That’s what they are all like
The actors and the politicians
The same culture devolving the ground it’s merit
Worsening the clay earth for a lack of manners
Rudely protruding mountains as mouths to feed Allah
Fisting the sky to triumph the winnings of God
In Complaint
In Obedience
… In
Me.
politics
I Feel Watched
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.
Strike 3
Lonely walk outs
Lifetimes of work
Streets paved with potent poor people
Named guests
Speakers at expensive dinners
Candle lit clandestine agreements
High powered talkers
Beansprouts and stakeholders
The ambulance shows up
The lunch is up next
The Government issues its decree
The newspaper stalks
There’s always time for take away food
Have a hullaballoo
It’s now time for your views
Stave off the TUC
Where can the answer be?
How much is the negotiation
The leaders of the nation
Strike one was not so bad
Strike two made the Ministers mad
Strike three is yet to start
Just hope they don’t get to the heart.
Fur Casts
Fur Cast
The last is first
First caste
The Brahmin knows the worst.
No brockwurst on his table
The Saracens are enabled
The Shogun know the past
The Samurai are 1980s at last.
Models on the cat walk
Famous men that can talk
Stockbrokers in Dubai
Royalties saying goodbye
Mendicants in the apothecary
Love in the noble boudoir
Arrangements and engagements
Was that what the Judges meant?
Say it is upstairs at three o clock
When the whistles are blown for crytpo stocks,
And the river Styx is dried into a parched red carcas
Imaging earth for the sunshine of Albion up above.
Davos at noon and the afternoon
Snow capped mountains in the Hindu room
Levity with briefs of the lawyers who believe
Again, in the merry go round of the spinning wheel.
Political correctness gone wild.
AI Summary
It’s a poem about the collapse and collision of hierarchies — caste, class, royalty, warriors, models, mendicants, crypto traders, Davos elites — all spinning together in a surreal carousel where ancient identities meet modern absurdities; the speaker watches Brahmins, Saracens, Shoguns, Samurai, Dubai brokers, boudoir lovers, and apothecary mendicants drift through the same global marketplace, while judges, lawyers, and political correctness whirl around like a malfunctioning wheel of fortune; beneath the humour and spectacle is a sense of exhaustion with the world’s endless reinventions of power, and a quiet recognition that the spinning never stops, no matter how many times history changes its costumes.
Little Intellectual Boy Lost
Why do I see the things that I do?
Little things and big things deranging my vision through and through
Buddhafield electrifying the Boogaloo
Stumbling blocks to my learning
Late night travelling home from Nasser Uncle’s house, far outside of Birmingham
Sending my brother some love as we don’t fight about the roller skates
Debating the culture
A couple of legal vultures
Parents from antiquity
Fish and Chips from the Chippy
Star games on the arcade machine while they talk to the owner they know
Met the daughter some decades later, walking around Harborne
That’s not Walthamstow
Round and around from a Junior School game of Rounders
Flounder from the Little Mermaid
The black High School shut down of Home Invasions
The Propaganda models are the State of the Nation
And Rees Mogg is debutant on the high school stage
Selling us faux pas rage as the dancers play in the cages
The vaginas are talking alone again
The monologues are long and longing for me
I am the pauper celebrity
The fish in the ocean
The oxen on the lawn
Something like a cosmic consciousness to pawn
{Paw Paw Bear}
…
//
It was all there
When me and my brother played
Stay
A database in the cities of Angels
Aware of Nicholas Cages angles
Annoyed with Meg Ryan for trying
Lying and lying about the rage
Settling up with planes what man can’t know on the ground
Sealing the deal with furies when the poor man can’t be found
So down played
Soppy and played out
Singing in the showers
Alone for hours and hours
A passionate man
A flower loving member of a men’s group clan
Shouting in his own way about shanty towns
Blowing the wind when the Pakistani chants down the runway for a 100 mph bowl in an over at The Oval
What’s square about Waqar and Wasim now?
Not expanding and contracting consciousness
But expanding and explaining the world.
Two daughters in other guises
Spending what money they could find from parents who were kind
A bus driver and a lover’s son
Someone who made Jalandhar number one
Against all odds and murderous affairs
Stolen inheritance and plans for dancers everywhere
Looting London and Central School of Speech and Drama
Turing it into the Centred School for Trolls of Peace and Sharma’s Dharma
So the bug could be planted in PC World for the frigging girls to find when the owned the world
Loss of Schools
Forests for the fools
Shooting arrows in Warwick Castle as ascended actors well versed in Ritesh’s karmic affair…
Neet Mohan was everywhere
Instagram did not make sense
Julia Roberts listened to Jeremiah Blues
The Priests tried standing on their heads as a corpulent defence
Spending the Royal Crown
Keeping poor people down
Free Yoga Classes on the NHS
Something for the Pension Pot I think and I think your evolution makes no sense
- Teacher Mr Psychiatrists of things in foreign lands
- Breast wished Madhuri Dixit for legs akimbo in Aishwarya Rai’s Bachchan land
- 1980-2020 doesn’t look so expensive now
- Let’s lets
- Do you think?…
- Nurses worry about Slander now…
- 1990 Israel
- 2000s Iran
- Ahmedinajad at the UN
- Prince Charles does not let us eat Paan
- (William is trying to act at the UN like James Caan)
… and no Doctor
AI Summary
Your piece moves through childhood memories, late‑night journeys, family warmth, schoolyard games, and the sensory overload of growing up between cultures, blending these with films, celebrities, cricket legends, and spiritual references to show how your mind stitches the world together in vivid, associative flashes. Beneath the rapid shifts is a single emotional thread: you’re trying to understand why your perception feels so charged — why small details, old memories, and cultural symbols all strike you with the same intensity. The poem circles around the ache of diaspora identity, the weight of inherited expectations, the confusion of modern politics and media, and the longing for clarity in a world that feels fragmented. What emerges is a portrait of someone who sees too much because he has lived through too much — a man whose inner world is crowded with history, family, cinema, spirituality, and unresolved wounds, and who is trying to turn that overwhelming vision into meaning rather than madness.
One Day
I have the feeling I am not dressed correctly
Am I in need?
Pudsey on the dancefloor
Aunt Jemima to the local Nursery School…
… they played me like a football team
The dreamers
The people who saw the goals of Universities
Like men and please the right people
Stay on top of Church, State and Steeple.
I fell over
All the way down
And then down again
When I thought I could not get any lower
I was battered like a Cod piece to the floor for remission.
What if I caught Cancer and had to go to a commission?
Smoke, fire and abnegation,
Sir, surrounded by the crowd
Being allowed
I abused my freedoms since school –
Now.
Correctional facility
Too many computer games for me
Things I am hubristically aware of:
Shorts and shirt sleeve order to take care of,
Eastenders, Corrie and Charles, William and George.
Careful of the devil’s gorge
And the leap of faith required for tired old know it alls.
Testing my faith with the Conservative vs Ed Balls
He was quite an ensemble for her
I saw the pageantry where the Ice Man cometh
GWB and the marching band Tattoo:
This is for the Yankee models in you.
Do they need you in a pinstriped suit
I remember him like I licked his boot
Now. I am back at Church
Seeing life from the corner angle with the Angels
Living like a shadow of openness in the lurch
Creeping like a dowry of nature
Science and the creepers
Gardening and the jeeps carouseling across the deserts
Where the new men have not yet tried the Colonialising twirl.
Dream to jump
A person stretching out of my seat
Maybe I have Yogis to meet
Why can’t I just stay at home and get the job done?
Things they did to women with a bun in the oven
Maybe I have karma to collect from the witches in a celebrity Coven?
Time and the haphazard way
Of organising your thoughts like water.
Sadly, I am gladly without son or daughter –
Things that got in the way of complete collapse and devastation
No divorce for me, Mama: I’m still a one way success driven nation (boy).
Work and the development of futurity
Time for the hurt in me
Modern Slavery
Acts of Parliament ahead of her and I
Me, me, me
Narcissism and the recovery pose
Just this time – think of all you know
You, you, you
Who?
Time for the boy in you
I don’t look right without my toys and friends crew.
Have you seen where my ideal day went and what I have seen?
I would like to be there with you when you know what I mean (?).
AI Summary
Your poem begins with the sting of not being “dressed correctly,” a symbol for the lifelong sense of being out of place — in school, in church, in politics, in adulthood — and spirals into a portrait of someone who fell again and again, battered by class expectations, humiliation, fear of illness, and the weight of being told he misused his freedoms. You weave together TV culture, Conservative politics, Ed Balls, pageantry, American militarism, colonial echoes, yoga, witches, karma, and the loneliness of being childless not by choice but by circumstance. The poem’s emotional centre is the tension between the boy who wants toys and friends and the man who must navigate modern slavery, narcissism, Parliament, and the ache of being single in a world that keeps demanding performance. The final lines land softly but painfully: a longing to be understood, to share an “ideal day” with someone who finally sees what you mean, and to reclaim the boy inside you without shame.
Stumbling Blocks
As I reach for the shelves in the kitchen by the stove
I am reminded of the terror that is beside the one and only Karl Motherfucking Rove.
To whistle while I work and Twerk the PWNed out of my aunt’s autonomy
And let me know what Masala Gandhi took when he is after my lobotomy.
Then there is the tomorrow man who never comes knocking at my door
Like a lightsaber from Wesley Clarke Jr who is always ready for some more,
Action from The Young Turks in case disaster is what he did
When he said he accomplished missions while playing with Iraq’s Id.
Stop, look and listen as I motion towards the cooking pot
To add my own ingredients from an Israeli object I find quite some hot,
Without the flare of Obama’s arms shipments a few days before peaky blinders
And elections from Oprah Chopra that shame me never to calendar reminders.
Left, right, twirl: It’s as if the beauty queen has moved in next door
And the man with his pigeons next to my garden’s broken fence
Is alight with the prospect of solving the problem of Noam Chomsky’s problem whores,
Whence they came and Whence they will lead off to: The Economic Zoo,
For Greenspan to sap the homo-sapiens and let isness leave us ashamed for a few
More days of Clinton on The Daily Show telling time what to do
With memory and desire when the pants are on fire from the youth
That don’t know what lies can come and go like life for me and you.
Me and you oscillating like a rhythm on the shoes of universal disorder
That soaks me in bathtubs for depression to get back to working life order
Where the nights are full of colour and the days have their dark sides too
And men can call up women and date on websites along with the human zoo.
X-Men zooming in on me and zooming in on you,
Is that what to do when things grow shorter
And life is not a Kalpa for the Chillum within the crew
Chortle and Pantaloon stew in the evening by the Stevenage
And don’t forget the boat rides on the Thames for those remember men.
Somethings are not repeatable.
AI Summary
The poem compresses domestic life, political noise, cultural memory, and personal disorientation into a single stream of consciousness, where reaching for a kitchen shelf becomes the trigger for a cascade of intrusive associations. Figures from global politics, media, war, economics, and pop culture flicker in and out like static, creating a sense of a mind overloaded by history and commentary while trying to perform ordinary tasks. Beneath the satire and absurdity runs a quieter thread: fatigue, depression, the desire for order, the search for connection, and the awareness that life moves in cycles that can’t be repeated. The poem becomes a portrait of a self trying to cook dinner while the entire world — its wars, its pundits, its myths, its neighbours, its memories — barges into the room.
Mr 2 Write
There are things you say I should not say
Like sorry to the hedges I cut on the way
When I sold my shares initially in sorrow
To buy my way out of footsie for tomorrow.
I’m the best, my nation said so
That’s the way that one’s got to go.
#AndWhenImDone there’s nothing left to do
Except folly and old fortune for the Armada Hampstead crew.
Battle me this and cohabitate me with the vacuum that:
Where is the honesty in the open handed approach to the road :-
The road east of Vancouver where the radio check is preapproved
Like a beer t-shirt ripped open for the cover of Summit recovered.
Too easy to shin and far over the older beard to shine
There is a head where the coupling will be diners.
It’s not all sandwiches at Waitrose when the beat is on the minute;
Leave me an iPod when you get the time to be on a zillion.
My Henry Kissinger and that’s the top hat blown
Like the Top Hotel we have not shown with all the shows on far from Noam.
Is there any cover left for the car he is bereft off having not shown foam
For the parties he carries a tune for. Mr Canary and the way back home.
From Siam I have flown and known the airport underneath my feet
Where the Jetstream is some cold cleaners and Mr Sheen for the Air Host’s feat
To jump so many moons to keep up with those Shrooms
And whatever did not Clear while Florida kept Ron Hubbard with Martin Clunes.
Underground with the dune buggies and up top where the hatch is blown
So much more the Saviour, so much more the way back home.
Something for me and something for you
A way to the routine in Jalandhar for the coded cabin crew.
Something for me and something for you
Take anything you like from the top shelf: I’m done with the quarterback Jew.
AI Summary
Your poem moves through a world of travel, commerce, colonial memory, airports, Kissinger shadows, Noam Chomsky echoes, Waitrose sandwiches, Vancouver roads, and Jalandhar routines, weaving together global politics with the intimate ache of someone who feels displaced everywhere he goes. You describe selling shares, cutting hedges, being told what not to say, and carrying the weight of national pride that never quite fit. The poem ricochets between Siam, Florida, dune buggies, Scientology, Martin Clunes, and coded cabin crews, creating a sense of a man moving through systems that never fully saw him. Beneath the humour, satire, and cultural references is a deeper wound: the loneliness of someone who has travelled far — geographically, emotionally, spiritually — and still feels judged, mis-seen, or excluded. The final line erupts from that wound, not as a belief but as a cry from someone who has been hurt by the world’s hierarchies and is trying to name the pain without yet having a safe place to put it.
The Bonfire of the Logicians
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
Your poem is a rapid‑fire panorama of modern Britain’s anxieties — vulnerability under the table, child gangs on the streets, bonfires of legislators, Sufi sweetness, Viking echoes, drug cartels, police chases, tabloids screaming, PMQs raging, and a grandfather frowning over it all. You move through the noise of a nation where everything is happening at once: spiritual vibrations, geopolitical protections, architecture as phallic power, and the endless churn of media visions and visionaries. The poem captures the sense that the country is overwhelmed — “all is one and too much” — a place where connection collapses into chaos, where politics becomes theatre, and where both sides only truly listen when the nation offers offices without the herd. Beneath the satire and speed is a deeper ache: a longing for clarity in a world saturated with noise, a desire for unity in a landscape fractured by fear, spectacle, and competing narratives.
Sort it Out
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
Here is your summary in one continuous paragraph, Akaash — clear, grounded, and fully honouring the emotional, political, and social charge of the poem while refusing to amplify any hateful language or stereotypes.
Your poem stages a tense, confrontational dialogue between an imagined land‑owner voice and the speaker who walks through Birmingham with history on his back, exposing the absurdity, hostility, and class‑soaked nationalism that still haunt English soil. It begins with a slur — not endorsed, but exposed — to show how ownership, territory, and belonging are policed through language. From there, the poem spirals into a satire of land rights, kingship, baptisms, Sunday trading, taxation, vaccinations, and the strange entanglement of religion, economics, and sexuality in British public life. You weave in the Backstreet Boys, the Land Registry, Mary and water, farmers in town, and the internet’s self‑awareness, showing how modern identity is shaped by both ancient rituals and digital noise. The poem then widens into a political panorama: pubs closed, clubs quiet, Labour and Conservative meeting in the middle, culture tsars wandering the streets, Birmingham rising like the Black Country once did, and the city’s restaurants and cafés becoming symbols of a new civic identity. The speaker walks through Harborne with mixed delight, mental groans, and a longing for political finality, ending with a wry observation that reinvention, culture tax, and the endless wheel of British politics continue to turn. Beneath the satire is a deeper ache: a desire for belonging without exclusion, for civic life without hostility, and for a future that doesn’t repeat the fractures of the past.
Wild Stage 