Uncategorized

Alien Obs

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

The reverse of me
Natural negative
Polaroid mind
Demonic finds
Stereotype kinds
Human kindness
Laying down
Back on ground
Astral rounds
I think I see a Kestral for a Knave.

Naïve idealism
Messianic saviourisms
Why would I control the future
That is not successful for me?
Distance between stars
Travelling far between nations
Craving the righteousness of stations
Where the light would be consistent
Safe grounds for the resit.
Take time for the coffee beans
Mayans used their nodes for their in-betweens
So say some of us
Grinding the roast on the Machu Pichu omnibus.

Safer where I have been
Sufi Healer and the leanest loan
Helping some people at home alone
So aloneness is balances
And checks have their balances
For the American media machine
Parents in control of giving something to complain about
Arjuna’s route
Can you say route? the Yankee Way
That is the way the Daoists say
Stuck learning English and the found first difference of explorers
To note the contention that people are stirrers.

The messages within are Clairaudience and hidden
From the Psychiatrist who judges me and leaves me bed ridden
Hearing here and far for the motion that is sickness
And nobody to talk to for all that hymen weakness.
Sexual depravity
Escapology and annuity
I look to mature my loan against time
So much lost time
To one day find I live, just right and fine.

AI Summary

The poem explores the shadow‑self — the negative image formed by fear, stereotype, psychiatric judgement, and spiritual longing — and the struggle to reconcile idealism with the painful realities of illness, loneliness, and lost time. It moves through mystical traditions, cultural references, and personal memories to show how the speaker has been misunderstood, pathologised, and spiritually displaced. Beneath the imagery lies a deep yearning for safety, clarity, and a life that feels whole: a desire to reclaim time, to find balance, and to live without the weight of shame or the distortions imposed by others.

University Banned

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Seen by the elite class
Undersold by the middle class
Decidedly working class,
I continue my journey to the earths of the newest things in England.
There is not such Royal imaginings
As native callings and truths beholden to time
When the right time strikes nine
When the schools continue to go out to play.
9 to 3 has so much say
As I avoid the traffic in my carless existence
Drop to Mercedes Benz in the dream channels
Keeping me awake at night in the passion of sexless light.
I’ll sleep when I am dead
And the book marking is well read.

AI Summary

The poem reflects on class identity, longing, and the quiet ache of being mis-seen by society. The speaker feels observed by elites, undervalued by the middle class, and aligned with the working class, yet continues searching for meaning in a changing England. Dreams of luxury and desire flicker through a life marked by rootlessness, insomnia, and a “sexless light,” while the poet’s commitment to writing becomes both burden and salvation. Beneath the imagery lies a deeper sadness: the sense of moving through a world that doesn’t quite know where to place him, even as he keeps writing, keeps dreaming, and keeps going.

Too Good

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

My poetry books were too good
They hurt the open market
They were Communist when they were Western
And Capitalist as the Chinese paused for thought.
The British told the French to leave it alone
The Germans told the Londoners to socialise better.
The Indian prayer left Ganesh at the alter
To find out who my letters were addressed to
While Japanese asked 7 Samurai what the Bleep* Ken Wilber was to do..

So forth the ride is funny when the wise men are about to calm the rapid writing down
Then I can come home for money which the rich men will pay me for being a literary clown.

AI Summary

The poem reflects on how the speaker’s poetry defies ideological, national, and cultural categorisation, unsettling markets and confusing institutions that try to label it. Westerners see it as too radical, Easterners see it as too commercial, and every nation projects its own anxieties onto the work. Spiritual icons, cinematic heroes, and philosophical thinkers appear as bewildered spectators in this global misreading. Beneath the humour lies a deeper truth: the poet’s voice is too fluid, too hybrid, too alive to be owned by any system, and so he becomes the “literary clown” — the one who exposes the absurdity of cultural gatekeeping while waiting for the world to finally recognise his worth.

That’s What They’re All Like

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

That’s what they are all like
The actors and the politicians
The same culture devolving the ground it’s merit
Worsening the clay earth for a lack of manners
Rudely protruding mountains as mouths to feed Allah
Fisting the sky to triumph the winnings of God
In Complaint
In Obedience
… In
Me.

Only Death

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Only death can accomplice the accomplice
To the greatest theft of all time
Settlers of the sting of the century
All money in the Cloud with Rishi’s rhyme.
Who is Sunak when the lights go out next year
No conscience and no wife to insult the Queen?
Who is Sai Baba hiding his life
,
When Chris Cornell is where the idol worshippers have been?

How will England grow without her own staff?
Enrique Moses bowls crap compared to the past.
Why do you smoke weed with Bill Gates?
To measure one long generation only to caste?
It is because of the sadism and the masochistic mum
The actress who taught Mrs and Mr to Radha Krishna
Then the moon turns and the tide draws near
When centuries are counted and not scored in India.

Click.
Click.
Slog.
Boom!

AI Summary

The poem confronts the corruption of political power, the collapse of spiritual authority, and the long shadow of colonial and caste histories, weaving together figures like Rishi Sunak, Sai Baba, and Chris Cornell to show how modern culture blends money, worship, and identity into a chaotic spectacle. The speaker exposes the hypocrisy of elites, the confusion of spiritual seekers, and the generational wounds inherited from both family and nation. Beneath the satire and anger lies a deeper grief: the sense that centuries of history have been mishandled by those in power, leaving ordinary people to carry the emotional and cultural fallout. The poem ends with a sharp, explosive rhythm — a refusal to soften the truth or pretend that the world’s contradictions can be neatly resolved.

Common Parent

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

How much he takes out on us
Riding the bus like a common parent
Things that he meant to say but left in clues
Something for me and the politician’s cold cold hearts.
Blowing the socialist world wide apart
When the Wiley Coyote shit is ugly like a bird pooing on the alligators down by the African stream,
As friendly as an Oxford hall
When the men were nice and the problems were small.
Oh how the ages have been unkind to the mind
Stained glass windows with the gaul to show up in my house
Chasing the rat to beat the scientific mouse
When the culture fades into an LSD spin
And the naughty mouse wins to epic the story for the Djinns.

Mentalisms

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

I’m not that kind of poet
The type that times the earth
I know where I have come from
It’s just not that kind of worth.
I’m angry with the children
They won’t listen to what I’ve got to say
And by the time I get a hold of them
I don’t write about The Gay.

Who wants to know where Jesus is hiding?
Who wants to see Muhammed’s disrespect?
Who thinks Guru Nanak can have an equal?
Who likes Krishna to love some regret?

Maybe that is the continuance
The meaning of life for the 21st Century
What happened when Eliot befriended Krishna?
And wasted lands for his alliance with Sannyasi.

Tomorrow’s plans may spring from an asset stripped 1980s
When Kryon was a stranger to Enron too.
Where Americans face the final ultimatum from Ron
Live without the Newspapers or your politicians are through.

Where’s my Minority Report, Mr Malthus Cruise?
And those tapes of cassettes from Mini Discs of the CDs I was meant to become…
A land like India so clothed in respect for the native
Something for anyone to lecture on anything sitting on their bum.

So God bowled me over and let me be the top wicket taker
At school I played in goal and stopped cricket scores
Before being a “demon on the west wing in Hockey”.
Some fames were therefore for me & my brother played cricket for County.

… [insert Dream here]

But then we arise on his 50th birthday
A brother with no goals and lots of self respect
Responsibility for his younger and pains for his mum near death
Wandering like a ghostless plain close to his last breath.

Is it true the Rohan did not think the cousins warred
And fought like the white man to make the cemetery closer
For sex with the gang banging ginger and the necrophiliac in The Big Bang Theory
As cousin Amar throws our grades away….

What will be our saying?
Who will be our friends?
When can we call the real Time Out?
When shall we dance again?

So the monks journeyed for aeons
Lost in pain to grieve the stats
In Scientology since two brothers left them
And R J Ellory was king for a day.

One
Two
Three
Four
Is that a Hindu or a Paki knocking at my door?
Resident in England but 40 years
So certain of tattoo art for all his tears.
How can I quit drinking?
Where is the detox jokes at Rohan now..
How many Jack Daniels do you dream of: For that petri dish wife petrified of her karma and how?

[Release]

AI Summary

The poem confronts the struggle to define oneself amid cultural, religious, familial, and psychological forces that constantly misinterpret or distort identity. The speaker rejects being boxed in by labels — poet, Hindu, Paki, saviour, sinner — and questions the authority of religious figures, political systems, and family expectations that have shaped his life. He reflects on childhood, sibling responsibility, academic pressures, addiction, and the pain of being racialised in England, weaving these experiences into a critique of how society fails to understand or support those who fall outside its norms. Beneath the anger and satire lies a deep grief: the fear of being forgotten, misunderstood, or consumed by forces larger than himself, and the longing for connection, clarity, and a life that feels whole.

What Do You Want From a Poem

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Insult in the morning
Insult in the evening
Insult when the sun goes down.

At least that is what the thought police put around
Some damn right downtrodden verses from Dante
To get me to look up the skirt of some clouds and sexy rain
Thieves in the brain again looking for an angry allegory.

A world left behind by children not right in the brain
Schools advancing with the messages of loyal fathers
Straining again to meet with modernity
And the computers that prop up the economy.

That mobile phone is for me!
July was the month of buying some big fat fucking expenditure
Now I feel like I can face my old age with some dentures
If that’s the medical system in store for us all.

Keeping things furious with the space between me and the Royal Festival Hall
Life is never going to the same parks and playing so rough
When the swings keep women busy for the children growing up tough.
So be it then for conspiring to dress down on Fridays
When the wind if thought about is thinking of my day.

I Feel Watched

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

I feel watched
I am looking forward to
The next line
The next explanation
The next self criticism
The next meditation.

The trees are still
The mind is heavy
The brain is pressured
The sky is rainy
The next meditation is tomorrow morning before 9.

One day every morning will be fine
This is just the aftermath of being in the afternoon of the aftermath of life
Trying too many things
Thinking about things twice
The next meditation is obsession.

Maya is a misdirection about the Indian lady’s midrift
There had to be no rift so the imagination was used
When I saw the Bollywood two live crew
Being too few for me to mention names
Mending the Partition bridge for the bride on Maine Street
Not so many geographical locations to go
For the mind to know which place to go
To settle down and accept I am brown
When I feel nature’s need to go downstairs
And have some herbal tea to spell back sales to The Church

Leaving me in the lurch like the Drs and Nurses of Psychiatry
Making the NHS rich with medical pills and historical diversity
Measuring selves and making my height an issue
Ripping up trade agreements so Parliament can know things anew

Fiduciary duties and the watched man of the politician’s thrones
Blaming Donald Trump for being in my mind
Oi! MP! Matey! We leave you alone!

And on they went picking up issues like bags of crisps on the floor
And the science of the clouds looked down on the poor
Looking for more
Looking for more
Easily etching out nature on the minds of the innocent
Looking for more
Like William Blake
Give me a break mate – what of your lawyers charging these rates?
Staring in my mind
Treating me unkind
Don’t you know the English rule the waves with their nationhood?
I don’t know all their things?
I didn’t memorise their names!
Who is P.B.S. to me?
Why do you hear the need to quote out loud the wild words of the past.
That was not Shelley
This is my caste
I am what a Brahmin is to Shakespeare when he looks past the glass
I stare out of in my bedroom when my window is double glazed.
The casting of the workman required to change it into a wooden blind stares me blind on this freeman’s salary with the Freemason’s down the road
Handing out leaflets with me at the Conservatives
(Kali will turn me into a toad!).

So this road I am on is long and I tire at page 3
Because this is Energy
“Save some for me!”
he said, delightfully.

I Am Meditation

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

I am a meditator
Between this world and the nest
The open plan office of my brain
The workday harangue of demonic stress and understanding.

There is no one standing under me,
I am alone at work all day long.
The night is like a shouting wolf in the merry snow of Christmas in Leeds –
Sold out entry to next year’s competition.

Friends need revision & the memories are always there
but underneath are the Gunas are they despairing
I am paired with my mother for thanks and regretful lifestyles
Machines and cold waters
Open deserts and travelling daughters
The ones than make the past so enjoyable for men in the field of toys
so little to be thankful for when I consider myself gone

It won’t be long before I seek self-demanding understanding
The plain mug of tea and the lacking saucer
The night time Horlicks accompanying my pressured day to sleep
Then I will drink deep & calculate the art of landing on my Tweets.