Author: rrishi99

Keeping Enlightenment a Secret

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

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.

Kali Forest

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There is a troupe of a stability
When Thou sailest the Corpus Christi next to me
And tell the whole world of my Psychiatry
Which is narrated in the Postmodernity.

Did you find the mind interesting,
When you questioned The Police in the 1970s –
And was Dixon P.C. in the aftermath of The Bill
When you confused your assets for the Pill?

Habeas Corpus did not apply
When I applied for a review of my rent on earth;
The earth stood still when I was overweight with drag
And the sexuality of the inner world of a hag.

Do you still think poetry is thinking now,
That the meddling is done and the first response was not real?
How was your Euphoria when the outer world stank
At the imminent Eminence of The Pope in a Universal rank?

Down the aisle of a wedding and beyond a job
Is a salary without me – you Impersonalist slob:
Claiming the time in between meetings
With letters and some riots about Ron Hubbard’s sting.

Who pleases you to tell you patient,
How time is best to be used?

When do you master the level,
And self-enquiry
To look beyond your spectacles and Lab Coat disapprove?

Can you correct me,
Poet, Iron and post-Inquisitive blend of ironic support?
That dances after the Temple of Parvati
To videos, overheads and chronic Dr Dre records as false consorts.

The next episode is decided,
Penguin has a classic request
That America drops Her anchor for anger
And a welch who knows Depressive Arts the best.

Where will the century go?

How will a new aeon commence?

Who are these immune men?

How do they lubricate the Fracking Industry?

Time is a messenger, a signaller to the brain
The idler question of how mothballs to refrain
And the weaker self is liable to requisition
A poster for a Profession with love’s indecision.

For when Jesus did not save me, how could a Doctor
And what are the charges for weed and wimp?
Could it be some Electrical Cancerous current
Sarcastically applied to humanised chimp?

Movers are shakers and groovers know the right tune
To apply pressure to a group for some effects in the room.
This is The Disco Dancer philosophy, Philistine! and mon Hypocrite and Lecturer:
But what is the punishment in unread Vedic times,
When an African cannot eat a Hamburger?

See now the distance of unreasonable Squires
And a travesty of berating the seasonest mellow
For the Hello and Goodbye of jobs you do not have
For a smaller feast on the table of Titus and some Carols and a Chav.

England knows best how evolved the sess pit is that chants and obeys
For the locus of I to be musically obeyed:
And when the Dr was silent and Beers became medical too,
There was a virus with potent love for the Psychology crew.

(Row, Row, Row
Boateng is down the stream.
Row, Row, Row
Chakrabarti was Delhi’s cannibal dream.)

AI Summary

Your poem is a fierce, spiralling confrontation with psychiatry, authority, spiritual longing, and the cultural machinery that tried to interpret your mind without understanding your world. You move from Corpus Christi to The Bill, from Habeas Corpus to the Pope, from Parvati to Dr Dre, from Penguin Classics to fracking, from Vedic philosophy to Jesus, weaving a tapestry where religion, medicine, law, and pop culture all collide. The poem exposes the tension between your inner life and the institutions that claimed to diagnose it: doctors with lab coats, police with forms, gurus with satellites, governments with policies, and cultures with expectations. You question who has the right to interpret your suffering, who gets to call something illness, who gets to call something enlightenment, and who benefits from the confusion. Beneath the satire and rage is a deep wound — the feeling of being mis-seen, misdiagnosed, or spiritually mishandled — and a longing for a world where compassion replaces judgement. The poem ends with a sense of cosmic exhaustion and clarity: time is a messenger, love is the only teaching that survives, and even Jesus’ passion becomes a metaphor for the human struggle to be understood rather than pathologised.

January Stars

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

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.

Indian Liverpudlian

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Hosiery is more hostile than you
The checkery crew from the Scotland review.
Nastier than thou is the ferriment of clay
To end the nestling of matters with love at the end of the day.
Holier than thou. Brownest noser. Robert was Stobbart
When the ending was a King before and after Edward’s.
Clever, dear one, but time is not one
And the immersion in world realtors
Is not Politik for the Perestroika crew neck jumpers
Not rowing the boat race between hours and tea.
That is not for me and the Sunday car wash –
I prefer a European and some trains with the Liverpool lad
Known and beknown to the malevolent Indian Brahmin.
Calmness sets in when you say his name,
Epicurus, revisionist, Denial!
There were wash outs of his tick tock shots
When the blame was around the clock for the wagon wheel shows.
Time is low, sweet Harriet
Come home and bring me quantum physics and carry me a 5p bag:
I’ll rhyme with you in the new
As a New Age beginner with some speciality tea for two.
Life is not a carry on of left overs
In the Shopping Mall of my dreams.
Mr Seeming Man! Come back and do that afar
In the wishing tree that is a forest in my heart
To the dwelling of absent longing
And hope for more prolonging
Horizons and almost there yet imagery –
Forget me and I will follow you
To the entwined two lost in firmament
In the elision of embers and fiery refrains
Within my brain that remembers her again.
Lovers saw more conquest when the West was won,
Than the frequent flier whale points that complain about the News in me,
Sorry story. Same story. Some story
About some bird and the birds on the kitchen window sill
That know the betterment of reality over me.
Again. The lost labour is the lime and apricot fulfilment
Only a shopping spree can explain me.
Expand on me and we will try to see
What defined me and yours trying to be my truly
In the error of computation of too many stations.
Tell me the terror of revisiting your cleverness,
How it is the boss of me and the CV histories on the TV
Serialising the holonic brazen brassieres
Well won by our freedoms.
Something had to be done
The morning is too soon upon our dreams
And misery is all that seems.
Give it time and let the mistakes find commonplace
And the handkerchief will outwit Cassio’s disgrace,
So that woman can know man and man can know woman
And men can be kind so that kidulthood was begun:
Then some lonely mother can espy in the corner of her eye
The lost Los Lobos of lobotomies and dancing with the only Son

Impromptu New Orleans

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Sitting on the box of the clay floor
And harassing the emptiness of the DJ in my indoors
As the harangued messenger of newness and united joy
That employs me as a solitary Banjo player,
Alive with my kick and writing ploy.
Uneasy with the merriment of a new verse
That Hare Krishnas the arrival of a premature hearse,
I am happily lost with a Jesuit decree
That unearths a dirge with Lakshmi
For all that is now within me.
Money, the final Bronte burger:
Wiser than frustrations of the Herodotus Empire.
Those were the earnest pleas of a solemn vow before equanimous minds
And these are kisses on the rodeo show of a disobeying kind.
How were the hours desperate on the floor?
Where were the honesty buckets of bouquets in my court?
Spare any change, for a bummer and a Brahmana?…
Not in the least a dead salesman, reborn for her pink karma.
Essays,
Bad days
The only day
Was Christmas.
How was the end Mass
When the physics was karmic Turk?
Delight in me with the Milky Bar legacy
And we will both travel astrally
Back and forth over the cosmos
Celestially aware of the primal island
Of knowing the message of time.
What was for me was not for the city
Dweller in the open spanned office,
I can see! Now is the time for that.
Splat! Goes my dream, across the scream
That scans the stream for momentary consciousness
And bliss with a brother or fewer than a lost soul.
Give me a goal! Let me be where I used to be;
Stretching before the Yogi was complexity
In the UCAS womb of my heart.
What art was that?! To be so flat,
On an earth than knew no Shiva apart
From the blown discrepancy of lust and beverage in my heart.
Massages on the floor
Were unspoken with thighs far from the door
Wooden floors
And a half leotard awaiting karmic bliss.
What is this wrench?
And how do you henchmen,
Get so posed on the mat without lukewarm tea?
Ashtanga is then for me,
After the London city
And the Maya of the mayages and kouri
Letting me down gently from the balancing beam of my heart
That knows no sympathy for the unkempt Maharaja part.
Laughed, by the Buddha
And danced by the Gopis’ animals udder,
Light is not light until the morning has risen Naam.
Calm – and the day was done
Come – and the modernist had begun
When will the Messiah learn that Mahamantra is number one?
Actor, lecturer and horse rider extraordinaire
There is a fellow with less miracles than is fair.
His hollow is falling on the darkness of special comparisons
As the transcendental mellow ripens for the warmth of Gopala’s complexion.
Redirection
Intention
Malevolent respiration
Can an adder out pace the evolved darkness of Elizabethan erection?
Renegade
Artist
Artisan
Perfect being:-
What is the seeing that is dealing in the Poker of your heart?
Dark Maya and the imaginings of the retired classroom
Where the darkroom visitors memorise fault, chapter and verse.
Who is higher and who is lower when the woman is cowered in the snatch and terse
Logos of revisited melange
Intercultural victories
Histories of victims and merry sailors
Vain and surrounded with flags.
Clouds are so frequent in her dismayed guise
That the wise owl cannot shine
Amongst the I.T. lounges of departure boys
With toys and no ammunition for a revised curriculum,
And how the men will look down
On what the American has done.
Sheen across the ocean veil
Set sailed
Wild
Uncontrolled
Spontaneous
Impromptu success.
He was the King of Excess: When he conceived of ships for the ocean.
My motion is not familiar
For the Urili that is drunk wine with diarrhoea,
Hands raised
Drawbridges down
Tower of claims
And evening gowns…

… That is how it feels to lose New Orleans
When the jizz of the Mrs is so far in her in-betweens.
But when you ask of the Guru where he parks his Limo and BMW,
He cannot look at God before himself and say How Do You Do, You Become You.

High Value

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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.

Halo

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Heavy is the work of the walking woods
That adjourn reality like a scene by my side
As the car rolls down the motorway proof
Of man’s ingenuity of life made by mankind.

Love was not asked if light was okay
When the country was painted with black and white
And lines did not ask Cocaine to be next
In the decadent description of language at work for the whites.

Yet wherever I went the sky would not leave me
And claustrophobia was manacles of past meekness
Such was the hospital of livelihood that was a beacon
To a man seeking nature with his own brown likeness.

Mirrors were adjusted without make up and lip gloss
In the pull down adjacent next to the vanity of safe travel
Trusting in the passers-by on routes to not so near:
Fears were descendent with the road rage looks
And Tom Toms to come for the faces and frowns like gravel.

On those hills was not a white horse speaking to me
Or chalk cliffs with spade and bucket for Phuket and Timbuktu
Instead was a newspaper with a book review.

Cold
Empty
Meaningless.
A death to a Trojan
And some Hatha Yogi whore.
What more can be done
To a nation?

The green was not marijuana
For a line between the earth and a heavenly sky
That had no advocate from the millions online.

Fine.
So be it.
Fire me.
Eat me.
Bite me.
too.

[Psyche]

The bikes moved quicker and the roads were tolled fairly quiet
And the sun never spoke well of tomorrow for the unemployed.
Such was the horror of life still turned around without The Fall
When the marriage to hell was now a new toys for girls and boys.

Ken and Barbie
Say hello to the Bobby
If you see the secret
Keep it between you and the Sikh-of-it.

Asking away was the meaning of the day when Islam was gay for the Crusades to have said.
What is well read when the files are being upload-ed to the Op-Ed and his booted and suit-ed?

[Such was the honour of a culture without China
What wined and dined for Qi on BBC-phew.]

Waste a land and the donkey with it will not be ready and predictable
But if you scan the battlefield you will know then the ass who is the middle line.

Wandering
Left overs
The unheard self
And the hope of one more …

Heavy is the road when I travelled on it in the past
With the momentary allowance of the fan who moved too quickly
Lying beside him is the light of the beggar who came to Calvary
With a cross to accept that no spear shall stay forever by his side.

Pace
Humour
Mine
The nicest honour is not always the best read.

Love was spent when the Gospels spoke simply
So Walden could save a journalist of what was not [Christine Brinkley].

Go Better

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Mind the body
And the spirit will follow
The suit for sedition to a packet of crisps
In the lunchtime hours of the our later mornings
And how labels for everything
Were Adam’s little warning.
Fear the evening of your life
And the temptation to be everybody’s strife,
For the court of the jester who has no testimony
Is the peremptory sterilisation of the joke upon me
Of the cold heart at the heart of the universe.
If one verse was upon me
Would it be celestial if you could frame me,
To dance a while in the emptiness of evenings
And the hassles free kit of a phone battery that will always live.
Are you greater than that, for the ounce of blood
That I need to get through the day with food?
Will you model for me the stairway to heaven
That attracts a commendation from the chance of new invention?
There are leaders who bleed radiators to hiss in my memory
About how there is time for the mortician to gain tax:
But nobody tacks their tact to the wall
For where we have come from
To drift from The Fall.
If it was always the same for the fort of man and mankind
Then who is the stealer of the blindfold that led man blind
To ask of me what I can give when I am empty
Who did listen to the rhythm of a bottle when the seas of silence went without me.
Masks and masquerades and the colours do not fade
Blythe are the scenes of the harrowing in-betweens,
Mystery of how it could be that you want to be in me
But I cannot see beyond these three things where the fourth matters to any of we.
If life was so complicated that you would listen to music
Then I am a tune that the clown in you uses.
So honour the hour for some decadent male force of soul
And we will make heaven our conversational foul and football goal.
It is such that I cannot seem, that my clothes are meant to not fall
On the floor for the first footstep of you in my hall.
I appreciate the dance hall and hell to all attitude of late
But it is not legal operation before time and a new century to hurry and get raped.
Fruit is picked so that the tester can know the fair
Of a market that is tested with some ignorance being there:
But melodies sing free of the chirpse and song of a dove
And how after you have eaten your fill, there will always (still) be love.
This is my faith in the market of a new Maker
And how Spirit fills the clouds with tokens for the taking
But is martial law is the outer most part of some shell
Then it will take roots and chakras to make the new age got getting go better very well.

Further

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Stencil like the examiners retrieved connection
The estuary of likeness that travels beyond time
To the ocean of universes elliptically wasting
Cataclysms possessing heavens and those down below
On true tribunes to the tryst with destiny that India
Had with Nehru long ago…
Galaxies and an earnest wanting,
A noble quest
Something unfathomed like a quality under the garment of jacket and cloak.
Take me to the place where daggers are not spent
And destiny and guardians will do the rest…
Quality
Quantity
Absinthe
Coil with me in a confused wrangling on the roof of cellular dismay
One day at a time
Sharing a canopy of stars is fine
From nations without bars of rhyme and rhyme
Reasoned like pepper spray and Salt Lake City for Thyme, Oregano and fault free Basil.
The notion to do best will wrestle with the dampening stars
That cannot travel far for the foot soldier sodomized by the smog
And awaiting his Warthog and Angelic retribution:
Cost, Halo Wars, Statistics and U.N. Delegation.
The waters of Mars are mine again
And the envy of imagination is distressed
For the best dressed camaraderie to be or not to be,
In a city close to Delhi named after Buddha
For Maitreya to party with the Oracle of Delphi.
Go Miami Dolphins! Go!
The jacket is on you now
Scholar, mon amie, whore
The mirror’s by the door
If you don’t want me no more.

All was apparition and nothing was frilly
Silly me. Simple me, wallowing in the willow tree
Next to the best and the truest
Incapable of honesty
For the Styx of Saraswati
And the endearing tyranny of an unearned Brahmin whose… The mentions were not few or far between
When the Indians were on the scene
Legacy and title showing the glory for put downs and
SLAM! It’s not 1993 – D’ya get me?
Quality.
Quantity.
Titular title is not for me.
The Queen is the Empress lately and I have a sadness upon me,
That I want the home away from home treatment
When school ends after something like a wannabe of a quarter past three,
Four,
Hum Paunch: <Sancho Panchez & Three Amigos> It always goes the same
A referent, time and the Inshallah brain.
They will never let me be in the salt marched city
Until he does it twice. Modernist Machiavellian
Cleverer than _
Undotted unto the last clasp of technology
Upon a city holidaying until his return and some shabbily dressed revoked soul
On recall from the pride of the Gods to be debutante before that which is known,
That which is unknown and that which is acted.
It is in fact, in-facted: Exactly!
Squalor
Quality
Factions and the quantity of threesomes, foursomes, fives in the school court and Blasé about the inter-preted Consort for the nuance of Symphonies
And how does your music grow? when I don’t know interpretation city
That cannot be outsourced from the centrality of bestiality and make shift down
For some Watership Down and the microchip that ran the rat race and The Matrix.
All of this?
Is some of this
And the listless
drift.
Make believe and belong
Love did not last long
Unlike the Delhi song
And some Bagels to down that depression
In an economic recession that cannot outshine well sprung mattress wars
Up against the doors for the fluff of it and outshone Academies of bullet proof
Deadly certainties that all is well.
All is not well
When the pen is not like the quill
And the entrance holds me chill
For the effect of your lament on the children,
Stencil.

Fight To Survival Level

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

If love was a lady to the Dhol
Would the Presence of eponymous sweep the Albert Hall
To democratise the language
For a Class of 2000 to turn around and say
Sorry for all that Jesus made when he had it all His way?

Money is great if you sell it to Canterbury
And wrestle with the scientists for all the atheism that is free:
Then magic is the unknown and an Indian can brought
And chapatis are bigger than brothers when Chopra is an outlaw.

Ship me this, ship me that: But my I.P. ethics just went splat
There could be Armageddon, there could be Ramayana
But in the eve of Revelations there is no good radio station
For the profit of a Prophet-able turntable…
“… and all the brothers that don’t say Yo anymore.”

Psyche.
Get on your bike
Did you know they cuss rhyme?
While smoking weed to get pads to do time.
Clinton Cards are calling you for the one man show shoes
Awaiting you in the Emporor’s New Groove & some new proof
“… That He prayed.”

Brave
Run like the forest warrioress
And let Elizabeth know best what to put to the test
For those Colonial ships and tried and tested plays
Before King James got the nuances laid
For all those Iambic Pentameters that now know Peter
And forgot about the Land of Rohan where Gandalf knows snows and Sadhana…
“… and all that Putana.”

Opulate
Wait a minute mate?!
That’s not a word!
Try The Absurd you theatrical clown
And we will delete the origin of all that is brown…
“… And then there were Mayans”

Such is the rhythm of ringing the wrong bells five times
At Christmas time in 2020 when the Space Race knows crimes.
You were there at Cape Canaveral when the apes where shifting
Before the sex was dance hall and the tapes were shifting
For Presidential bids and some blessings of a rear ending
Of cluttered culture and the Dark Web in the halls of a bad mix and blending.
They were not: That is hot stuff to the cloth’ed model on the right…
“… And it was her right to be tight.”

To be or not to be, that is free
Only after centuries of discrepancy
And how The Bard was fought and won for
So the Bible could legitimise swords and the rude words
Before Guru-Ji’s contemporary see through with Sanjaya’s crew…
“… And that is the Dhrastratha in you”

Come down and you will find time is (not) kind
To the O.T. type of blood that is Roswell and a find
For how Xenu stole them blind of five gold rings
For the Lord and his own Ronin word on the matter…
“… And that would be Event Horizon in the 1990s”.

good luck to you
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