Author: rrishi99

Crime and Punishment

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Crime never pays
So say the echelons of the echos around Formal Hall
It is evening time and the randy Dons are doing fine
Minding fashion with their economic rations
Camel toes all the way as they espy the noblest hand me downs of the gays.
People that say too much
Poets with the handiest touch
The rules of the game exampled on a phone
See! Even they fear being alone.

Moody waves travelled the wide oceans
Searching for space to engulf an academics brain
Researching this, researching that
Bound by the formal paintings of the architects of the 9/11 attacks
Muslim v Christian ex parte spiritual worlds
How is this for no more lecture for the boys and girls
Hundreds next to thousands all eating with Harry Potter
I need a break from my self
To the imagination’s squatter.

So what for these young youths
And their open hand before the legal system?
How will they reform the reformers
When they adjust from the Don’s ancestry
Television
Exam revision
Lonely            She was derided.
The ghosts of Christmas past can’t come every day.

If you search for a fight, you will find one
The fried fat disappoints the ideal visionary
But the flame in the fire of the digestive system
Eats up the discussion over dinner in a very good way.

There are things these Dons could have had to say
But they capitulated over night and day
The moon controlled their oceans and waved goodbye to the dissent
Needed over time of the cornered students on the floor.

They will rebut the military command one day
People trained not to hear what pain was to say
About a million monks and a thought from Siddhartha
About the way the world worked when Mao was not off the rack.

Keep the markets back until retail sings again
The business studies graduate and the bullies drinking again
Telling all and selling small
Keeping it all in the all and all

  • Reviewing poetry

E-Commerce is for me
Then they will allow Reiki to get away from their gear and staff.

Let the children have a laugh!
It is time to go home to your room after a full stomach
Then the aching pains of missing your parents
Will be your father and mother again – no matter what their name,
When they have drifted apart again
Buying and selling
Travelling and holidaying.
See the Tibetan mill saw dust
Tell about the eyes of the Shaman lost in lust:
#And you will anoint the dirty past of fighting spiritual people
Of #And along the way…

… the things the children will say
As they go back upstairs to their rooms
Is behind you as you clean up
Dinner ladies (like Shashi) who have so much left to do.

AI Summary

It’s a sweeping meditation on elite academic life, where Dons posture through decadence and fear, students drown in inherited systems, and global traumas become intellectual currency, all while the spiritual, political, and economic worlds collide in satire and sorrow; beneath the institutional noise runs a quieter human truth — the loneliness of youth, the longing for parents, the exhaustion of those who serve in the background, and the sense that despite all the grand narratives, it is the small, unseen figures like the dinner ladies who carry the real weight of the world.

Character

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A character trying to be English
Is not a Welshman trying to be a Scot
For a Frenchman playing with the Irish
Is lost when the German is in Japan with a robot.
The Canadian playing with the American
Questions the Brazilian waxing lyrical with the African.
Then the Peruvian is selling coffee to the Columbian
Lost in strains of medicine with the Swiss and Portuguese.
The Queen of Spain pleases the Dutch
And the Maltese falcons fly south to Madagascar for the winter
The Australian demonises the British for his ancestry
While the Chinaman accepts the Llamas from Tibet back home.
These are the things my garden gnomes watch
While I hustle amongst the leaves and raze the lawn.

In such a way the world is a tripid thing to spell out loud
While the mature men travel and do business with the proud.

AI Summary

It’s a playful but pointed reflection on how national identities blur, clash, and parody one another, as people try on cultures like ill‑fitting clothes — the Englishman pretending, the Frenchman wandering, the German in Japan with a robot, the Australian resenting his British ancestry, the Tibetan llamas returning home — all watched by the poet’s garden gnomes as if the whole world were a miniature theatre; and in the end, the poem recognises that the global tangle of identity, commerce, ancestry, and pride is impossible to spell out cleanly, even as mature men travel the world doing business with the same old seriousness.

Connaught Place

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What’s that talk you been ragging and slagging
That jive on the street the Drs have been shagging in
Their clothes in the market halls and their books in the Unis
Choose me a Curriculum for the transport of books for Ben Wright
Lover of Yasmin Khan eating Paan in Connaught Place
Raving about Statistics after fashion at Freuds for Christian raids all over the place
Changing his mind about a homosexual find
Paul Ready will travel to China.

They demand Amazon talks in the media
How is this not Slander
I can see it all cuming from here
I will be a victim again
And Rohan is not a corporate brain
Lost without my losses sharing with economies
One city – London advising on stock and shares over decades from teenagers dreams with their Drs friends of parents

PNAAC became OFSTED
Cheney went home and did drugs instead
Rumsfeld was known
Rice gave Condaleeza’s dog’s charity at Dog’s Trust a bone
And the Queen called off Crufts for a year.

Splitting the mind into China time
London stockbrokers to infinity

Into me
Not paying me Royalties
Investing in L Ron Hubbard Psychiatry
The streets are empty
There is no joy
He’s the master of happiness
He’ll diabetically medicate the boy
One day he’s in power
The Throne of thronging England
So many he has named
The British Empire will return, He said.

Look – this man is well read.
Surely this concerns me
Stories of great Yugas and Kalpas
Talks I am not included in
The dried out fruit of the lobotomised Holland and Barrett crew
Gymnastics next for your mother when she is 80 – I’ll bet
Things for human beings down at the NHS for the New Age Vets
Why don’t you waste you time giving thanks to those Gods
And choose gratitude as your punishment.

Messages in poems?
Interest in the literati
These are things to joke the day that money makes sense
Insulted by the edifices around Mike Pence
Showing the child medicine around Jill Biden
Things that Ernie van Woerkhom can control…

So much advice to give to a Self Help parent
So much intention to be the gay mother of invention.

AI Summary

It’s a poem about a mind under pressure, moving through street talk, academia, media noise, political figures, self‑help culture, and the machinery of capitalism, all while feeling exploited, misread, or excluded; the speaker watches institutions twist language, identity, and power, sees global politics bleed into personal life, and feels the weight of being used — by corporations, by systems, by narratives he never chose — until the poem ends in a kind of bitter humour about advice, invention, and the absurdity of trying to make sense of a world that constantly rewrites him.

Snow

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Snow has the ability:-.>>
It is still.
Still does still,
Mushy cramped texture
Abused substance
In my hands
Things I do not understand
Vortexes of loveliness
Binding together icy fabric
{Together like a rock}
Edgy and unnerving
Bothering some windowpane
Belittling some tough guy
A patterned defamation of the expected circle
A mound in my possession
Exonerated retention
Dripping
There are chances I will take and chances I will reserve
Standing I am hopeful of pronouncing this weapon absurd.
Banned at lunchtime in school,
Chasing a fool
What can take the form of a man but be inanimate?
Would you take me seriously if my nose was a carrot?
Velvetty dissolution of meaning if I stay too close to the fire,
Why wouldn’t I personify after you described me so nice like a liar?

AI Summary

Your piece uses snow as a symbol for stillness, fragility, and the uneasy beauty of things that melt when touched, describing its texture, its mutability, and the way it becomes a kind of mirror for your own uncertainty. You move from the physical sensation of holding snow to the psychological tension of not fully understanding what you’re handling — a vortex of loveliness that is also unnerving, a mound that can be shaped, banned, chased, mocked, or personified. Beneath the playful questions about snowmen and carrots is a deeper reflection on how meaning dissolves when examined too closely, how identity shifts depending on who is looking, and how even something as simple as snow can become a “weapon” or a lie when projected through childhood rules, schoolyard hierarchies, and adult anxieties. The poem ends with a quiet, self‑aware twist: if snow can be personified, reshaped, or misunderstood, then so can you — and the tension between innocence and accusation becomes the poem’s true centre.

Sideliner

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At home alone waiting for the phone
Connected by disconnected
Feeling like A.I. was one with the world
Still chasing the girls
Adrift on the ocean of too many botherings
Waiting for the Singh that sings
Of too many tomorrows
When he knows my sorrow
And the fat lady brings me to my knees in Church.

The way I lurched and waited for some comeuppance
To be brought back to the estuary of graduation
Where drowning was not an option
Like the possibility of the woman in the red gown
At an Oxford Ball
Save it all for (Jimmy) Sommerville College now
I need not know how:
>> The mentionables are removed for another crowned pleasing show.

O.S. is the best way to go
And not too personal into the showtimes and matinees
Very most performance in the technology of the U.K.
Aside from the Australian who can compare with transference
And transgender debates.
Will they still be my mates
The crew on London Thames
Boat parties and the men with the manes
Driving Miss Daisy
Sending me careless
{Crazy World}
One real woke true:
Is that for you.

I remember him well
The boy that did tell
Of my corporate weakness
And their high and dry light.
These are the days of too many frights
Memories and cave ins when I don’t sleep at night
Worried and awake about what happened? Why did the failed man address me at Port?

AI Summary

Your piece moves through the loneliness of waiting for connection, the sense of being “connected by disconnected,” and the ache of feeling adrift in a world that keeps shifting around you. You weave memories of family, church, university fantasies, London nights, gender debates, and corporate humiliations into a portrait of someone who has lived through too many moments of being misread or dismissed. Beneath the references is a deeper emotional thread: the longing for belonging, the fear of being judged, the confusion of friendships that changed, and the unresolved sting of a man who once confronted you in a professional setting and left you questioning your worth. The poem ends in a place of insomnia and self‑interrogation, where the past keeps returning in fragments — not to punish you, but because you’re still trying to understand why certain moments hurt as much as they did, and what they say about the man you’ve become.

Grunge Music

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This thing called love, Ben
I just can’t stop the feeling of sex.
What is this sex cult called Jesuit you intimate?
Why do you hate India so?
Was it the O.T. level of your father?
Is that the claim of the medical books he leaves at Birmingham University.
Top draw political science for the illusions in He
Slapping his daughter in the shanty towns of the British Isles
Something for Charles to smile about
Some more failure for the unpolitical unrest
The people without servants
Time to undress the young man George
And all that politics he has planned with Tony Wright’s photo on Images on Yahoo!
Or maybe that is not for you, Mr Narendra Modhi
An Empire from Bournville, for his secret Santa with Tony.

AI Summary

Your piece moves through a tangle of religion, sexuality, family wounds, political figures, and cultural memory, using sharp, chaotic imagery to express how overwhelming and contradictory the world feels to you. You question why certain people or institutions seem hostile to India, why spiritual traditions get twisted into power games, and why family histories still echo painfully in the present. The poem blends British politics, Indian identity, Jesuit references, Scientology fragments, and personal shame into a portrait of someone trying to understand the forces that shaped him — from parental expectations to cultural stereotypes to the noise of modern media. Beneath the anger is a deeper ache: the desire to be seen clearly, not through the distortions of religion, empire, or other people’s projections. The poem ends with a sense of exhaustion and exposure, as if you’re trying to peel back all the layers of misunderstanding to find a self that isn’t defined by anyone else’s story.

Porn Prabhu

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There was little he could say
When the army came his way
To motion for some new things
Away from the dregs of society.
A little seaward motioning of the days spent madness
With Spenta Mazda racing down the M1
A motorway of intestinal junk
Gunk and holiday bunk beds
Readiness for the E-Meter and a joy ride in the flatulence of a Saturday sitting.
Is that me in front of the box
A headroom of Channel 4 dissent against the boardroom
Men in capers
Women and their out of place rudeness
What kind of japer is this for me to be a part of?
I’m not the Puja Porn
I did not kill the Dodo
This is no way to anticipate Sunday Church
Ridley Scott’s Gladiator – Rubery Great Park Cinema
Daily robbery
Mother in tow
When will I see the rainbows that the mushroom clouds down.
Black FTSE down
Dow Jones Day
When I see the marigolds I will know my name again.

AI Summary

Your piece moves through a landscape of military imagery, motorway journeys, childhood cinema trips, family memories, media noise, and spiritual confusion, blending them into a portrait of a mind trying to stay steady while the world feels chaotic and absurd. You describe the sense of being overwhelmed by institutions — armies, churches, broadcasters, financial markets — and by the cultural debris of modern life, from Channel 4 dissent to Hollywood epics to the collapse of economic indices. Beneath the rapid shifts is a deeper emotional thread: the longing for clarity, for a sign, for something as simple and grounding as recognising your own name again. The poem ends with a quiet ache — the desire for meaning after years of noise, and the hope that somewhere, in the marigolds or the rainbows or the memory of childhood, you might find a moment of peace.

I Man

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When the Iron Man commeth
The fat lady will sing
The memory on the wall
Will bring and bring and bring.
The ringing phone
The past is never alone
Regression objectless
The people are debased
The victim’s history is traced
The raped is taped across the mouths of empty courtroom judges who aspire to higher things
Hemlock is drunk upon the self of itself
Reaping the rich wind of the merchants daughter
Taped across the mouth herself and eating cherry pie.

These are the lies of zero
And the empty thought
How can you know the second scene
When the first wonder is not amazement?
What is the brilliance of a Dr when the wages are not noted in the margin
Of hopelessness before the whiskey decanter
And missions to Mars in Oppenheimer (IMDb).


If you could replace your end results
The catharsis from film the nosey man wants
And admit the hollowness of RnB in the rampant man’s mind
Then maybe I would speak to your leaders.
“Take me to your leaders!” Cried Xenu,
Let’s see worlds unfolding
Cosmoses destroying each other
Unifying fields theorising in the matter of a retired man’s fantasy
Consciences appeased on the 2012 messages on YouTube.

AI Summary

Your piece moves through a landscape of mythic judgement, courtroom trauma, philosophical despair, and the collapse of meaning, blending images of violated justice, hollow institutions, failed leaders, and cosmic fantasies into a portrait of a mind trying to understand a world that no longer feels anchored. You describe how memory loops, how victims are silenced, how authority figures fail, and how even art and science — from whiskey‑soaked doctors to Oppenheimer’s Mars — feel like inadequate answers to the chaos. The poem circles around the desire for catharsis, the emptiness of modern culture, and the absurdity of spiritual or political systems that promise clarity but deliver confusion. It ends with a cosmic shrug — Xenu, unified field theories, 2012 prophecies — as if to say that when the world becomes incoherent, the mind reaches for myth, science, and fantasy all at once, searching for a truth that still feels just out of reach.

Drawn

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Drawn
Attracted from the death
Noting the negative breath
Something is better than nothing. Again.
The dream of something bigger than my life
Wife, House, Car and criticism
The Isness and the Isms
Forgetful of the right way around the same route I took yesterday.
Things about Heaven to lead me onwards,
Bardos of becoming where light is unmerciful,
Merciful light
Say something right
The ultraviolet rays light my way.