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Waiting

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

We waited
We Waited
Oh why are we waiting
He was only the greatest
There was not enough room in the shoe for more than one
Why did they wait with us?
Hangers on
Goal Hangers
Manchester Munchkins
Sitting on the fence as always
And then there was the childhoos romance
The one without a ballroom dance
The doctor in Bath
The fat lady singing at the NHS
The nigger lady of the land who would not undress
Guinevere set free at last
Free at last
Thank Martin Luther King Jr she is free at last.

And King Arthur was never again seen on the simple shores of England
As the land was cleansed of naturalists and the nationals who rinsed the Lingam
And set the land dry.

AI Summary

It’s a poem about waiting for someone who never arrives — a childhood hero, a mythic figure, a version of England that once felt noble — and the speaker watches that waiting curdle into bitterness, racial hurt, and the collapse of old stories; the poem moves from football chants to NHS corridors, from childhood romance to Arthurian legend, from Guinevere’s imagined liberation to the drying of England’s symbolic rivers, all while circling the same wound: the sense that the land has lost its magic, its fairness, its innocence, and that the myths that once held it together have been hollowed out by prejudice, exhaustion, and the slow erosion of hope.

Are You Writing To Him

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Are you writing to him?
The gay man at the end of the bar
The one with a handlebar moustache
Checking out the fellows with draught beer.
Do you have some autumnal cheer
Like randy sweet ecstasy befriending the cocoa butter
Dances in the middle of the dance floor
Sweet French kissing when the numbers are up:
What is the showman
When the empty cup is always half full?
How does he know my so well?
Who takes his photos on Instagram?
The shop has a door where the custom is welcome
The personage had a past where these things were shut out.
He likes to scream and shout
The old man called Paul and Jock –
Two o clock and it’s pistols at Dawn’s
She like to play hard to get
And my life is an enormous amount of regret
Shadow debutant feelings
Energising a wet towel on the bathroom floor
And selling some products for London’s COVID environmental workers
The tear jerking from a jerking off man
Planned Satanism revival lamping one on the face of the nearest poet
The Arts are not funded in Royal towns in London
Again and again, he speaks of the medics name
Naked in the rain like Adam buying John Betjeman a cold hard won drink
Dripping with icey perspiration from the thoughts of a delightfully dinner
And some conversation about love making that makes the condensation erotica.
An advert perhaps – announcing the change in temperature?
Sirs. Please. This is Birmingham.
We have so many Civil Partnerships to go…

AI Summary

It’s a poem about watching a man at the bar and feeling the whole machinery of nightlife, desire, regret, and self‑consciousness whirl into motion — the moustache, the beer, the dance floor, the Instagram poses, the old men shouting, the poet worrying about his own life, the COVID workers, the unfunded arts, the rain, the imagined conversations, the erotic charge that dissolves into embarrassment, humour, and self‑reflection; the poem moves through Birmingham streets, bathroom floors, pandemic memories, and literary ghosts, ending with a wry acknowledgement that the city is full of civil partnerships, full of lives intersecting, full of stories that never quite resolve, and that the poet is still trying to understand his place in that crowded, messy, human scene.

Breakdown Boundaries

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Past this point I don’t want to know
What is the developer’s story about who will grow
And how much is the cyber-sex with me in my room
When the witches are in role playing games
Away from their broom.

Get some space in life and let me have my things
So I can balance the happiness that decent things bring
Like a car, a house, some checks and a bit of Jazz
In the End of Days nothingness will be all that I ever had.

Anything for Culture

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Anything for culture
A watermelon on a Saturday afternoon
Shopping in the rain
A subway trip instead of a minicab.
Bread rolls and some quarter measure of cheese;
Laying off the wine for a lazy Sunday and a game of golf.
Where is the wolf that will eat up my day
Taking me whole into the night for sexual imagination and a good night’s sleep.

I troll the internet deep
I look for my mate in the rain
Someone to appeal to my brain
An intellectual conversation in the rain.
She would make that repetition trite
Something black, someone white?
Who knows if the Asian one would be tight,
It’s my day off and I’m the laptop King.

Some music, some nachos and some time to sing
I don’t care when they are around
The noises in the moody weather
The office fiends being clever
Resistance in the celebrity scene
People who know what my art work means
Residents who have been there before
Workers in their own right feeling a bore.

Why don’t you feel more?
I’ll give advice one day.
Something merry, something gay
There’s always something lesbian to spiritually say…
(Come Back to Me from Hampstead)

AI Summary

It’s a poem about the small rituals of a weekend — watermelon, rain, bread rolls, golf, music, nachos — and the larger hunger underneath them: the desire for companionship, intellectual connection, emotional resonance, and a sense of belonging; the speaker scrolls the internet, imagines conversations in the rain, wonders about attraction, listens to the weather, watches office workers and celebrities, and feels the weight of being observed and misunderstood, all while trying to keep his creative identity intact; the poem ends with a wry, almost tender gesture toward Hampstead, toward return, toward the possibility that even in boredom, noise, and loneliness, there is still something “merry,” something “gay,” something spiritually alive that wants to speak.

The Walk We Walked

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The daily award went to the sun and the moon
The kept track of keeping count and what occurred.
Less regularly, I would walk alone down a local route
Other times I would find you in tow, wearing either trainers or walking boot.

The walk was a circular affair, like our relationship
Mother and son, friend and altogether familiar way in life.
We would avoid handholding as I was a grown man by now
But keep close in conversation as you were a demure woman somehow.

Like her cardboard sheet that rolled along the road
The City Council dustbin that had been turned over
The oddness of a child’s toy left out for the refuse collector
You never refused to find the same roads more, best and better.

I was seeking the high life and wanted something more extravagant
To compete with family rivals and those enemies who had it all.
We talked and then we walked and kept our time apart
You knew how to counsel me downwards to protect my sacred heart.

Then one day you died and the roads were parted differently
They were all left for me. Some for Mondays, some for Wednesdays
It didn’t matter which day I walked on. The ghost was still forever
And I was as cold as a rainy dance by a tribesman lost for now and ever.

Then I came back to my senses and walked past the shops and their food
Remembering how you nursed me when I was a pauper and being rude;
Professing about how I had nothing and life had treated me unkind
Until Church was where I returned to, on a path that was troubled to find.

AI Summary

It’s a poem about the circular walks you shared with your mother — the trainers, the boots, the cardboard blowing across the road, the overturned dustbin, the child’s toy left for refuse — and how those small, ordinary details became the architecture of your bond; the speaker remembers wanting extravagance, wanting to compete with rivals, wanting a bigger life, while the mother quietly counselled him downward, protecting his heart, until her death broke the circle and left the roads to him alone, each day of the week carrying its own ghost; the poem ends with a return to shops, food, childhood memories of being nursed, and the rediscovery of Church as a place of orientation, a path difficult to find but necessary for healing, grounding the grief in a final gesture of humility and return.

Hopeful Soil

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The service given by the appropriate surroundings
The error of expecting more than one turn out.
Save me from the hopeless rerun of fallen birds
From trees that do not know the name of their photographer
And keep watch over the hopeful soil of wandering men
Who always want to be closer to something.

I am healed when the water is running past me
The avatar of the meadow is the running grove
It is dispelling my illusions about time and space
I am more likely to hear what you have to say:
Say something kind and I will offer you an apple.

From the tree
From the grass
From where the barren nature devoid of human sympathies does not pass.

There are places where we can meet up and seem
Similarities for the fortunes of frightening nights
When the moon was more patient than the lustful sun
That told of one more confession that needed time to erase the muddy deed.

AI Summary

It’s a poem about seeking healing in the natural world — the water running past, the meadow as avatar, the grove dispelling illusions of time and space — and the speaker asks for kindness, offering an apple in return, as if rediscovering a simple, ancient form of exchange; the poem contrasts this purity with the barren places where human sympathy fails, yet still imagines meeting points where people can share their fears, their nights, their confessions under a patient moon; in the end, it becomes a meditation on gentleness, on the desire to be closer to something real, and on the fragile hope that even muddy deeds can be softened by time, nature, and the quiet grace of being heard.

Hardening the Gardening

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The image of the garden
The likelihood of success
The memory of afternoons slaving away
The absence of film footage.

Very fast forward thinking
Each year is subliminal plotting
The edging is border frontier
The flower beds will cost something dear.

I am not the footfall soldier
Clowning around for lawn mower cuttings
It is a labour of love without reward
To plough the land and scatter expectation.

The Council will collect the clippings
The parents will be pleased with hedge trimmings
It’s time to paint the lonely shed
It’s not going to be Cedar Wood or Red,
There’s time waiting for us with some internet shipping.

Bedroom Silver

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I sit awake where once I was slumbering
And face the great clouds that dream me numbering
The hours of the day and the minutes of my self
Where I cannot espy the mountains of Hobbit or Elf.

Then why does my imagination wander? Why is there care?
Why do I fascinate on what is not palpably there?
As the demure misty evapourated silk drifts past my visage
There is space in me for errors of horse and carriage.

Maybe I am wandering in an astral plane with Lord Tolkien?
Could it be I am in the past with Queen Victoria and her calling?
As I write and am baulked by the chalky coloured gaseous substance
To reveal my own inner essence lest I am appeared to disappear in trance.

Screening from right to left, there is nothing left of me as the Sun’s promise
Yet you did not talk to me about your hidden powers when you eliminated my vice
By giving me something to look at and stare, so self-help aware,
That I cannot but give thanks for the pages that pour forth as a dare.

These are the chairman’s words from the ad hoc bedroom where he sleeps
Drifting like the raining contrite ether that envelops these words, shallow and deep;
From them stems forth a day and more voicelessness to be recorded and noted
So that the nature that is outside my window can finance nakedness that is bought.

Pride

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What awards has Nobel given?
What estates has he blessed?
Where is the evening out of his grace?
What is a school tomorrow for his pride?
When is the State alive for what could be planned?
How long is the dictionary lane to the organised meeting?
What is the roughage of the shit of a Psychological Degree;
When all it still is is property, Flag and the Celebrity Centre of Scientology?
What has the medic done in England?
What is a GP to the boy scouts and girl guides handing out cookies in America?

#MyBookieWookie ^ LSD
Time controllers again and no awards
Verification
Leader by attribution
No other nation
Tibet cannot be Rwanda
They list the causes
They control the donations
Now he sighs when all is branded
Now he complains when his Indian sex orgies have been commanded
What is the complaint that Arjuna knew to give Krishna
Once a nervous breakdown, always unreliable.

For why do you war, Russell, and shit on the talk show couch?
What are these laws you speak over & why does Jimmy Kimmel and Matt Damon make you say “ouch”?
Who did what to whom when Rishiboy graced the world,
With a flash of Depakote for Epilepsy on the BBC?
When Aishwarya wore leather for Wossy?
And his fat ugly wife bought shares on Images on the computer?
When is a King so inert?
When his Princeship is codes in a predicted poet?
When is his child so revert?
When blondes are their prediction from a poet?

Slow down there tiger and lets lets,
For Akaash Rani that you won’t let go…
I know all the biographies of demonic English writers
When will you share with us this Krishna,
For God’s sake, surely, that is what we’re having a go at?!

With

(Yo Mama)
The Pharcyde on Cassette in the 1990s
So tell them Noam as you hide your plans
To dominate the world as Plato from victory land
That Israel is Is it Real for the worst of human kind
And shit on a Church that Bill Clinton still wants to teach Russell Brand to find.
Give us the tape from Hulk Hogan, sir, of your cock being sucked
For the losers in Haridwar that Will Smith taped to touch
Then, maybe then, you’ll see the Rish out in public land
As the worst horror of politics so old, white and demented for anger to understand.

What were your local elections and how do you follow the teacher
For Abishek using Aishwarya too many times in print
Run the hurdles in your private schools on English land for a stint
Turn around that fashion in the world of time
Pity the failure you see in Rohan and Ritesh that is not karma…
Give Peter McDonald one more try
For an essence of Indian law courts with Jenny Afia and a Jewish creampie.
Once

#FreeTibet is not my organisation
I wrote #TibetForever because we were 1990s Scientology

AI Summary

It’s a poem about the collapse of trust in institutions — Nobel prizes, states, universities, psychology, medicine, celebrity culture, political leaders, religious figures — all of them swirling together in a chaotic, accusatory, grief‑stricken monologue where the speaker feels betrayed by systems, misread by strangers, and overwhelmed by the noise of global narratives; the poem leaps from Rwanda to Tibet, from Bollywood to Scientology, from BBC scandals to American talk shows, from Indian family names to English schoolyards, from Krishna and Arjuna to Russell Brand and Noam Chomsky, all while circling the same wound: the sense that identity, sexuality, reputation, and meaning have been hijacked by forces far larger than the individual; beneath the fury and satire is a deep exhaustion — a longing for clarity, dignity, and a place where the poet’s voice is not swallowed by politics, gossip, or cultural projection, but allowed to speak from its own centre.

The Travelling Man

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Life moves forward like a light shade in winter
When the snow knows the neighbours alarm
That the doors might be open in the lounge next door…
Letting all the heat travel throughout the house
Warming the fictional dormouse in the child’s homework
As the parent’s go bezerk at their choice of Christmas toys.
Something for the girls something for the boys
An ebullient sexual chemistry set from the chimney sweeping imagination
Of a top down economics in Industrialised England
About what the wealthy need when the poor man has spent
All his money on the kitchen table pies and cakes.

Is the caravan worth it this year?
Or do I need to cut down on the rudimentary beer?
Laughing on the phone about his personal performance all alone
When he has come home from travelling to the office in downtown Montreal.
That is where the American man knows his autumn from the fall
And the conservative consummate professional addresses Churches differently.
There is so much to see in life, why wait outside a Church
For the Fall of Man to pull you in and leave your office life in the lurch.

What would it profit you to gain your soul and lose the world?
In a world where the presence is felt at some point for Eve, the (new) girl.

AI Summary

It’s a poem about the soft forward‑motion of life, like winter light slipping through a neighbourhood where open doors warm fictional dormice and parents panic over Christmas toys, while the speaker wonders about caravans, beer, office workers in Montreal, and the way churches pull people in with the old story of the Fall; the poem moves between domestic scenes, economic worries, seasonal shifts, and spiritual questions, ending with a quiet reversal of the biblical riddle — not what it profits a man to gain the world and lose his soul, but what it means to feel the presence of something sacred in the everyday, embodied in Eve, the new girl, the reminder that life keeps offering beginnings even when the world feels cold.