Clash with me, stand tall against the Titan of temporal bliss!
There is not more in a passage of kissing than is written on your fits.
The hour is done and movie will begin in soon after travelling
And when the queuing is over there will be time for canoodling.
Can you not see?! The Ergo of the ages and how her therefore
Is my unread spoilt builder-man and not Spiderman movie magazine pages.
This is not good enough for me and it is better for them they are that,
For the comedian to have massaged the messages from the gangster
When their husbands and wives club spilled over: Rat a Tat Tat.
Splat! Against the wall. Like a curtain call on the trailers
This park that I am zoned off in is trash and the Asian can ride along too.
Count him luck and fortune that his Deva hits the brick too soon
So that I am with his Devi keeping it tight all night long,
After my singing and song celestial as the credits courage me closed business.
Where is the hissing and boos, from the crowds that draw down on the Blues
And Porgy and Bess in the messing, of the youth who won’t know Debra Messing?
Can’t they dance like Gregory Hines and don’t they know their lyrics will be fine
As they march to the sound of steeple chase and chain gang drum
To the nautical map of all that mind mapping, programming and cum.
Come again and see a film twice – at least walk past me if you think my adverts are nice,
And tell your friends where the best prices are kept, when the imagination is where your nostalgia is slept and wept.
I have not got, I will not have, you could not be, there is no time:
What is the cause if it is not soot and England’s grime –
Old casual man Snoopy and the declaration of independent stars
Trekking across the universe looking for more fortunate housing
Than the barren carcass that carried your dreams to where possibility cried where.
How could that be, why is this so and what is in it for me was Dukka
When the cab ride home was also some old ladies lost probability of carriage and fare
Game at the hold all of Newspaper review for the Tribune in you
And the hope that you will be found by the sound of the call for your soul.
So all is fair in love and war, when you see it, pay twice and don’t let the bad curtain fall.
The message is for us and the mountain was fair to remove
If he looked at it twice then forgive him for his own remorse:
The lawns from Tibet renew Llamas as stout as whines from the land of Inspector Morse.

AI Summary

Your poem becomes a single flowing idea when the themes are woven together: it portrays life as a chaotic film reel where identity, culture, desire, and spirituality collide in a swirl of imagery — movie queues, pop‑culture figures, Eastern deities, England’s grime, and the ache of modern living. Beneath the humour and surrealism runs a deeper tension: the struggle between watching life from the sidelines and participating in it, the longing for meaning amid spectacle, and the sense of loss carried through social decay, nostalgia, and spiritual fatigue. All of these threads merge into a portrait of a world that is loud, absurd, tender, and wounded, where forgiveness and renewal still flicker like a final scene before the curtain falls.

The certain thing of life is sold
To the Muslim traveller being old
And wise before the latent clique
That does not speak.

Seldom is wisdom when horror is blend
And mergers are acquisition
For murders and blind trends.
But the Master is a lover in the hours of the night
When the maiden is a voyage for fantastic flights and lights
That go up and down
With the approval and frown
Of a man who was watching
The sadness of Derren Brown.
Hope was not wallowing in the furlong of a bullet
That knew one mind was equal to another that go through
Anything. Poet. Lover. Extraordinary affair.
The stairs were unaware one day
Of what was underneath them…
Step by step, melody and methodical:
There was a logical vulture to the legal culture
That made the New Age nurse feel well.
Swelling with scientific pride –
Proud as Paul Rudd for a charity ride
With the Doctor who?
Phoebe is an ancient accent for your friend
And the desire
Make amends
Teacher
A psyche: Would you prefer Offa’s Dyke
For an unfair flamboyant fanciful frilly knick
Or do I steal your glory when Christmas comes round without St Nick
More than once a year
All the sum of all your fears
Hours of i-Phone are near
Global Philosophy
2012 was upon me: Mayan counters at the tills of Animal Farm
The Dr who worked for bonus was only dicking around.
Ahmisa
Colloquial
Sweltering
Sexual lust is a must on the BBC –
With children 3 after two for a new redoing
Of the being of The Queen and her nuclear family scene.
Where have you been in the Real Politik
When Mugabe was not a coffee trader
And lions knew strangers.
With or without the gun
Bono will always be Number One
Where is your cerebral celebrity
To tell me about my local polity?
Is it in court that you knew a good Christian?
Is in the Times Law Report that you found out how to spell mystery?
Could it be you have fallen in love –
And some helpless child has been deprived some Beloved.
Doves used to coo long before coons used the number 2:
Clouds used to part before Jehovah learned a baby’s art
Of farting unimpressed with the undressed humour of aged laughter
Cloned by the son and daughter regiment.
Army. Is not military. What technology meant.
Can you predict a dictum
With Aphrodite knowing all your names too?
What is art to you as you harass the boss
Of a self employed cost
Given to every rise
Of his own pride?
Type away
Billie Holiday
She was not black to the fact in the man with a dirty Mac.
Apples were apples when men were clever
And grades were just given when machines knew forever.
The Marxist who is a Socialist leaves room in his fist for this
And that when the drinker is a prat before the hostile Doctor.
Proctor and Gamble know the sample
Of ample timing to ruin The Queen’s English.
With H’inglish
& Paki’s Out.
Wasim and Waqar had fancy cars that mother and daughters

Talk
Listen
Hear
It will not be battered
Fish can chip and put anything where The Bhagavad Gita really mattered.

A Muslim who new what to do once said
Let the Physician heal himself while Jesus just bled
And let Allah play alone with the clouds in ‘this guy’
Spied on
Lied on
Ego’d on
Egged on

Mr Egg is not Soho
For all that blown cash and lost stash for light under the Fir Tree
When nothing as wrong with thee
Mr Chemistry.
How many friends do you have tonight?
Mr readalong.
How many Democrats does it take to change your Baubles?
Mr my dick is long.
How many languages speak of Christmas at the start of a medical meeting?
Mr strong and brewery
How much did you ask for from the politest police and Law Society?

So when a satisfied customer tuned in
Bring in the noise
Find your voice
The next word is ‘and’.
Clandestine lovers cost brothers.
This land is for England and not the planned thespians
Driving plans
TV (outdated) plans
Remote viewing & blue review outdoing
Birmingham Grand Central
And City Hall is not for Mental Health.
Wealth Management is not Birmingham’s way
Now that the clock cried B.T. once
And finance is not applicable for the second comeuppance of footsie in the …

[Police view the Media]
What weed d’ya need
After George Bush’s retired feed…

AI Summary

Your poem moves through a world where wisdom, religion, psychiatry, celebrity, politics, and personal history collide in a chaotic but deliberate stream. You begin with the Muslim traveller and the “latent clique,” then shift into mergers, murders, Derren Brown, legal culture, New Age nurses, Paul Rudd, Offa’s Dyke, Christmas without St Nick, iPhones, Mayan calendars, BBC scandals, Mugabe, Bono, celebrity intellect, Times Law Reports, and the ache of a child deprived of love. You weave together Jewish, Christian, Hindu, and Islamic imagery with pop culture, economics, and mental health, creating a landscape where every symbol is overloaded and every institution feels complicit. The poem spirals into questions of Realpolitik, celebrity activism, racialised language, class injury, and the violence of being mis-seen by doctors, police, and the media. Beneath the satire and rage is a deeper wound: the exhaustion of someone who has been pathologised, racialised, misunderstood, and spiritually mishandled, yet still reaches for meaning, dignity, and a voice. The poem ends in a haze of politics, weed, media, and Bush-era ghosts — a world where the speaker is still searching for clarity, justice, and a place to stand.

As safe as houses
Run by the mafia
The outlaws beholden
To Gaffas with the gas tanks.
Homes under hammers
And salesmen with stammers
But loyalty to maximum wage
And a cheap Saturday night.
Tell me who is tight
And how the conversation flows
When London knows who’s burning
The staff is for the stomach churning.
Windows have been glazed
By the ice of the polar bear craze
And no Doctor got up Everest
Worth telling me after breakfast.
Say it isn’t so, Sir Edmund Hilary:
That life has no show – after 50,
And the poems of Indian mountains
Find cash for Indian fountains
After Ocean’s and the renumbering
Without Egypt
With the Suez Canal
Hopes under the Hammerhead Horror
For some more who could not be liable.
Do well!
Prosper without a quote
Sell your soul like a boat
And the boar will rip you to shreds
For one I.P.’ed
If I p.s. you, let it through
The self was not so fashionable in black and white
People were beaten black and blue,
Black was not repeated
Black was not for you,
Like the stones of the Himalayans’
Still surviving after the craze for Christians.
Nobody dissed ya’
It was just a slag and a label,
Calling you stable
Is like promising tax and rent to a Friar.
Come higher
Stencil the universe for some common verse
And the momentum is cannon balls again.
Around and about your waist
Hari Kiri craze,
Let Krishna find a new admiration
After one past life equation.
Ownership and the Vietnam War cost
Lost the sensitivities of a nation to post-traumatic medical stew
And curries, like the bellies of the best worries
And projections not from films
To worry about who got ill.
A distress call
Psychos on the wall
The army is for whom the bells toll
When the schizophrenic is cold.
Breath.
Exhale.

The lungs knew lunch with the Stoic
The Drs are violent and alone.
Do not pick up their phone
Mr Office Jerk
Get some work & play with clay –
And all that is earth will be your evil one day.

AI Summary

Your poem moves through a world where “safe as houses” is a lie — homes run by mafias, wages squeezed, London burning, and Everest offering no wisdom worth hearing. You weave together property shows, polar bears, Sir Edmund Hillary, Indian mountains, the Suez Canal, and the violence of class labels, showing how capitalism, colonial memory, and cultural expectation grind against one another. The poem spirals into the Himalayas, Hari‑Kiri, Krishna, Vietnam, PTSD, curries, bellies, projections, and the coldness of schizophrenia, exposing the fragility of minds under pressure and the brutality of institutions that claim to help. Doctors become violent, phones become traps, clay becomes the only safe material to touch, and the earth itself becomes a warning. Beneath the satire and rage is a deeper wound: the exhaustion of someone who has been pathologised, misunderstood, and left to navigate a world where safety is an illusion and compassion is scarce. The poem ends with a stark truth — everything earthly can become dangerous when power is misused — and a quiet plea for grounding, dignity, and a gentler way of being.

Listening to the lessons of yesterday,
I never did hear how the future would be better
Than the teachers who sponged off yesterday
To never be wrong in the future.

Errors there were in society
Big brothers who bullied their younger ones,
But when it came time for the Ramayana
Indian villages never did have any wrong.

Tell me of this and tell me of that
But do not print the concision so that we can settle that
> I always wanted to be there when books proved me wrong
{Maybe that is what He meant by the Celestial Song}

Clouds passed and mountains are now pictured
By the toughest man who is hard like a Brummy called Shiva
He knows one law and heroism by Shankarya
Then broken are the Upanishads for literacy with the Dandya Rasa…

… or something like that, it doesn’t matter much
We want to see: Who loves India so much,
They will invest in Capitalism, Colonialism, Marxism, Neo-Liberalism, Socialism, Blairism, Corbynism, Anti-Disestablishmentarianism, Corporatism and Muslims for some economics for savages that are now (Jordan) touch.

AI Summary

Your poem reflects on the lessons of childhood and the authority of teachers who claimed certainty about the future while bullying, hierarchy, and social errors went unchallenged. You contrast this with the Ramayana’s idealised villages, where right and wrong seemed simpler, and confess a longing to witness the moment when books — scripture, philosophy, ideology — finally prove you wrong in a way that feels meaningful. The poem moves through clouds, mountains, Shiva, Shankara, and the Upanishads, blending myth with modernity, and ends with a sharp, satirical question: who loves India enough to invest in every ideology — capitalism, colonialism, Marxism, neoliberalism, socialism, Blairism, Corbynism, anti‑disestablishmentarianism, corporatism — as if India were a stage on which global theories test themselves? Beneath the humour and critique is a deeper ache: the desire for a tradition that evolves, a future that isn’t predetermined by old errors, and a world where love for a culture isn’t reduced to economic or ideological transactions.

Cover this month with better than a video
From the co-created Press that told me I was low deal,
At the table of miscreant worship of idols and mistakes
That carry less than before after a toxic dump and some steal.

Where has the past gone of woolly love and happy times?
How can the dustbin man be so sure, to arrive early and on time?
There is suspicion in the air of the kind that realises too many things at once
When the Polls are opened up for the voted to go Woke like a nuanced bonce.

Maybe by the middle of the month the astronomy will be friendly
So that the turn of events will tunnel a love for the people to know
A merrier Brexit with some followings from Scotland
That travel down south through Portsmouth and channel overseas to France to show.

What land? My Ireland and the flag of my youth. The proof,
That Queen Victoria knew the hysteria of Indian cough
Syrup on the floor where the door is shut on rubbish tips
And match fixing for the Chennai Ruff Riders and those pouted WAGs’ lips.

Complex? I thought so, as the European Union broke up
While the Bollywood was fidelity to South American maestros on the cup
Of teas thrown overboard and hoarded since Boston met Bangladesh,
And Isis turned over Egypt for democracy so that the army could hide under Desh.

So far so good, and January is still under the secrecy of Buddha
Whose Aquarian Age is amidst the power of the Violet Flame
So that gospels can ring true in their grouping about clubbers
Not partying in the Soho districts for the name of blame that game.

Was it Saturn or was it Mars that let the pictures change before words
As the Newspapers told of a virus that shut down 2020 for all that was absurd,
So the rhythm of a poet was as uneven to the noses and ears of those who know it:
England has finer vines and twisted runes than this rehearsed verse and complaint.

Sell it Tennyson or ask Keats what to do with the next failed song,
It will be a cold day in hell before I am not R Kelly before too long:
Gospels to Christian economies and enemies of Marxists and all that,
Maybe the end of the month is more creative and less viral for all the snow that went splat.

Time is a healer for sometimes it is all that is really there
After all the critique and back biting that leaves one dull of affairs
Where nobody actually not-trolled the avatar who went to the Superbowl
To empty noises in the FA Cup or something before the crowds now virtual vitriol.

If all the world is a stage, then January will find out
How the rest of the year jumps around and spread bets shares all around.
There are many days left for the sun to fall as the moon rises
And after a vaccine has been created for 2021 after Article 51:
Maybe we can relax after some tax on those dividends and prices.

So get with the program, the song wont be long
This year is coming ahead of the old one and the famous people kept the songs.
There was i-Tunes and Facebook after another attempt to find
The ethos for magical culture and an Open Sesame to finance that was kind.

January is the month of new beginnings and nature is open for the fallow soil
To welcome some respite from the post-industrialised laughter
Of those with all the jobs and economy for boys and girls.

But the threat of February will not go away, lest Mercury is descended in Kali
And Gauthama reminds the health of a healing nation, that America is now not so mighty.

Thus was spoken the first day of melted snow: In and from an England that does not matter so much.

AI Summary

The poem uses January as a symbolic container for political upheaval, postcolonial memory, pandemic trauma, celebrity culture, and spiritual searching. It moves from Brexit to Bollywood, from Queen Victoria to the FA Cup, from astrology to economics, weaving together global events and personal reflections to show how modern life is shaped by forces far beyond individual control. The speaker critiques media spectacle, political confusion, and cultural fragmentation while also acknowledging the cyclical hope that comes with a new year. Beneath the satire and historical references lies a deeper longing: for clarity, for renewal, for a world that makes sense again.

Is it better than me? To be
Or is it the origination?
Masks are not worn in the poor station
When the starving cannot carry their trays.
Mister busy body…
What is the business of your body under those overalls
And how do you paint my distress?
We both pant for food when the table does not serve us
And the remote control dishes out men and women in pants
Now that the day is done for more hope.

Audacious is the return of a promulgation
That rather fancies the request to be on my shoe.
Try the other one, and then we will be one
And the network will not be so hard to get.
One foot in front of the other – have no regret!
Let me know if it is too soon for you –
If there is time for tea, there is time for two
Betwixt the fashions of rhythmical displeasure that comfort the zoo(s).

Control. Like a balancing beam and the stocking is ad hoc
On the floor like a nappy next to the drawers.
That is. The next wine I drink might be about the blues.
Blue Army! Blue Army!
I can hear them coming
And the train won’t stop one stop early
How is that a furlong in the pitch of the union
Of European snakes unwarping the aeons of frustration in my Inn and Tavern?
Classical and majestical.
I have stopped their see through rouse
And the memory of tomorrow is better than it would have been.

When there is no fight between man and woman there need not be one on the streets
If the proper place for fists online is not where sucking meets and greets.

AI Summary

Your piece begins with a meditation on hunger — literal and emotional — as you compare yourself to another man in a place of scarcity, both of you struggling for dignity while the world reduces people to roles, uniforms, and expectations. You move through images of shoes, networks, stockings, trains, football chants, European politics, and tavern‑room frustrations to show how easily meaning becomes distorted when life feels unstable. Beneath the shifting scenes is a deeper thread: the desire for connection without conflict, for a rhythm between people that isn’t shaped by class pressure, gender tension, or the noise of public life. The poem ends with a quiet insight — that when men and women stop fighting each other, the streets themselves become calmer, and the violence of the world loses its place. It’s a reflection on control, misunderstanding, and the hope that peace between individuals can ripple outward into something larger.