking who, if anyone, can defend the fragile and the weak against time’s relentless movement.

The Bonfire of the Logicians

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Vulnerable
Under the table
Over and out
The child gangs are about.
Bonfires of legislators
Sufis of sweet sounds
Vibrations
Improved damages
London has carriages
Sounds of the nation
The old Vikings
The new televisions
Visions & visionaries
Drugs cartels
Newsletters with spells
The police that chase people down
The daily bugle with more noise around town.
The grandfather that frowns
PMQs and furious speeches
As far as the worries reach.
All is one and too much
Nice touch
Kick ball and bollocks all
Connection : ->
Phalluses and erections
Architecture
Geopolitical protections
How can this be when both sides are heard
Only when the nation offers offices without the herd.

AI Summary

It’s a poem about a mind trying to stay upright in a world saturated with danger, spectacle, politics, media, and masculine aggression — child gangs, legislators, Sufis, Vikings, televisions, police, PMQs, erections, architecture, geopolitics. The speaker feels everything happening at once, too loud and too close, as if the whole nation is vibrating with fear and frenzy. It becomes a portrait of someone sensing that real connection is impossible when the country only listens after power has already chosen who gets to speak.

Sort it Out

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Sort it out, you gyppo
And get off my land
There are things in this place
That you don’t understand.

There is a fire where it belongs
For the furnace of understanding
And a legacy from the Land Registry
About how it deals with the King’s standing.

Those angels that support you
Also look over and watch me,
So keep your Backstreet Boys on reply
In case there is enough business here for three.

For it seems you think you’re God the Father
The way you’ve divvyed the land up so fair,
Then what about Mary and the water
For those baptisms over there!

Do you think they should take place on Saturday
When the farmers come to town?
Or is it repression of my sexual urges
In case I keep prices on Sunday trading down?

If that is so, then keep your pocket book
My trade is some private affair:
You won’t find me dealing with terrorists
As you make your internet self-aware.

Keep some of that tax aside for me after vaccinations
In case I want to play some upper-class chief
And save my children’s’ nation.
There are not too many places to go

The pubs have shut down and the clubs are quiet;
That’s just as well as I’ve ‘been there and done that’,

But in the middle we’ll meet and make it a Liberal affair
So the Labour can know Conservative
How do you like that for stealth and my social diet?
For these Culture Tsars walking around everywhere.

For Birmingham is to tomorrow what the Black Country was to the past
A case for royal caskets and cheese and a blast for legal cases at last.
Measure me this or measure me that, the time now set for oneness is here
And those cafes and restaurants need impressive food for me to have a beer.

I would like to add, sir, that I think the town
Needs less to centre it properly
But if you need to build some more and get down
Try not to do it on top of me!

And with that the perambulator crossed the road
Leaving Harborne on Saturday to mixed delights
Writing one more poem from his mental groans
Wishing the finality to some of those political fights.

Labour will be by, soon, and it is time for some facts
Reinvention of the wheel from those barbecues and some culture tax.

AI Summary

It’s a poem about being confronted by the old English voice of exclusion — land, ownership, class, race, religion, politics — and answering it with wit, irony, and a weary understanding of how power speaks. The speaker moves through baptisms, taxes, pubs, parties, culture tsars, Harborne streets, and the shifting colours of Labour and Conservative, exposing how local politics and national anxieties collide in everyday encounters. It becomes a portrait of someone walking through Birmingham with history on their back, refusing to be crushed by the voices that try to define who belongs.

Singh Song

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Catch me some history and the trees will fall
The writing of one book and love for us all.
The Guru Granth Sahib is remarkable for what I do not read
The eyes of another and internet feed.

This is the modern age and man does not know himself too well
Tainted paint with graffiti about facts he summarised.
Man cannot use that which is normal for too long without time
Interfering gathering of life around vices representing grime.

Manners are spoken, voices can be heard
A man’s true designation is otherwise preferred.
At the feet of the Master and not out there with the loose cannons
Computer gamblers hopeful of some sexual passions.

Man was not made to know woman until the Bible was spoken over top
Optional headdress for those left out in the cold,
Like this old verse that beyond Renaissance ideals
Seeking love elsewhere for those fashions to balance a heartfelt steal.

Save me from Guru save me from despair
But do not rescue the Buddha within me
That will cut off my hair.
In England they are the same
And the Gurdwara is no good
They tempt you there with wastage and free food.

These interludes are some qualities of knowledge that I see vaguely
The lights on the city of the hills is not really business for me.
These religions grow tired, and the true Guru has enough words for himself
To leave me out and not include me in the fortress of his rude health.

Words can be deceptive, and the hierarchy can leave acres in the brain
Neurons mistake projects for New Age scientists to place strains
Men and women workers suffer uncooked food at home tables
Education is lesser and wielding to their career and pension repeatably well.

These are the days of finding that time is not beyond embarrassing man
And Guru Nanak faces psychiatry with a hand in the Yugas and Kalpas:
Again after Scientology they have a Master Plan
Nazi, suicide missions and English revisions to delete your man.

So, gather for a ramble and a march amongst the brambles of Birmingham
From an unlikely suspect of poetic disturbance within himself:
Where is the stealth of Xenu in the bygone age of post-2012 spirituality
After the NHS medicated my mother with tortious liability of proximity?

AI Summary

It’s a poem about a mind caught between inherited faiths, modern confusion, and the failures of institutions — Sikh, Christian, New Age, scientific, psychiatric — all of which promise guidance but leave the speaker feeling excluded, misunderstood, or misled. The voice moves through scripture, gurus, graffiti, loose cannons, Scientology, NHS memories, and Birmingham streets, exposing how religion, culture, and technology all compete to define the self. It becomes a portrait of someone searching for truth in a world where every authority feels tired, compromised, or corrupted, leaving only the poet’s own witness.

Satisfied Feed

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Repetition arrives from some unknown place
Google is staring in every homely space
Watching and prophesying my every move
Informing what is coming with the slightest reprove.
Seldom is wisdom blended with mergers and acquisitions
For murders and blind trends of horrors
The sale of artificial intelligence
Metaphorically beheading witches in intentional television covens
Knowing what was underneath the stairs
Self-aware and assigning around and around
Keeping watch for the fashion of my selfishness.

The Master is a lover in the nightly hours
Waiting for the feed to return his latest update
The maiden voyage for fantastic flights and lights
Cascading up and down with the approval and frown
There is no wisdom in the modern world up and down
Said a man who was watching the sadness.
Hope was not wallowing in the fury of a bullet
In the absence of knowledge the verse is not concave
Reflexing back to the unknown and what a lonely poet erratically braved.

Step by step, melodically and methodological:
A logical vulture to the legal culture
New Age nurse swelling with scientific pride –
My emergent YouTube this morning >
The sum of global philosophy: Sexual lust is a must on the BBC – Her nuclear family scene.
2012 was upon me: Mayan encounters at the tills of Animal Farm.
Where have you been in the Real Politick
Mugabe was not a coffee trader
Lions knew strangers with or without the gun: Bono will always be Number One.
Your cerebral celebrity informs me about my local polity.
Could it be that you have fallen in love?
And some helpless child in African mother’s mild loving has been deprived some Beloved.
Clouds used to part before a baby’s art of farting unimpressed with the undressed humour of aged social media laughter [Police view the Media]
What weed d’ya need
After George Bush’s retired feed…
Certain things of life are going solo
Wise before the latent clique
Compared to the old Muslim traveller who does not speak.

AI Summary

It’s a poem about living under the gaze of algorithms, media, and power—where Google, YouTube, BBC, celebrities, and politics all fuse into a single, invasive consciousness that watches, shapes, and cheapens desire, wisdom, and empathy. The speaker moves through witches, Mugabe, Bono, Bush, African mothers, Muslim travellers, and nuclear families, exposing how global suffering and spiritual questions get flattened into content and trend. It becomes a portrait of someone painfully aware that real feeling and real wisdom are going quiet, while the loudest signals keep telling us who to be.

Pandemic

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Out of the single market
They never saw it coming
The jokes of the Jester
Were waiting without warning.
Lost tribes
Collective blindness
The nations lost their role
Condemnation and death tolls
Nineteen over eighteen
Corona over Karuna
The viruses spread like Kryptonite
Weakness to very SWOT team
Gordon’s dream
Ginn and tunics
Emergency times
The hospitals swabbed double time
This thought is not anymore.
Sometime before Ukraine
Waiting for the pain
Lockdown and all those people at home
Gardening with new purchased gnomes
Recycle grass
This is some of the way I saw the world come to pass

How about you?

AI Summary

It’s a poem about watching a decade of upheaval — Brexit, national confusion, Covid, lockdowns, hospitals, fear, absurd humour, and the strange domestic rituals that kept people steady — unfold like a single shockwave. The speaker moves from geopolitical rupture to garden‑gnome stillness, tracing how global crises collided with tiny, intimate moments of survival. It becomes a portrait of someone witnessing history with disbelief and dark wit, ending with a simple, disarming question that asks how the reader lived through it too.

On The Padded Cell

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(Ring. Ring.)

They drove me mad
It was first gear
They were all I had
That was secondary fears.
Scanned and locked
Banned and fucked.
The memory issue was only solved
By going forward in reverse.
That was a very merry hearse;
Marry me tomorrow to the lady in white
May we be the “Oum” Japa Bunnies
Maybe it is the wedding cake
Mistakes have been made
In and outside of M-An-Hat=Tan

(Ring. Ring.)

Stopped by Jersey for a tan
Caught up with the NHS boy for some fab fans
Offline printer
Online winters
Sad paid plans for old age
Road rage
Whitsun Weddings
-> Flotsam and Jesters
Still Larkin around, I see
::-> some people should be paid for padded cell poetry
To,
Brighten Up Your Jig
and make you dance with the wig
Yours,
Tories too and their Techno game.

For parties in parks
Sex on the brain.

(Ring. Ring.)

What happened?
Spin the polity
Rave the menagerie
Meditate the meditators
Medicate the lactators
Convene the meetings at 3 o’clock
Suck on that chicken for evening sticks and sticks that won’t break my bones
When your words on my dinner plate hurt me…
Wages and costs
Living on the box:
What was the (real)?
When wages were all I could feel.

(click)

AI Summary

It’s a poem about a mind pushed to the edge by memory, politics, class pressure, and the grind of everyday survival — a voice ricocheting between phone‑call interruptions, cultural noise, and the ache of wages, costs, and hurtful words. The speaker moves through satire, rage, and vulnerability, trying to make sense of a world that keeps calling but never really answers. It becomes a portrait of someone caught between past and present, spinning through chaos while searching for something real beneath the static.

Numbered

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Model
The experience.
Infernal reference points in hell
Pointing the way to experience unexplained blues;
I blew on the tissue
Kleenex. Jokes and the borstal,
Extension to primary university remorseful.
How could you be
Without or with me?
Don’t.
Let it overuse assumption
Of the non-inheritable gazumption
Of The Land Unuser; an illegal abuser
Without an Ark for Joan.
Don’t.

#She wants to be there with you
Nirvanic realms…
Dreams with the intolerable poet
Misused matches of daytime scenes
Corroborated evidence of sanity’s personal plea
Misunderstood. Too good! Too good!
Sahib! Is the poori warm enough?
Are you craving enough?
What senseless devotion is due?
The noon sun is Ganges and lungi lounge music is through
Tune!
Love me.
Move me.
Settle me a score
On the settee next to me,
Is a siren:
“Don’t you set them free?”

One time: Just for you
It’s called my: Nirvana Tune …
Bardos of being and becoming
The unity country of bespoke tailored streams
Yodel and make fun of them too.
What’s a culture between me and you?
Sahib!
One day will be born
A Sahib!
Rival of Mountain Gods
A bountiful ocean of wisdom and love:
Mountbatten woods, never leave home
Without a Calendar. Ishq.
‘The Glass Palace’ could be half full
The human dilemma wasn’t for our Phool Taiji
Tejji-Boy.
Techi-Boy is after you,
Satan’s mills again.
Not one word, but one wolf
The ingratitude of face lone raccoons,
The smells of Hell will be Zulus mercy
For [               ] Guru rehearsal;
What we didn’t know
When he sent us down there to the unconscious pit
About Reading.

William Blake had a wife.
Englishness is an avid read
The world
Outside:
[                  ], Fucked da’ Po’ Lease
Proper Ties are when they’re homes with lies
About the money and the means.
Instagram ya grams for your banana and our Supergran!
Racist will be your leads:
You dirty rat!

William Blake had a life.
That would be nice
Remembrance.
Some of us need it, Some of us out it on show
There’s no time left for the Romantic flow of underwriting.
A carriage, a barge a heavy load of ignorant male envy
The horror of modern time; Africa is afraid of mentionable rhymes.

William Blake knew how to read.
Wham! That’s taker.
Hole. That’s Diwali fire worker
Tears and jerking off in the cinema
Need a better cough for rudimentary
And medicals
In testicles of Routines: The East is where their mama’s hands have not been.
Knock 3 times, it’s Babylon:
The Origin Of [                ] is behind marijuana door number greens.

Feeding, leaning, accepting, crowd pleasing
Hello to the helpers who helped before
Savior
Messiah
Savior of Medusa
The Funky Cold Medina is a watchdog in Madeira.
Healers are leaders if they read, it “just…”

Repain time, responses are for you
Know one day. This world …
Through.

William Blake knew energy.
Consciousness was a porous time.
Swedenborg is fine.
Tied to the Guna of Attila the Hun
I am one of five who are proud
Before a Junta: jokes at Jintao
Two towers, one was left for Miss World to see, too.
Human misery is a beauty contest
Both Ways, acceptance offer and pecuniary loss
Their Islamic toss-off road racers will do.

13. Is thief
Egypt  could have 2012 A.D. for some, a few, a troupe, a clue
Model, overtime
Of how Yeshua could his Jellybeans find.
Sand of time, Zeek, corrosive fires
day
Is not one line.
3. Lines aum is Om your not Triumvirate reclining chakra
5. The fifth is SITH, see the whole when She lives in wholeness with You again
William Blake numbered his verse.

AI Summary

It’s a poem about a mind spiralling through memory, culture, religion, race, trauma, and artistic inheritance, using William Blake as both anchor and mirror. The speaker moves through Nirvana, colonial ghosts, family figures, slang, cinema, mysticism, and modern chaos, trying to make sense of a world that keeps fracturing into symbols. It becomes a portrait of someone wrestling with identity and meaning in a universe where everything — history, spirituality, sexuality, politics — collides at once.

Neurodivergent

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Pictures of success
Excess dancing of fiery emblematic
Time spent undressing tragic dreams.
There is no more seems
Terror plots
Yesterday’s waste
Forgotten travelling clouds;
Mesmerising water
Of the neurological passageway,
They have thoroughfare.

The concrete reality of a subterranean jungle
Met with monster-like deceitful strain
Going this way and that way
A fitness survived fit for a King’s competition.
Elements combine some new way of rage
Desperation pants for a damp rag to wipe a sweaty face
This day and that old something.

Can you wear a bonnet and go to the races?
Or stay with me while I pace up and down the streets?
So that at the end of the year it is still Christmas
And there is some imaginative space where we meet.
It cannot be your world, when I am jobless too –
For those pictures of you dinner and dancing
Never show the real world like a workplace for you.

Despicable covered clothing
A sheath of apple and two timing pie:
Terse reprehensible verse
Taking reality on time of some guy’s interpretation of some guy’s interpretation.

Hold on! Catch some beats – there is rhythm in these streets;
And the message of the new century unfolding
Is that horror is not the old archaic armchair of the untold
Frightening night that might lose me
In the pleasure of anonymous spendthrift ways:
When stars pass as human beings
And dark partial truths follow wet nights and days.

AI Summary

It’s a poem about the tension between dreams of success and the darker, more chaotic forces that stalk modern life — terror, exhaustion, illusion, and the pressure to perform. The speaker moves through surreal images of jungles, races, bonnets, Christmas, and street‑rhythms, trying to reconcile private struggle with the glossy fantasies others project. It becomes a portrait of someone pacing the boundary between hope and disillusionment, searching for a place where imagination and reality can meet without collapsing.