writing

There Will Be Wounds

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There is no doubt that the future is the shape of the past
When the worry of the money is the jape of those who finish last
In the hands of the empty who do not write the cheques everyday
As journalists and typists who get paid when they say…

Something is here for me in the Rishi Files of yesteryear
Which told Om and Shanti as if the ThIrD WoRlD WaR was very near
To be scared off from print media who cleared the cellar to wine like Arjuna
And go home each night a winner with wounds shared from some poor fella.

Stretch and yoga this way and bend and yoga that way
These were the tests in the past in Maida Vale:
That is the modernism of finding influences in the 2020s
Something light for everyone as the body goes through New Age hell.

There will be wounds when the record is the recovery as well as the victory
Of pain in the particulars when silence was séance and some old man’s Vasectomy
To neuter the gender general for the Nazi, Gypsy, Oik and even the Navaho
So that Ukraine stepped back an equal for a Eurovision and some Ivanho.

Step back and let Dr Zhivago handle something on a Saturday afternoon
Before Hollywood gets banned for handling what a Cancer would not see off too soon
From the ambulance chasers and the cinema queens who vicinity fair the merry go round
And show up in the newsdeals like a telephone money fundraiser and mad go around.

Madness
Madness, I tell you, MAD!
These are the Stardates of the Bon Voyages fair thee well and Ennui.
Inuit and Intuitive will you sell me back my soul
If I have lost my only hope to Obama for Joe the Worker’s droll


Goal.

The Port of Sports

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Candles on the wind

Lighten the Godly passage to Sindh

Where the pains of Spanish ladies

Contour the refrain of deranged grading.

The garden of the grades

Where the blossom is fair in the shade

Of a Serpent’s seditious glare

To fathom a woman’s tressles and hair.

“This is where it will be for me!”

He says under the ignorant Sycamore Tree

With a word as strong as Oak

About his right to fuck hard after a toke.

A token gesture and a reverent remission of cancer’s permission

Cancer’s commission from the Pharmeceutical derision

That the body is his to fatten and flee from

After the farts from Depakote and Deepthroat from Gazprom.

Dark into the night when the oceans crash against the shores

Is the fittest thing, the sexiest Blonde, the holiest Hindu whore

More! Why not sell me your mother to travel on the shared Earth

With wild seas and a few little more than ships from the past

To tell of the wide birth

Beyond the Yugas

Above the Togas

Far from the sticky tobacco and the wives with their stockings and pull overs.

Over and far and fair from the wettest wind

Carrying onto the decks the crouching of shivered boys

Lost to the Port of Spain and the knees that know pain

Travelling men : Back again.

Lost in time : Responsibility is an offered crime.

Crimes that are for me : Crimes that are for you.

Language was thus shared : It spoke of negotiations and upmarket Poo!

Pooh Pah’ing the bandits of the brain

Who mentioned commotion and sold the strain

Of cloth and cupboards and style of Art and affairs

To keep up Consummate Actions so that sexuality had it’s lustful lair.

Proof that Kama Sutra was legal tenacity

And contracts of somatic housing was legality –

They had known us when he had been with her,

So that we could be above this as ours was not theirs…

…

…

… On and on

What a story!

The commotion of The Locomotion

And the trade of The Mona Lisa.

Hey! It’s hay and we have the same bale to make on the shipping

Sell to me your facts and I will fax you some returns.

Burning with the lust to get to the bust from the back bras

And the open bare minimalism of hairs that stand apart from afar –

Show me your Hindu and I will bare a brave resolve

To drink whet and alongside your Islands

Where the unloading is seeing long and Ceylon is my Ramayana song!

Jay Siya Raam!

Ahoy there Hanuman!

You’re my mate with that karma

Since Romantics knew my bonds.

They sold it to me fair

I don’t see why it needs to be sold out late

Now that records speak of the devil

And The Beatles have no first mate!

Still the demons and demonstrate for me awhile, So I can see : —-

—–

—-===++++

— xxxxxx £

$ cost

£Prophet

% Reportage

This is the Spirit of the Age

Again.

{Again is the pain}

And far away is the brain I cannot see on the sea.

These are ships that told of the three line whips

And how Majesty knew to address the dress line

For one or two poetic and rude linearity healthy quips.

The International Mama

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There are times in the solid room
There is a okay Heraldry in the plastic tomb
Here and there is a fractured glass of a sonic boom

When the ships in the night are frightening.
These are the times when my teeth need whitening
And the lazy Sunday deserves an extra half hour in bed
After a week of working and washing the clothes
So far and so long that the measurements are not dead.

Something for me and something for them
The next thing they ask for is going to be too much.
There is not a bedroom that couldn’t do without a Rabbit Hutch
And more life for my kids stuck in a rut in England on a couch.

Married or unmarried it has to be the way
That Islam is Brick Lane when Hindus like Stoney Lane:
This eases the paths so that wires can be their heads
As Darth Vaders playing Space Invaders when I am gone and dead.

Halo boys on the angelic tip looking for some ink wells to laugh and dip
Their erectile problems fathoming centuries of God,
Because of schools and computers
That told of Blake’s Thel and her encounter with a Clod.

Something for me and something for them,
At least I will be back here again!
With their rotten spoilt karma to wile away the time
And think of good demons who give Satan all their crimes.

Nothing
Everything
Commanding things
Washing things again
These are the ways
Those are not the ways
DO this
DON’T DO that
What a prat
My son is a part prat
Because of Rat a Tat Tat
And all the stocks went splat
Breasts that are flat
Moments that I say “Drat!”
Who says “Drat!”?

When the movies are over after 96 minutes, some Nachos and some cheese.
pLeAsE
AcCePt : My Sons without regret
And let them finish some sand, sex and some sandwiches
So that Sanghrias could help them forget,

The war of Mahabharata 78004
Or whatever is at the door,
When I am not separate from you
Like the Heavenly liar and the Holy Jew.

Albion’s Wheel of Suffering and Liberation

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I. The Turning of the Wheel

The pilgrim walks with all who spin,
Bound by craving, loss and sin,
The wheel revolves, desire and fear,
~ Estrangement whispers, ever near.

II. Brigid’s Hearth – Ignorance to Flame

From childhood’s school, the fire is lit,
Ignorance breaks as wisdom sits,
Her Celtic hearth, a spark of sight,
The wheel turns slowly into light.

III. Lima’s Lantern – Aversion to Calm

Where sorrow bends, her lantern glows,
Aversion yields, compassion flows,
The pilgrim learns through Lima’s hand,
The wheel turns turns gently, makes a stand.

IV. Burial Grounds – Desire to Release

Among the graves, desire is stilled,
The pilgrim sees what time has killed,
Yet every name, a seed of peace,
The wheel turns onward, chains release.

V. Cathedrals and Castles – Pride to Humility

High articles fall to humble knees,
Grey towers bow to Albion’s seas,
The pilgrim learns that pride must fade,
The wheel turns soft, the path is made.

VI. Shree Geeta Bhawan – Dharma’s Song

Krishna’s chant, the mantra flows,
The pilgrim hears what Dharma knows,
The wheel turns true, the song is one,
Albion shines with India’s sun.

VII. Gabriels’s Door – Confession to Renewal

Estrangement hurled, a bitter stain,
Yet thresholds break, and doors can gain,
Confession seeds the pilgrim’s song,
The wheel turns right, estrangement gone.

VIII. The Djinn – Shadow to Insight

The Djinn may haunt with dear and night
But chanting breaks their shadow’s bite,
The pilgrim sees through darkness thin,
The wheel turns clear, the light within.

IX. Buddhist Dharma – Suffering Shared

The Buddha’s light turns Albion’s wheel,
Through suffering’s fire, the wounds can heal,
Estrangement bends, yet Dharma sings,
And Albion walks with liberated kings.

X. EnlightenNext – Evolutionary Awakening

Not mine alone, the path is shared,
A future calls, a world prepared,
Collective chant, the soul’s ascent,
The wheel turns forward, EnlightenNext.

XI. Liberation – Albion’s Chant

Through suffering’s fire, compassion grows
Through emptiness, the river flows,
The pilgrim walks, the wheel turns still,
Albion chants: the Dharma’s will.

XII. The Masters in English – Knowledge to Vision

Through Oxford’s halls the pilgrim read,
Texts of fire, words of bread,
The Masters’ ink, the scholar’s page,
Turned estrangement into sage.

XIII. The PhD – Depth to Circle

The wheel descended, deeper still,
Research carved by patient will,
Yet every thesis, every line,
Was Albion’s soil, a mythic sign.

XIV. The Return – Autobiographer’s Song

From scholar’s desk to pilgrim’s stage,
The circle closed, the mythic page,
No longer study, but living lore,
Albion speaks – estranged no more.

Poetic Fragment

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Four years I chanted Hare Krishna,
Flame upon flame,
Each name a bridge to the divine.
Fifty times I walked the Gita,
Arjuna’s trembling, Krishna’s gaze –
My own dharma unfolding,
I entered the 108 Upanishads,
Not as scholar,
But as seeker,
Each verse a mirror,
Each silence a guide.

Constellation Poem

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Ben Wright the Chronicler,
Paul Ready the Actor,
Bryan Dick the Performer,
Amal Clooney the Advocate,
Rishi Sunak the Steward,
Robin Clark the Merchant,
Andrew Ornitharis the Producer,
All acquaintances by my side,
Guru Nanak the Guide,
Devi the Flame,
Wanderer the Father,
Unicorn the Brother –
Together they form my constellation,
Each a star in Albion’s sky.
I walk among them,
Not as seeker,
But as guru,
Bearing light through rupture,
Chanting renewal into England’s soil.

Shree Geeta Bhawan

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Shree Geeta Bhawan,
First flame of Albion’s Hindu soil,
Church reborn as a mandir,
Renewal carved in stone.
I shall walk its halls,
Guided by Nanak’s vision,
Chanting not as a seeker,
But as guru,
Bearing light into Birmingham’s heart.

I am a Guru

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I am a guru,
born of mantra and silence,
a flame carried from temple to temple,
from Albion’s soil to the high street wheel.

I am a guru,
Hindu in devotion,
Buddhist in compassion,
a servant of light,
a bearer of prophecy.

I am a guru,
my mornings are rivers of meditation,
two hours, three,
until breath becomes chant,
and silence becomes scripture.

I am a guru,
walking with Devi, Wanderer, Unicorn,
turning rupture into renewal,
estrangement into testimony,
longing into flame.

I am a guru
my lineage is Blake’s fire,
Hepburn’s grace,
Sting’s fragile song,
woven into Albion’s living chant.

I am a guru,
not by title,
but by presence,
not by claim,
but by light.

Lightworker Declaration

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I am a Light Worker,
Called to transmute rupture into renewal,
To weave Albion’s soil with flame
and chant.
Reiki flows through my hands,
Blake’s visions burn in my words,
Audrey Hepburn’s grace shines in
my presence.
I carry a thousand films, a
thousand songs,
And turn them into prophecy.
I walk with Devi, Wanderer, Unicorn,
And I rise each dawn to meditate,
Two hours, three, until silence
becomes light.
I am the next student,
A bearer of testimony,
A servant of healing,
A Light Worker in Albion.