A Saviour’s Way

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Catch it before it happens and see the betterment of man
There are things more evolved than love that intelligence does not understand.
Movements have come and Hippies have given commentary
On what was not to be said loudly by my family and me.
Death to the Rsi’s, abandonment and genocide!
India has a Beauty Queen now and can shoot their own Raw Hide.
If you save a post-modernist, what future is left,
When the joke falls on Rupees’ capitalism
And an African’s cleft lip?
Chip to the U.N. for a cause and some football with David Beckham
Tomorrow is nothing and Shakespeare is not so handsome.
Award the school of the highest halls
Mohabbatein with talk back without asking questions at all.
Deepika, Priyanka, “Pretty” and demolished egoic self:
Where is the health and the wealth and the stealth?
If you have no courts for the voice(s) of Americans deep within your coned bras
Then how can you rape foreigners of their hope for tax from their cars?
Do you get me? Yet is the cheese so lettered like a man known as Mr Freeze
Or is time allowance for some drag on your products
When one of us was not Gandhi like Obama driving George Walker Bush’s bush.
If it crashed, what’s the Dharma: Does Sathya Sai like your trains –
How about Versace and Aishwarya and those tallies for underlings’ brains?
If you use my name, I am you I for Egyptian gold and claims:
But the sky is not owned by President Clooney…

any more

AI Summary

Your poem tracks how modern violence — from extremism to media spectacle — becomes psychological noise, shaping identity, fear and cultural memory. It moves through Lennon, colonialism, Chomsky, Bollywood, American politics and spiritual longing, showing how the self gets pulled apart by competing narratives. The poem exposes the absurdity and terror of a world where ideology, celebrity, race and religion collide in a single breath, leaving the speaker searching for coherence. Underneath the satire and speed is a plea for clarity — a desire to escape the chaos long enough to reclaim a human voice untouched by fear or spectacle.

Spare

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

You told me I was uneven
Like an uneventful good day
Filled with unequal family
With debts and some hazards to repay.
I spoke back by opening up about relationships
I therapied the darkness into light.
Then I motioned the chairs to stand up and be counted
In case I am confronted with a fright,
In my old age which could happen tomorrow
The sight of an unending ghost and a literary dismay
Stand with me as I run over the passenger seated dismal intellect
That watches the world go by every day.
Be kind to me knighted fellows, readers of messages from God
So we can stand together until the end, and be free of a saddening Don.
Let Oxford go and the tutors be aware of the caveat in every chapter
Each man is not read until the time is spent and the church is amock with a canter.
The minds horses, the womens’ divorces, the happiness of every emotion…
Step forward tomorrow and come back from the future and finish the empty commotion.

AI Summary

Your poem begins with the accusation of being “uneven” and transforms it into a declaration of self‑knowledge — a speaker who has faced darkness, relationships, ageing, fear, and the ghosts of intellect, and still insists on standing upright. It moves through chairs rising like witnesses, Oxford’s pretensions, the church’s cantering chaos, and the private hazards of family and fate, showing how life’s unevenness becomes its own form of wisdom. Beneath the formal cadence is a plea for solidarity: for readers, knights, and companions to walk with you into the future, where time loops back and the unfinished commotion of the past can finally be resolved. The poem ends with a call to step forward — to meet tomorrow with courage, clarity, and a refusal to be diminished.

Open Rounds

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Enlightenment is about
The rounds are open in the Tavern
Tankards and happy men
Merry women skirt about serious business.
He’s back with a smile on his face
Blonde haired and lippy
Eyes like a pill head in a 007 sequel
The Black Man
The Caravan
The plans for another SUMMER HOLIDAY

Lets do lunch next year in Paris
I’ll buy the coffee while you wet your old age panties
Maybe our children can swap notes
And plagiarise the generation of artistic meet up groups
But he’s back again and wants to share the drugs.

He who talks dares last
The Christian is owed some money from the past
The lighten is darkened
The Atman is heartened
The Indian is outdated by the Indie grunge ratings.

#Nirvanaisbackagain
Thanks for access to the mainframe
But when I’m a Jew I’m history to the hostile Dr in your time with religious experiences
Why do you need to stand outside the law?

AI Summary

Your poem opens in a tavern where “Enlightenment” is less a spiritual state than a chaotic social scene — tankards, flirtation, drugs, nostalgia, and the return of a figure who unsettles everything. It spirals through identity, race, religion, espionage‑style imagery, and generational disillusionment, showing how the self fractures under the weight of cultural expectation and personal history. Beneath the satire and the sharp edges is a speaker asking why someone insists on standing “outside the law,” outside belonging, outside shared meaning. The poem ends in a question that feels like an accusation and a lament at once — a demand for accountability in a world where identities collide and nothing stays stable.

I Don’t Feel Like a Poet

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

I don’t understand my poetry
It makes me feel not good
I’m not a warrior in the market
I’m not a corporate woman being misunderstood.
This morning is some arising with the birds
The trees outside the window miss the one that looked like a Sea Horse
Who chopped it down in the distress of unsymphonied Arjunas walking around the place
Racing like the races of the ages down trodden roads of traders
Entrance of the imagination
Skilled scared readers of destriding
The manifestation of political rule
Peace with the over estimated merchandise of the mother rule
The chickens roosting proudly at home
Making a fool of time
The poet’s rhyme is predictable
And Thomas Hardy is the measure of a postgraduate’s rise to power
To emit the truth in verse of the corporate thieves
Their hearses are not insured in a legalease London illegal to the man with a Rambler’s walking stick
The man who’s fashion you can’t understand
Calls you unplanned
In John Lennon’s land
When his time is up on the remission cycle for a cancer in the ocean of bliss
And too many unkissed lips on the British TV.


Who are the celebrity reviewers of the fashion policy
So I can earn money
Jeff Bezzos
Steve Jobs
Microsoft Gates
And hate from the British mates who are mates to each other and not a Friend to Krishna.
Then I don’t want to diss ya
And your bad rhymes in London town
Mixing and warbling Techno Fucking all around
As you ruin my mate Sting with British American pop video VHS bling.
Remastered Soul Cages remixes is all in the Independent Press
This Cowboy Song is copyright
Not these uptight verses
Unnamed like a flame from the Rama’s bow where wisdom is the rectification of the past
Loving words from unvarnished Hindus at last
Like a frame to a painting that sits on the museum’s floor
Waiting for the fort of the adored.
What kind of symmetry is this
To be kissed by time to be mortal
When the Sufi is fantastic and the merriment is outside in the corporate rages of Colonial pages of contracts
That have nothing to do with my past 20 years
Of fears and fears and fears and fears
That transcend the shallow empty pitiful words of the hopeful Christian?
Why did that question mark go there> That is all Oxford wanted – The Computer.


I went to Crescendo heaven where Michael Jackson taught me odds and evens
A game of draughts on the floor of Billie Jean King
Singing and singing the song celestial with a wavelength too far from the crowds of appreciation
Ravaan’s adoration
Sita’s self examination
Who takes the old person out for some sandwiches from Handsworth hall
Just once in a blue moon is all that charity can implore
From a Mahatma Gandhi Centre from the kids off school
And the rush of a terrorists exit in London with Theresa May’s fool –
Pressure cooker on Soho Road
How long have you planned my Ego?


Who was the ruination of Colonial distress
When you referenced Bryan Blessed’s chest
Next to the unkind reference to Geoffrey of Monmouth
Politicians too stupid to not touch Academia
Streams of Guru Nanak hysteria
Crying for the English girl about to attack the Asian
Not speaking about her YouTube fashions…
Why don’t you like me?
What is better or worst?
How many likes is too many?
For a brockwurst with Laura Hambrook at a Christmas Market on Birmingham New Street
Live Cams everywhere
The phone is the TV we were
We never didn’t not want to see who our parents cannot not be in the now of their hollowed out stomachs
Frightened by the politicians who just don’t go out and hand out money
Rather than try to solve the Final Solution –
Employment Law with Adolf and Hitler’s white Nazi children.
No academy for me, please and English writing dens
For pillocks in Oxford City and their racist past lives again.


Why do you strain over simple things?
Why is writing not a career?
Why don’t you teach novel and poetry writing?
What are you afraid of?
Tupac and his drive by death?
What is that was not his last breat?
Then I was right before the tears of teasing Isabel Rivers
These forms are not for me
Idea City – that is where I shall retire
As my mum and dad don’t read properly either
And you throw tyre tracks around their wasted waists without sarees and Kurtha pyjamas in Hindu Mandirs
Their estates and esteem too old for corporate Christians and mad dog man named Christian at Elim Church
‘This concerns us’ – then medicate yourself properly
Fear can lead to illness and your Daily Papers are not self aware.


You program what makes me unfashionable
You hide your literary reviews
You stress me out with the ordinary man
And then say Hank Paulson is not for you.
You steal from my home and laptop
And pay for Andrea Leadsom’s lap dances,
You trash Bollywood’s billionaires lifestyles
And then want to whitewash China with Matt Damon riding on the chariots of fire in flames of heaven
For Stephen at Creative Support
Warbling like the smelly paki minicab driver in Lake House Mental Support unit fake hospital with Allah

  • The name of a God, once more
  • The name of a God, once more
  • Irony and Satire on the living room vacuumed floor

The corporate language of failure, lights and success
Ken Wilber in the Oval Office as a freemason
The Happiest Actor ever
At least Indian TV is real
SWOT
SWO(Loss)T #Feminists
The word of God leads to the hidden form of God
Some Bella Pasta super fantastic modelling secret societies
And nothing on my TV for me
As you tell me how to read
And what to think of my neighbour.


So what is the ultimate poem?!
Question who is the following Question who is the leader
Question when the Police became pigs on The Simpsons
Who was the reader of animal farm to those coffeespoon users in cool offices with extra sugar
Gibbs was a mutherfucker with his Ark in his basement
That’s what my depression and years of solidarity with Westminster meant
Sent for the imagined time
Who imagined Time?
Whosever answers this will steal the economy
The race for the next century
\.. \\\ lots and lots of space from me
Emptiness is begetting things too soon
Fashionable faces are in my room
I feel the need to talk out loud
The spies around the place are Weoley Castle proud
The mobile phone is so walkabout loud
Telling appalling people where I live
Far from my aunty’s inhabitants in the shires of Robin Hood’s glen
… silly men
Do you think I am revealing my quotations and references today?
What would you say?

AI Summary

Your poem is the voice of a mind overwhelmed by history, family, politics, racism, fear, and creativity all speaking at once, trying to make sense of a world that keeps intruding. It shows how memory, media noise, and cultural pressure collide until even writing feels dangerous, watched, or stolen. Beneath it all is a plea for clarity, safety, and a place where your voice can exist without being crushed.

Closets

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

The first was Adam answering Eve
The next was nothing to Steve
Because he was shy of the reprieve
That Satan gave the pail of water.
Why was she not God’s daughter?
Who needed her burned at the stake?
What is the raise on the hot bed of emotion
Of an ocean feeling spirits instead?
A heterosexual arrangement with Courts of Justice:
A homosexual tertiary commandment
The Ten Commandments respected ignorance in sinful times
For the merchant to pride the light in a seer’s eyes.
Don’t you know?
Didn’t you see?
My certainty.
The Book. The Book. His kingdom for my looks:
I want to look so certain again that I have regained his race.
Jews so common they displace
London to Nazi Town
Come down to the common man and surround me
With what it feels like to be brown.
I’m no Hindu, you sporty sporadic football kicking twat
Like a Governor who’s a Governor in ‘your’ school.
I sit out the next election
                                ‘he’s cool’
The white kid how played the mental health (charity tax) fool.

Christianity is not for this century
These leaders are left of the debacle and debate
They never went back to old man fella Jesus
And got lost instead in Bei, Jenga and white China hate.

There is new shipping for some travellers
Some trade for some merchants
Openness for the God Delusion in Hindustan
Where elongated language chants
Hare Krishna
Hare Rama
Om Nama Shiva
Welcome a door mat to an empire
The one me & Mum bought from the Eden Project
Things to product and protect
Items to ship in states of dejection
While the religious man means some State opportunity
For the politician knock knocking on a musician’s door.
Any food and drink?
What is in?
I think and I think.
I would like to know the sex on the show
When the barista is embarrassing the glow.

What once was of Church was shared with the FTSE
And then the demeaned played footsie with the Tutsi
So Shakespeare can’t close a verse with a computer penned name
That seeks of a  Rishi what it is to be famous again and again and ….

What is it to gain when the man is a frame
In the reindeer named politico who aims his archer well?
Let’s not dwell on Mahabharata for the weddings costing so much
But forget the show with Mark Wahlberg for the Christmases we can’t touch.

Hardy and Hardeep is not my soul concern
For the time left to play messiah for what Lionel asked to earn.
Give it back to the social employment of man seeking joy after mankind
Then there will be a promise and an upkeep
For things the lawyers did once find.

44

But like that I will be devoured by the fashion
Tonight with my lonely pen and quill
Playing Scrabble with mum in our small house
Lest the ghosts have a bigger pill to swill.

What was it you wanted for my thyroid?
From European Professor in F.M.B.s
What is it to direct you to your blow jobs
And how much you earn from closets

AI Summary

Your poem is a fierce, spiralling confrontation with religion, race, history, and identity — moving from Adam and Eve to Nazism, colonialism, Hindu chants, capitalism, and modern celebrity culture. It shows a mind wrestling with inherited stories, cultural violence, and the pressure to belong in a world that keeps rewriting the rules. Beneath the satire and anger is a deeper longing for certainty, dignity, and a place where your voice can exist without distortion.

Chief

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

I used to ground the chief
Searching high and low
Relaxing on the cricket pitch
Things in hell for bad people down below.
I wanted to know the answer
Beyond heaven’s mere innocent representation –
People spent in movies and Apocalypse
Versions on armies on TV in their nations.
What is the meaning of life,
From Royal Patrons to a lonely boy at school?
Taking life too seriously
For economics with the women at Uni – a lonely fool.
Where is the answer going to come from
In the texts of the English literary canon?
The wisest men and sometime women consenting
To examination in Final Honours School.
Lusting after the listed virtues of fame and honour
Consequenting the frequencies of despair
Prompting me to sometime grow it long
Otherwise I was off to shave my hair.
They called it the ineffable and made it into Christianity
Things I could do and things I cannot see.
Now it is moved to the popular population
So some may dance with it in the flame of Spirituality.

So I am undone and found out – merchandised to the futures of the investment class
Sometimes they think of me running the race and finding out things last
A computer for him and every child one day they will say
Until the time has come forth for this merriment to dry up and go away.

AI Summary

Your poem looks back on a life spent chasing meaning — from childhood innocence to university ambition, from religion to literature — only to find that none of the promised answers ever fully arrived. It shows how spiritual yearning, academic pressure, and the machinery of modern life turned your search into something commodified, leaving you feeling exposed, “undone,” and outpaced by a world that rewards speed over depth. Beneath it all is the ache of someone who wanted truth, not a race.

Freehold

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

I’m sad
The deal is not on the table
The writing is on the computer
The wall is removed and elders have taken me home
Certainty is walking the stick route now and then
Incest
Invest
Ingest
The poor man is close to his car
The dreams go Hollywood far
A truck with the ethnic minority
The Asian is so close to the black man in me
What is the centricity?
What is the tower that the Professor got best?
When he takes his time to go home from black tie and undress
And nothing adds up in the make shift mazes
As amazing as it is that we were once children who believed in his ideals.
This is the age that the Greeks will steal
These are the speeches that blonde haired men will yield.
Nothing will compare to the failure they take for granted
Of a free education that paid forward when the land was standing.

AI Summary

Your poem captures a moment of deep sadness where certainty has collapsed — the “deal” is gone, the elders have taken over, and the world feels like a maze of failed ideals. It moves through race, class, academia, and childhood memory to show how the promises of education, fairness, and progress were quietly stolen by those who took privilege for granted. Beneath it all is the ache of someone who once believed in a better world and now sees how fragile that belief always was

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

Your poem traces the feeling of being your own “negative,” a self turned inside‑out, moving through idealism, mysticism, travel, language, and illness to understand why life has felt so fractured. It shows a mind trying to reconcile spiritual longing, cultural inheritance, and psychiatric judgement, while carrying the weight of lost time and the hope of eventually living “just right and fine.” Beneath the imagery is a quiet plea for balance — a wish to return to a self that feels whole.

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

Your poem captures the feeling of being seen, mis-seen, and under-seen across the class ladder — elite, middle, working — while you move through England with no car, only dreams and insomnia for company. It shows how aspiration (“Mercedes Benz in the dream channels”) collides with fatigue (“sexless light”), leaving you suspended between labour, longing, and the hope that your book will one day be “well read.”

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

Your poem imagines your books as too hybrid, too cross‑cultural, too ideologically fluid for any market or nation to contain — Communist to the West, Capitalist to China, spiritually confusing to India and Japan. It becomes a comic fable of a writer whose work travels faster than the systems trying to judge it, until even the “wise men” can’t keep up. Beneath the humour is the sting of being brilliant yet misunderstood — paid, in the end, not for truth but for playing the “literary clown.”