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Its Not Ours

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

The method followed the madness
The Prince was in the library
The plotter was asking him some questions
The writing was on the wall again.

There was a strain in a writer’s imagination
He wanted to get on the mortgage ladder
But he fell off each time he put his foot on a rung
The wash basin was only full of cold water.

This is the time of revenge of God’s daughters
They face rebuke for the laments of the past
The 1980s casting and 1990s torrent ripping
Where is the dripping wet pussy in the orgy of vanity fair?

Success is staring me in the face!
That was all it mistook.
Some chardonnay reference and lingering lingerie on the floor
Dresses of link and camouflage

  • I’m releasing and relaxing again, now I’m a poet!

AI Summary

It’s a poem about a writer caught between ambition and collapse, where madness fuels method, a prince sits in a library under interrogation, and the mortgage ladder becomes a symbol of every rung the speaker can’t quite climb; the poem moves through cold wash‑basins, the imagined revenge of women wronged by history, the vanity of sexual fantasy, and the cheap glamour of chardonnay and lingerie, before landing on the moment of release — the speaker recognising that, despite the strain, the failure, the longing, and the absurdity, he has returned to the one identity that steadies him: the poet who can turn chaos into language and find relief in the act of writing.

In Your Face

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Interfacing
Rialto submission
Terrors in the inner vision
Lost in derision
I am having a cup of tea again,
Sipping the lipped conclusion
Of a sugarless concoction
Some potion for my motions
And a good shit in the afternoon, instead.

These are the days of the well read
There is less time to stay in bed
Some duties and rudeness to the government with attitude
Lesbians and gays and old men and women
Trust in the news so the data is so abusive
Mental dementia and alzehimers prevention
When will I be healthy to spend money again.

Travelling is the strain
Saying no to the City Slickers (IMDb)
Something crystal clear
Like the arrangement with old dears
To quote a film star and recommend some culture
For the work of legal vultures
And risk a good example of the temporal nature of time.

AI Summary

It’s a poem about interfacing with the world while feeling half‑detached from it — a writer sipping a sugarless tea, watching his own body, mind, and culture misfire around him, noting the days of the well‑read, the shrinking time in bed, the government’s rudeness, the anxieties of ageing, the strain of travel, the refusal of City Slickers, and the absurdity of quoting film stars for legal vultures; the poem moves between humour and dread, between bodily honesty and philosophical drift, ending with the sense that time itself is a temporary arrangement, a fragile contract we keep trying to understand even as it slips through our hands.

Generalisms

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If it’s not in it is out
What is it?
If it is out it is in
Who are they?
The lady in the library
Meets the man in the gym
After the orgy of time-tastic travelling
In the after affair of chocolate eating Lent.
This is what the cool guy meant
When he walked past the LGBT headline
Telling what is his and what is mine
Sharing the space on the supermarket floor
With the crowded till next door
And some variance for the science of journalism and what Mike Pence meant
When he spoke about negating White Supremacy
So the burden of proving responsibility and respect
Would fall on the Oval Office floor once again.
It took some time to train those dragons
And some money spent in the wrong direction of Allah
Where man spoke and Angel’s dreamed
And G_d was not a Shaman down the Native American Indian quarry.
That is not for me and where I ended up in 2013
Weed on the brain and silly men stealing my energy again,
Saying it all so for them as it for me
“You are like me” he said from Leicester at the NHS in 2013.
So that is the sexuality scene
Something wrong the poetic stream, next.
Too much of this and not enough of that
And no support from the academic prat.

AI Summary

It’s a poem about the instability of identity — the way “in” and “out,” “it” and “they,” sexuality and selfhood, public headlines and private memories all blur into one another; the speaker watches a woman in a library, a man in a gym, supermarket queues, LGBT headlines, political speeches, spiritual misdirections, and the ghosts of 2013, all while feeling the pressure of being told “you are like me” by people who don’t understand him; the poem spirals through confusion, irritation, longing, and intellectual fatigue, ending with the sense that the poetic stream itself is being disrupted by misrecognition, lack of support, and the constant demand to explain oneself in a world that keeps getting the categories wrong.

The Oxford Benchmark

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There was this spot I had chosen for the hermit life I had chosen,
But it was taken over by the doppelganger girlfriend who copied me,
And it seemed I was not alone in my meditations as I sat alone
Drinking coffee and waiting for the rest of the walk back home.
These were my times when I was able to break from the dormitories,
The passion for prose and essay writing amidst the clangour of library life
Where the heart was sullen and lost in childhood dreams of ivory towers
And the menace of missionaries who one day would claim the same bench.

This same bench was also the loveless interest where I had nothing to give,
The lady who followed me around and sauntered happily by
Seeking my advancement and rolling about in the hay as I walked by her College
Now in the age of the mobile phone – the 1990s generation of thinkers.
These are the thoughts of this vain verse that the needs of the bench outweigh the many
And my umpteenth impression is found on the other side of the universe
Where parallel realities record a version of events that remembers me kindly
And three more ladies who left me for dread as the philosophies claimed me heavily.

We say that together is something that happens when the love impeccably chooses the right person,
So that nothing is not the take over plan of the thoughtless who are subject to the ravaging of time:
These ways the sayings that were uttered on that bench will mark me for the innocence lost
While happiness is the ghost that I am wearing with music dripping down my ears, at what cost?
There are caffeine remembrances that will not be replayed now that the devil is exorcised
Those sugary moments and snapped up moments of undergraduate agreements and laughter;
There are new memories where the vision of what was is not what was – it is different
And perhaps this is what we were trying to disagree about: The man, the lady and the law.

AI Summary

It’s a poem about a young man seeking solitude on a chosen bench, only to find that space repeatedly invaded — by a doppelganger girlfriend, by missionary types, by women who wanted something he couldn’t give, by the noise of college life and the weight of his own ambitions; the poem moves through memories of libraries, essays, ivory‑tower dreams, and the awkwardness of being followed, admired, or misread, before widening into a meditation on parallel realities, lost innocence, and the way love, philosophy, and time reshape the meaning of a single place; in the end, the bench becomes a symbol of everything that was once possible, everything that was misunderstood, and everything that now survives only as a ghostly echo in the speaker’s mind.

Fur Casts

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Fur Cast
The last is first
First caste
The Brahmin knows the worst.
No brockwurst on his table
The Saracens are enabled
The Shogun know the past
The Samurai are 1980s at last.
Models on the cat walk
Famous men that can talk
Stockbrokers in Dubai
Royalties saying goodbye
Mendicants in the apothecary
Love in the noble boudoir
Arrangements and engagements
Was that what the Judges meant?
Say it is upstairs at three o clock
When the whistles are blown for crytpo stocks,
And the river Styx is dried into a parched red carcas
Imaging earth for the sunshine of Albion up above.
Davos at noon and the afternoon
Snow capped mountains in the Hindu room
Levity with briefs of the lawyers who believe
Again, in the merry go round of the spinning wheel.
Political correctness gone wild.

AI Summary

It’s a poem about the collapse and collision of hierarchies — caste, class, royalty, warriors, models, mendicants, crypto traders, Davos elites — all spinning together in a surreal carousel where ancient identities meet modern absurdities; the speaker watches Brahmins, Saracens, Shoguns, Samurai, Dubai brokers, boudoir lovers, and apothecary mendicants drift through the same global marketplace, while judges, lawyers, and political correctness whirl around like a malfunctioning wheel of fortune; beneath the humour and spectacle is a sense of exhaustion with the world’s endless reinventions of power, and a quiet recognition that the spinning never stops, no matter how many times history changes its costumes.

Control

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From I to we
In the mode of us
Where the autonomous
Are leaking information to the Press.
Nobody gets undressed
There’s a no sex please they are British sign on the door
The whores are not designated
The Bible is repatriated.
It’s tomb table tambourine man time
The cymbals and the high hats
Jazz on the mainline leading into town
For some negro with a saxophone and maybe some others with a double bass,
Spreading unemployment conscientiously studied by the Monarch –
He’s all over the place!
One for the money
Two for the hot wheels
How can there be a joke between us
When the culture is killed by the contract men who steal?
You crane kick me in the face
Like a Karate Kid lying Russian flying all over the place
Dragon Yoga is revived
Shantideva’s A.D., B.C. is survived.
Staying alive like a greased monkey fixing an automobile in the workshop garage down the road from Montpellier Avenue
After the carwash has cleaned the face of the writer worried about his funeral pyre and some good old adage in a sitting duck blue review.

AI Summary

It’s a poem about the uneasy shift from “I” to “we,” where privacy leaks into the press, British repression hangs on the door, jazz musicians haunt the mainline, monarchs study unemployment, and culture feels both stolen and collapsing; the speaker watches contracts, karate kicks, Dragon Yoga, Shantideva, garages, funerals, and Montpellier Avenue swirl together in a chaotic montage of modern Britain, where spiritual language, pop culture, and political noise collide, leaving him wondering how to speak at all in a world where everything — identity, humour, dignity, even grief — feels like it’s being rewritten by forces far larger than the individual.

Women Sell Handbags

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Women sell handbags
They walk down the lane
They trade in their penny lifestyles
To start with rebirth again.
They fashion the reminiscence
They market the free distress
They trend the social media
They find out about our mess.

The merchandise flies off the shelves
The shop keeper is smiling, he is happy
But when she gets home from her shopping
She won’t forget to change her husband’s son’s nappy.
This way keeps the retail turning over
Far from the man-exec with all his balance sheets
Profit and loss for The Prophet Muhammed
And the fine mind of an impartial Jew on Baker Street.

These are some of the people we meet
When the med let into their secrets away from home.
So get me down the garden without my wallet
And let’s go back upstairs to trade online for Garden Gnomes.

AI Summary

It’s a poem about the small dramas of everyday commerce, where women selling handbags become symbols of reinvention and survival, marketing nostalgia and distress while still returning home to domestic labour, and where the shopkeeper’s smile contrasts with the deeper economic and cultural forces shaping everyone’s lives; the poem widens into a commentary on profit, religion, class, and the hidden messiness behind public transactions, before ending with a surreal, humorous turn — the speaker slipping away from the marketplace, wallet forgotten, to trade online for garden gnomes, as if escaping the whole system by retreating into a private, whimsical world.

Wired

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Can’t see the man waiting for some change
It seems all things have changed
Transience is on the tale of infinity
There are all things within me:
Gone too far down the Transcendence Lane
Things won’t ever be the same again.

People are wired for exchanges
The enemy is waiting for me to mince my words
This would be absurd
Life is not all rhyming and slang
What about the fellows that hang?
Can’t I be a viral noose around their necks on some mornings?

Skipping down the steps of the Gurdwara
Silent amongst the pews of the Churches inside their own minds
This is the fallow soil that is human kind
Not always about Guru legislation all throughout the lonely land of tomorrow’s children
Corn, collapsibility and corroboration
These are the warning notes for the forts and the nations.

Don’t erect a Guru where an Avatar once stood
Telling me the world is my root problem with the self in your neighbourhood
I have things to say and places to go
I have my human rights too
Don’t you think I want to watch the human zoo?

Pieces are smashed and the range is exterior and extempore for the seeing to be enhanced
It seems that the Universe is on hand to catch all including 22 lest anything be left to chance.

AI Summary

It’s a poem about living in a world where everything is shifting — identity, safety, spirituality, community — and the speaker feels both hunted and awakened, aware of enemies, expectations, and the weight of human exchanges; the poem moves from the Gurdwara steps to the silent churches of the mind, from warnings about false gurus to declarations of personal rights, from smashed pieces of the self to the vastness of a universe that seems to be catching everything, even the stray number 22, leaving the speaker suspended between fear and clarity, longing and resistance, transience and the stubborn desire to speak.

Window Pane

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I did not sign on the dotted line
To stare out of the square window.
I stay at home all week long,
It is a long time to wait for experiences.

I don’t go to work like an ordinary man
I tried to turn my bedroom into an office.
It does not really work in my mother’s tidy and strict house
As I water my small garden plants every day.

I have so many things to say in these poems
I write all the time and make shift the dizzy heights
Of visions and lucid dreaming in the open air outside my house
Where the shed visits me with bigger dreams about success and wealth from my pen.

This is the writer’s den
The haven away from the world I enjoy
There I am at peace from the gearing of finance and economies
So I can play out smaller things to work hard at and enjoy.

AI Summary

It’s a poem about the long, slow days of staying at home, trying to turn a bedroom into an office, tending small plants in a strict family house, and finding that the only real freedom comes from writing — from stepping outside into the open air, dreaming in the shed, and building a private “writer’s den” where the pressures of work, money, and society fall away; the poem holds both the ache of isolation and the quiet joy of having a space where imagination, ambition, and peace can coexist, even when the world outside feels distant and unreachable.

Wind Racer

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As the wind hits his face
He impacts the ground
The winner of each breath
Pushing forward like Athenian hero
Heroes and heroes everywhere
Runners delight
Charity and lack of spite
Fair weather friends
Looking to make amends
A week behind the desk
What kind of hectic race is this?
A world of humans akin to rats
Laboratory and conditioning
It’s a beingness fact