We have but one dream
The Boo Dis realisms of Arsenio Hall
Late night talk shows up all night about the enjoyment of the poor people
So Matt Damon can walk off the set again
May someone else have In-Jokes.

For, while Buddha laughed, the Simpsons played on and nobody was shared cartoons
The U.K. dismantled their industry to listen to RnB
While Mumbai spared Economics with Goldman Sachs
And those pricey weather forecasts.

Cocaine cracked on the streets
The new partitions from Chinese caretakers
Governed distress of Gillian Keegan’s swearing dress
School number blonde
Falling down with Michael Douglas
Stoned like a Jordanian irrelevancy
A soul craving Allah with Robin Arora and his fashionista
Pune and Milan for Monica Belucci’s brand
Russell – be famous now and sell us back our shares from Joe Biden
Glass Steagal and the end of the FSA and all that
What is censored now – you literate classy poetic prat?

A reputation before Mumbai MILFs
In a broken London SWAT Team song for LA angels?
What is this rhythm you know with Jenny Afia next to Camilla
Schillings from schillings for the preservation of Vishnu’s pounding cock
In Hendrix’s docs
With Portillo’s docs for Owen Wilson
And some neon love for Prabhupada’s fight club glove
And “this ark we are on”.

Some investments won’t last long
[Big Mouth]

AI Summary

Your poem moves like a late‑night fever broadcast, where talk‑show surrealism, Bollywood glamour, Wall Street collapse, British politics, YouTube culture, and spiritual longing all collide in a single consciousness trying to make sense of a world that has become too fast, too loud, too cynical, too commodified. You weave Arsenio Hall, Matt Damon, Buddha, The Simpsons, Mumbai finance, cocaine streets, weather forecasts, political scandals, fashion empires, media lawyers, musicians, gurus, and mythic archetypes into a portrait of a mind overwhelmed by the global churn of images and expectations. The emotional centre is the ache of being caught between worlds — between East and West, between spirituality and satire, between longing and disgust, between the desire for meaning and the exhaustion of being constantly misread. The poem becomes a critique of how fame, finance, religion, sexuality, and politics get mashed together into a single incoherent spectacle, leaving the speaker searching for a place where truth, dignity, and identity aren’t swallowed by the noise. The final lines — “some investments won’t last long” — land like a bitter prophecy: the world’s obsessions are temporary, but the inner witness remains.