Author: rrishi99

Yogaville

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Wall St crash
Crash mats
Crash Test Dummies
Yoga is for yummy mummies
Stampede crew
Houses are for you
Balance the towering pose
Keep concentration on the tip of your nose.

Flash in the pan fad for libraries
“Time for me!”
Chai and obsolete oat bar allowance
Top marks for managing stomach’s gestation
Acid and mood(s) imbalance
Rolling prices
Roaming charges
The first class is free
The sleazy man next to me:
(… these streets are not easy…)
Anything goes
Online throws
Puja porn and celebrity mandalas
Sale of the century
Causes and effects
1000s of Fictionals and frightenings
Stretch please, we’re British
Get yourself going at the gym
We mean you no harm
This might be the Holy Ghost v The Dharma
@BeYourself.Com
And the Buddhist is at home
Your eye for an eye crew
Celebrated trance
Techno dance(s)

Ropes cost extra
Fitting room for those pants
Let’s talk about the cost
Of updates to religion since John Lennon
I like my coffee with a Caramel blast
Mildly aside(s) for detoxing warm water with a slice of some lemons.
Virtual Yogi
Personal Jesus
Stretching on the mat
Something for the 3 of us
Family is down
There are State Laws
So he impressed upon me
Shaolin Tree
City of lights
So many fights
Corporate laws
Showing my flaws
Mothers and fathers
The technology goes farther
To stretch to the valley
Of Ambe and Krishna-Ji.

Downward facing dog pose
Yoga at the tip of your nose
Blow a hole through Jonah’s whale
What time to exhale?
Take some milk and cinnamon
Have a good bath
ENJOY your night’s sleep
You’re free from Kali’s wretched wrath
{Buddha’s v Devis}
Modernising that which is unsure
Generations of love at your door.

AI Summary

Your poem is a fast‑moving collage of modern spirituality, consumer culture, gym culture, yoga fads, British humour, techno nights, religious updates, and the strange ways ancient traditions get repackaged for a restless, overstimulated world. You move from Wall Street crashes to yoga mats, from chai allowances to roaming charges, from sleazy men on public transport to online chaos, from celebrity mandalas to techno trance, showing how spirituality, capitalism, and entertainment blur into one another. The poem satirises the way yoga becomes a lifestyle brand, religion becomes an update, and meditation becomes a commodity — all while Britishness, humour, and cultural references swirl around like a neon‑lit carnival. You weave in Jonah’s whale, Kali, the Holy Ghost, Shaolin trees, Ambe and Krishna‑ji, John Lennon, and the Noble Eightfold Path, creating a playful but pointed contrast between ancient wisdom and modern distraction. Beneath the wit and speed is a deeper ache: a longing for something real in a world of fads, a desire for grounding in a culture that keeps stretching itself thin, and a hope that love, family, and generational continuity might still offer meaning beyond the noise. The poem ends with a gentle blessing — modernising what is unsure, generations of love at the door — suggesting that even in the chaos, something tender remains.

CEO

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so what does that make me?
There is there and there is there
There it is and you will find it
Tethered to a ropeless character
At the end of tenure’s
Seven day moody light.


London’s Mafia is gathering
Fear breeds
The Budget dares you to say something positive
a hollow resistive pill swallower
Tea cup brother to a potty trained sister whose Frappuccino
framed a glazed donut neatly on the messy table
in the nearly missed melting days
of latte’s spilled on dopey wooden surfaces
like lamenting cows tied to daisy chains of un-meadows.
Useless poles, piss in pots, pie charts and data.
Time is for Eliot to share with mountaineers
the price of a communist magazine.
London’s noisy gun scene
Brothers watch pop bands,
It’s off to the human races
Halter necks plummeted the New Age
Reviews of Golden Ages –
No statistical proof
Odd language
Roofy definitions
Why does it feel like The Anonymous Times?


The ‘I’ of eminent war of pages turned before the scores are reached
Kindness finds funds for funny undergraduates and medical degrees.
What is a son?
What is a song listened to by a mum?
Who is a grandfather?
What is his wife?
What is stale page after page is turned for the Oscars to retread academic burns
Gosh! Those men had a sense of a teaching those how to read the news the right way?
Do you need England to say anything about your own doorknob death?


The Colonel’s AWAKE Magazine
after years
Queer forgetfulness down Woodstock Lane,
Banbury Road calls up mature deathly hailing expressions
inexperienced heads
Corn on the cob for lunch
Do you eat (C.C.) https//cum.com like the school girl’s webpage foot massaged by her mate’s excuses
The long ruler finished the off the essay title?


Here are my words and deeds, Sir: It is my understanding you’re my parent
As white as a sheet and some stains on my golden bowl
a good forester searching up the right directory from university.
What is the telling of a place where no mistakes are made?
Law firms take lying laying down three points and a cupboard full of ball games
Unfathomable income tax representing upset scholars in black gowns
up towers of economy
Magic Circle
The Socialist toppled nipple
informal hallways and a madman who ran and slipped on a Gherkin
if computers could store themselves
The burnt ambition for a wife.

AI Summary

This poem is a portrait of someone trying to locate themselves in a world that feels chaotic, over‑symbolised, over‑mediated, and morally confused. You move through London, family memory, media noise, class anxiety, academic pressure, cultural identity, and spiritual disorientation — all while asking what your place is in the middle of it. The poem’s voice feels like a person caught between worlds: between East and West, tradition and modernity, intellect and emotion, belonging and alienation.

The imagery — mafia, budgets, lattes, Eliot, communism, Oscars, law firms, Magic Circle, Woodstock Lane, Banbury Road — creates a collage of institutions, expectations, and cultural markers that have shaped you but never fully claimed you. The poem keeps circling around identity, legitimacy, and inheritance: What is a son? What is a grandfather? What is a family? What is a place where no mistakes are made? What is a life built inside systems that feel absurd, elitist, or indifferent?

There is also a thread of class and cultural tension: Oxford roads, legal chambers, academic gowns, socialist nipples, the Gherkin, income tax, American limousines, Indian nations. You’re mapping the world that shaped you — and the world you never fully trusted.

Underneath the satire and surrealism is a quieter ache: a longing for clarity, for lineage, for a place where you fit without contorting yourself. The poem ends on the image of “burnt ambition for a wife” — a symbol of the life you were told to want, the life that never quite aligned with your inner truth.

Puddle

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Definitive
Conclusive
A past of its’ own
Sunlight betrothed
Evaporated silk
Surrounded
Others keep the master design happy
Muddy waters
Sludgy grass
tyres
tracks
Hemways and drivethroughs
Trodden down hindrances
No clear path
Complete blockage on the pavement!
{M.U.D.D.eeeeee to see}
Things you cannot see
Like the others. Undated and undertimed.

Only this one is different
Surrounded and suffocated
Others won’t not be differentiated from it
A little water here
Some rotten patterns over there.
The threat of some bloated shoes
Moody moody goody two few
– > “The People Go Around It”
( a Celebrity in its own right)
One metre fine
Ten Yen and it’s too far for you to jump
An adrenaline rush
A collective hatred for splashes
The minds’ raving
And one the whole path wide.

Scattered remains of my hope for peace
Pieces of the land flooded
Arranged in a way that Yahweh absorbs the flesh
With the one that is unusually whole
The whole footpath long
“So long!”
I won’t sing the song
Of often skipping over puddles
Drowning in the Sea Shanties.

Until I tell you how drove me mad:
“I just have to try it!”   

Like a solid cattle
Pride
Prodded
Krishna drove the stampede across
To walk around
Balance!

The sheep had to come.

AI Summary

Akaash, this poem is one of your most playful, mythic, and earth‑bound pieces — all about mud, blockage, crowds, the absurdity of everyday obstacles, and the strange spiritual charge that rises from something as ordinary as a puddle. Here is your summary in one continuous paragraph, holding the whole movement together without breaking the flow.

Your poem turns a single patch of mud into an entire cosmology — a blockage on the pavement that becomes a celebrity, a collective obstacle, a symbol of how people move, avoid, judge, and gather around the smallest disruptions. You describe the mud as surrounded, suffocated, differentiated, hated, feared, and yet strangely admired, as if it were a living presence shaping the behaviour of everyone who encounters it. The puddle becomes a metaphor for the parts of life that are messy, unavoidable, and strangely magnetic — the things people walk around rather than through, the things that expose our caution, our pride, our herd instincts. As the poem widens, the mud becomes a site of spiritual and mythic resonance: Yahweh absorbing flesh, Krishna driving cattle, sheep following the path carved by fear and curiosity. The speaker confesses the madness of wanting to “try it,” to step into the forbidden mess, to test balance, to break the collective rule. In the end, the poem is about how a tiny, muddy interruption reveals the deeper patterns of human behaviour — avoidance, fascination, conformity, rebellion — and how even the smallest obstacle can expose the whole psychology of a crowd.

London Reared Its Ugly Head

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London reared it’s ugly head and reading came back to the dead writer.
Adrift and lost on African plains; at pains to remember what tore him apart.

Dazzled by mist in the middle of the mirage’s moist opportunity to make himself the messiah
Paragraphically cheap visions like a brothers’ brothel in Vegas’s colour and splendour
Lonely dollars covet the hidden agenda
Nollywood’s needless bets on me to be second fiddle in the West End
Rhyme and justice rinsing fat cats and white collars of p’wned brown lazy black colour

Hats off to you on death row effervescently desiring a skinned up Waltz on ice.
When nothingness sells fast
Make-believe voodoo Lion King is chilling in Palm Springs.
The Poetic Comparative smokes out my dainty narrative
Painting pictures with paraphrasing: Gothic renovation!
Horny traffic of Shaftesbury.
Stay with me for a while.
Pull up a charlatan.
So who am I, Mr Swami: A turbaned terrorist’s facial hair twitch
NLP tells in your inner view
When the wind was with Willow and the cherubs’ babies with Toad
Calm chair: The Roundabout Men
Crimes culture conditioning.

If I don’t descend down below
Artistic redress and holistic frequencies from the familiar Devil who fasted in hell
A tart’s tiara with gilded edged twat offering Cornucopia delight on furry whistles and bells
Swelling Farringdon: Charing Cross was sophistically won
Well done toasted Egyptian golden age, currencies and bullions.

Naming names spoils the witness game of marketing madness competing in the dark
And somehow the old age Raga of how it will happen to you too one day, “Muffin!”

Rocking and rolling, I shut the fuck up – Thought said to do it –
Italian vibrations returned kingly sympathetic reddened coloured livers
Sleeping in different coloured blankets underneath one lonely moon
Beaten by fleshy blasphemous brothers
Pale white skinned eyes share a quarter past birthtime for my prying tiredness.
A refund on School Teachers after I was stopped by a copper
Not climate changing my suntan these days
I told the man what I meant and he advised me on shareholdings and more than I spent.

I moved to Birmingham and kept my mouth shut
A Spoof Guru Movie on social media
Rhetorical search engines
Wrestling with the mania of Mundian madness and tomorrow’s cereal bowl with toast
Dropping bombs
Pulling in porn like the python programmed to tell an Emeritus professor of racial profiling some legendary cut://.com

AI Summary

This poem is a descent into — and a climb back out of — the psychological wreckage of identity under pressure. It begins with London “rearing its ugly head,” a city that resurrects the dead writer in you but also tears at your sense of self. You move through African plains, Vegas brothels, Nollywood, the West End, death row, Palm Springs, Shaftesbury Avenue — not as random references, but as symbols of how globalised culture distorts race, masculinity, and belonging.

The emotional core is the speaker’s struggle with being mis-seen: racialised, exoticised, criminalised, fetishised, misunderstood. You push back with satire, anger, humour, and surreal imagery — a “turbaned terrorist’s facial hair twitch,” “NLP tells,” “cherubs’ babies with Toad,” “Roundabout Men,” “crimes culture conditioning.” These aren’t endorsements; they’re critiques of how society projects identities onto brown men.

The poem then plunges into shame, violence, and survival: hell, tiaras, Farringdon, Charing Cross, Egyptian currencies, naming games, Raga warnings, “Muffin!” — all part of a world where identity is a performance forced on you by others.

The middle section is the most personal: being beaten, being tired, being stopped by a copper, being lectured on money, being misunderstood, being racialised. You respond with silence — “I moved to Birmingham and kept my mouth shut” — a survival tactic, not surrender.

The final lines show the collapse of meaning in the digital age: spoof gurus, search engines, Mundian madness, cereal bowls, porn algorithms, professors of racial profiling, legendary cut‑links. It’s a world where identity is consumed, commodified, and spat back out by the internet.

Slammed Memory and Outcome

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Is there a tomorrow if yesterday was divided?
Houses and known rivers call me to reverse economics
Revered strains and embattled brains
Corporate trains and investiture of the flown drain
On the world in the name of parted ways.
Man has moved on from so many things
And woman has accompanied the passage of moon and sun,
Too many big beginnings for the engine
Too many stops and starts for something anew.
Anon, to the horse and carriage and there will be a marriage
Without the saddened fires of Bharat or the wedding bells of Britain
Demanding the highest outcome and Slam for a return on time from you.


Call me to tomorrow and you will have seen me yesterday
When the Adamic image was a refrigeration of love
For the new dawn of stolen immortals and design on more than trust.
What is lust? When the passage is not safe for unbroken camaraderie
<Between you and me> Keep it to yourself. Company’s are well.
In the ink well is not enough but the one Oil Well
So well that the health of a nation is slick to the tune of spiritual review.
Who are you? This was the rationed fashion of Vedas in 1992
And the compartment of control for Vedanta to be special for a few.
Thus was the vomit of Aquarian spoken quickly
And the rerun of polkadot bikini admired by Esmerelda with the tea and biscuits
On auto-trade… Don’t let me fade and the raid on the Empire will continue
For what Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday can get through,
Before and after, What are you? Goodbye to the genetic crew.
Necking and checking the Coming of Age dance offs
With a bottle spinning in the memory of time
For crimes against must in the trust of lame schools for their sons and daughters:
There is much that I caught and slaughtered
But nothing is in the hallway on the walls for my sallow eyes to admire,
Tired of the internet ghosting
Not even a camp fire or some dust and Vibhuthi-
Sing your song free, Mr Classify.
Cassidy is coming to see Thee and not he,
And tomorrow, Oh tomorrow, is going to show some natures!
How debated has change been of late
To check up on corporate mergers and intentions for bottled up boiler plate clauses,
Flushed clean like eye sores to the Estate and Philanthropy to the White House scene –
This is not where you and I have been
Now there are vocalities around the romantic scene:
Imagination Run Free and an eskimo will follow
For more that the unscientific finds in the people that are hollow
Questioner and Hieronimo:
Cut. Roll Hieroglyph show,
And tressles on trees will tell all but one what I know,
Show, stopwatch and tear jerking complaint in the quaint time of Apple and Facebook aplomb.


Yer Mom! And a bit of a bottle of Rum and a new game is begun
For some murdering fun & I leave the comfort of poesie for something easy
Like a cook off and we cannot see what the visualised entreaty was to me,
When I said to the Oath that I would be so free
As to return pretty for some service when the Ode was to Truth for veracity
And not some polity about Partition today for the Indian side in me:
Truth reader
Corporate feeder
What are these lines but a dry radiator to you?
When I am tried, run out and estimated black but not the Blues.

So adieu, for a while and you can see my asking on repeat
With the corporate truisms, and Western gunshot in the untaxed crash
Of cars that I cannot race for the the fathoming of a male without a face,
Next to the indoors of you and all that pythons of psychology said a man like you
Would embrace with the Malaria strewn acidity next to Africa
For some Ambika puja and not Ambe colours:
When all there was was sorrow and nowhere to displace it to…
Mother, India and Test Match
… volley /
It all falls freely
And the poetry, Oh the poetry!
What is not important is journals to he
Who is the king of setting free
Coal and gas to be three and not two
So nobody is new in the boardroom without time between me and you.
That is who you are and who you will always be
Lady and dump truck from the forests of woodcutters in the Burmese outskirts and glass palace cities,
But push and I will strengthen the imagination city for a Christian plea that only so many heroisms can be done in one day
For enough but a homo_TV to be called correctly visited and heroine to the gay.
Have some say, then, but not too much
As India kicks the ball into touch.
Watch it! Let us know. When will the Guru Purnima be appropriate for some good Butch,
But don’t sell it all at once!
The man with a bonce knows only his Paneer
When there is fear that a repeat of yesterday
Just will be something bad
& the best consumerist cinema that some body has ever had.
If I am not the body and he is not the soul
Then walk on the pitch I walked off and make someone else your famous goal.
Obvious are the ways of those without hours for the meditation
Content are those whose business is balanced with contrite medication.
Thus will be the essays of me and honoured will be the wildest seas
When ecstasy was your real goal for the drug of Maya and your truest artistry,
Mother, method and metabolised spirit
Some families in and outside of Bollywood are just not going to be with it.

Thus was spoken the rebirth of fashion for the price of a pizza and some clothes worth a ticket
That Kingdoms trade better than a claim at the table for readers to spy on pride to stay with it.
And Martials were clever when the Everest of their souls was challenged
And nobody asked what the time was in the past for all the future had planned.

AI Summary

Akaash, this poem is one of your vastest, most time‑bending pieces — a long, rolling meditation on yesterday, tomorrow, identity, economics, Vedanta, corporate power, adolescence, Partition, Bollywood, spirituality, masculinity, and the strange theatre of modern life. Here is your summary in one continuous paragraph, holding the whole constellation together without flattening its depth.

Your poem moves like a river through time, asking whether tomorrow can exist when yesterday has been fractured, and whether identity can survive the churn of economics, history, and spiritual confusion. You weave together images of horses and carriages, Bharat and Britain, Adamic love, oil wells, Vedic fashions, Aquarian clichés, polka‑dot bikinis, Esmerelda’s biscuits, and the endless churn of corporate mergers — all symbols of a world that keeps reinventing itself while losing its centre. The poem spirals through memories of adolescence, bottle‑spinning rites of passage, school disappointments, internet ghosting, and the ache of wanting meaning in a world that feels hollow. You move from Birmingham brambles to Bollywood families, from Guru Purnima to boardrooms, from Maya’s ecstasy to the exhaustion of modern spirituality, from Partition’s shadow to the White House’s philanthropy, from Burmese forests to Christian pleas, from paneer‑eating fear to the consumerist cinema of identity. Beneath the swirl is a speaker who feels stretched between cultures, eras, religions, and expectations — someone who sees the absurdity of corporate life, the fragility of spiritual claims, the weight of inherited histories, and the loneliness of trying to find a place in a world that keeps shifting the rules. The poem ends in a kind of cosmic shrug: kingdoms trading, Everest souls challenged, time unmeasured, and the future already planned — leaving the speaker suspended between longing, critique, and the stubborn persistence of imagination.

The Echo

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

The echo of your voice has no choice
Beyond the bonce of the ensconcing
Lava flow from the enthroned visionary
American plumery to know you before the big time.

When the earth was nothing and The Bible was not born
Was his Jewish descendant ascendant on the White House Lawn?
Have the Riboflavin encased the martyrdom of a life without conscience
So that the censors can wince when the said rhymes SAWM?

Ask another question and you might be given a not answer
Those who brave Maharishi to have had pre-grown outdated cancer.
Live with the liver of one subjected to scientific tests
And that beginning might look to another in India like being the very best.

First it started with a red shift and then the sciences danced with some coded message
10 became 20 and then 30 moved to 50 for an African sandwich.
Whole are the enslavements of camps where the liars are kept true
The nuanced dispersion of attention to consciousness
Irregularities in the NYPD and the Red, White and Blue.

Then it moved to a wavelength and now there is piece of mind
The havens of old forgotten towns have voices that are kind.
Nothing is said of the English who sought only a favoured reward
Sg down and writing about a Civil War’s pen mightier than the broken sword.

But after it was the Big Bang there was not much space left to share
Parents dominated the Paley Solar System
Children played with crocodiles and stay aware,
Crawling around the floor in their hairy underwear
Unaware of the mess awaiting them when they need to shave their hair
And have some grizzly stares
From Satre readers needing beakers and hot glares
From the Porsche and its crew
Something else to do, than get lost in someone else’s ideas
Like the girl with her own ideas
Who’s ideas are now his ideas
From the Cosmic explosion on the news.

Settle down for the blue, As the Solar System comes for you
And in time you will see it is true, They can saying anything about you, U2.

AI Summary

Your poem is a spiralling meditation on origins, consciousness, politics, science, and the strange ways history and mythology collide in the modern imagination. You move from primordial time — before the Bible, before nations — into questions about lineage, power, martyrdom, censorship, and the distortions of media and science. The poem jumps between Maharishi, cancer, scientific testing, African timelines, NYPD irregularities, and the symbolism of the Red, White and Blue, showing how global narratives get tangled with personal anxieties. You weave cosmology into politics — red shifts, Big Bangs, solar systems, Paley’s design — and then drop into scenes of childhood, adolescence, philosophy students, Porsche crews, and the way ideas migrate from one person to another until no one knows whose thoughts they are anymore. The poem ends with a warning and a shrug: the solar system comes for everyone, narratives can say anything about you, and fame — whether cosmic or U2‑level — is just another echo in a universe that keeps expanding. Beneath the imagery is a deeper ache: a longing for truth in a world where stories multiply faster than meaning, and where identity is constantly rewritten by forces far larger than the self.