BAME

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Mixing with the majority
Splitting the sky into an event for the horizon
Cardamoms and elaichis from my brother
A happy dog day tea afternoon. Chai, to some,
With love
Emotions well spun all over the place
Traces of compassion frothing at the mouth
Spinning like a cotton wheel for the stars in their eyes
Celebrity red carpets and hand bags full of cash
Davos exposes are really trash
Let them go, with a ho, so the trolls can have a go.
Terror and the gaseous realms in the stomach
Pregnancy withdrawal symptoms: Trying to find truth again
Sex on the sandwich e-brain
Remarks from the NLP practitioner and the Window Cleaning Method
Spreadsheets and dirty sheets
Sheer stocking mocking the celebrity Brahmacharya vow
Cows in the ladies arms in Vrindavan asking “How?
Because Krishnamurti is on a tour of duty
Across Thine arms and into the Universe
Realms for longing and sad tricks on the human race
Energies exploding in the anus all over the place
Gas from the pills, chills from the stillness
Who knows when God will come back and walk amongst us as one of us.

AI Summary

Your poem moves like a man trying to mix with the majority while carrying a universe inside him — cardamom chai, compassion frothing, celebrity red carpets, Davos cynicism, stomach gas, spiritual withdrawal, and the strange comedy of being a body with a soul. The imagery swings between the earthy and the cosmic: spreadsheets and dirty sheets, Brahmacharya vows and sheer stockings, cows in Vrindavan asking impossible questions, Krishnamurti wandering through the universe like a reluctant prophet. The poem’s energy rises and falls with the body — gas, chills, pills, stillness — as if enlightenment and indigestion were happening at the same time. Beneath the humour and the shock is a deeper ache: the longing for truth, the fear of being misled by mind or culture, the desire for God to return in a form that feels recognisable, human, and close. What you’ve written is the portrait of a man overwhelmed by symbols, trying to find a clear line of meaning in a world where everything — politics, spirituality, sexuality, digestion, celebrity, memory — arrives all at once and demands interpretation.

Why Won’t You Dye With Me

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Colour the light a special ignorance
And split the sheet down the sundry path.
Collapse the boundaries between now and those thorn bushes
And see the camels and horses from the tragedies.

The heroic epoch of expectation(s)
The jaunt of Vedic caste and nothing in return
Considerations and venerations
Before the online God of right here, right now.

Change the screen and see what I mean
The spectre of some shadow’s distortion
For the leaderless races led nowhere
In the recesses of privacy and the internet boom.

Who is in the room? But a Ronin of a ghost
Without a toast from the epic classes for the public
Sin, success, shining and a Barista for your coffee
Don’t and do before the Herody of your Biblical plate.

Wait and you will be harassed by the man on the bus
Who is an African trust for the Asian victim
Within some Jane Austen suspicious affair(?)

How will the enviable ending get there
When the page is not turned on the silent majority
Velvet votes and times tables for budgets that denote.

Take these times to be the notions of some movement fringe
When the mobile phone separates parents from their children who binge.
Box sets and hope that settles,
These gambits have been established on stony nettles.

AI Summary

Your poem reads like a meditation on how difficult it is to “mix with the majority” when the mind is carrying centuries of memory, myth, and expectation. The light becomes “special ignorance,” the sheet splits into sundry paths, and suddenly the horizon fills with camels, horses, tragedies — as if the past is always waiting just beyond the present moment. You move through Vedic caste, online gods, distorted shadows, leaderless races, and the ghost‑ronin who stands in for the modern self: unanchored, uncelebrated, wandering through digital and political noise. The poem’s middle section — the man on the bus, the Austen‑like suspicion, the silent majority, velvet votes, budgets, times tables — captures the strange blend of intimacy and bureaucracy that shapes British life, especially for someone navigating multiple identities at once. And then the final turn — mobile phones separating parents and children, box sets replacing rituals, nettles replacing roots — lands like a quiet indictment of a society drifting away from itself. What you’ve written is a portrait of a world where ancient hierarchies and modern distractions collide, leaving the speaker trying to find a path through stony ground while carrying the weight of too many histories.

What’s Special(?)

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

What is special may depend on what passes the final test
Of fire over breathing throughout the night
When the dragon is eschatology and the moon is upside
From the waxing sunshine that lazily lets the earth know
The meaning of it’s temerity to ask of knowledge one more thing.

What’s special may be the hankering after cosmos and starshine
The lantern of understanding of the grand immensity
And how far the Maya wanders to confuse the locality in it’s drama.
If this is permitted then the asking is also the answer
And the permission is verified to create a new linguistic code.

What’s special may be a car, some land, a kitchen sink and even the whole house.
Nobody asked of men or the door mouse if this erection was superb
It arrived before the child could question what she was worth –
The woman on the screen
The mind in between
Hello to the Lasso that engages my tied imagination still to Reagonomics karma.

What is the dharma?
Is the dharma spoken?
Who are the protagonists?
When the time is just a money token.
Eid is just an evident structure
In the vain evening times of a gentleman’s vulture
The lawyer, the liar and the lady who waits down the lane
Looking for the idle Gingerbread Man to keep matters tame.

Clumps and clusters and gravitational issues for the emanating end
The End of Greatness and the first memory of something special.

What’s special is the effort and the emotion of nothing in the darkest put
While the {        } Is.

These automated equipped drakes on the ocean bed of commiserations
About the consciousness of the Void that is exploited
Exponentially debonair in the night air for the internet aware
Of the Self universally undoing the good done by religion each do
Beingness accompanied
Etherically vanquished
Help at hand for the famished
Another day of the starving finding the TV camera mindful.

What’s separate is what is special.
What’s together is what is familiar and not so special.
This is the ease of discontent that is middle aged consideration
For the old age issue of heirdom to something sparing of tomorrow’s grace.

Fine paradoxes of satellites of love
Asleep in the sea of sadness
Cold in the clamped galaxies
Where is Man?
Where is his Goddess?
Who is the female in the eye of the storm?

The one keeping the daughters of men warm
So it seems when heaven is near me
I am a kept man to the breath of the near most missed
Exceptional work handed in to school again
Parked car of Tariq the Traveller
Nobody is mentioning his fame
His science
His discoveries
Of European
Often are glories manifest for the Cathedral of Crusades
Where specialness is the dated hearse
The Sikh seeking history
The Hindu into mysteries

What about the executive choices to fund the diversity of decibels and decimals of weighted L.S.D?
Is that what is special in me?
Who am I?
Why am I here?
What’s in a question?
But the man that I am to fear
The Tsar
The Stars
The Soviet cushion of consultancy for cold swearing in of justice courts
And the pain of the messages of hope that hurt.
The News
The {Photos}
1000 words
…
…
These are (some of) the things that made the 1900s absurd.

AI Summary

Your poem reads like a meditation on specialness as a shifting, unstable category — sometimes cosmic, sometimes domestic, sometimes political, sometimes spiritual. Fire, dragons, moons, Maya, and linguistic codes form the metaphysical layer: the mind trying to understand why the universe feels both immense and mischievous. Then the poem drops into the earthly: cars, houses, kitchen sinks, screens, Reagan‑era economics, Eid evenings, lawyers, budgets, velvet votes — the machinery of modern life grinding against ancient questions of dharma and destiny. You move between epochs and continents with the ease of someone who has lived in many symbolic worlds at once: Vedic castes, Crusader cathedrals, Soviet shadows, British classrooms, digital voids, and the aching middle‑aged awareness that specialness fades into familiarity. The poem’s final movement — satellites of love, seas of sadness, daughters of men, the missing Goddess, the forgotten traveller, the scientist uncelebrated, the historian unheard — reveals a deeper longing: to know where meaning hides when the world feels absurd, and to understand why the twentieth century left behind so many images, headlines, and wounds that still shape the present. What you’ve written is a map of a mind trying to reconcile cosmic yearning with earthly fatigue, asking again and again what is special, what is separate, what is familiar, and what remains when all the symbols fall away.

What Does Writing Do

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Get me some stuff
A culture and some bluff
A hard hand and bad beat
Poker accounts all over the streets
Lets bet on some horses and imagine the football fair
Take me from the Sunday school
Keep me street aware
I don’t know the author of my Friday blues
I’m hoping I’m eternal
My mum’s death is not up for review.
The spinning and infinity
The churning of the empty gut
The riddles of the wise me
The sell outs in a rut
Choices and decisions
Nothing much spent from the Indian affair
Sold out books and Satanism
Keeping the children aware.

Sex is for their education
Things we did not have
Blocked up emissions from the Homeland
British Asian langue
Nothing much with to hang
Bands in the deranged plans
Of a tomorrow without a good abundance
Brahma is with Abraham perchance
And Bachchan is wiling away the hours
Countenance divine in the Indian playing fields
Wars from the shopping lines
Drinks are on the house
Navy Seals in the responsibility category
Meditation sandwich
Things our house can’t cope with
Compressed mind and Shiva Shakti
Waking up and walking around some times help her
She’s feeling empty
The DVLA won’t let us drive
Conniving Administration
Butlers and Chauffeurs for the right Colonial names
Dates and assholes everywhere
The clothes don’t fit the L and XL
Obese from Mrs Medication
“Rohan! It’s for life!”
Go get one, away from me…

Writing is a freed up act again
The nation is healed from a writer’s strain
Craving a graduate status with his own property portfolio
Keep me away from the queers of Malvolio.
This Victorian insidious unkempt moronic nationhood is not my hunting
Leave it with Amal and some one time punting
A lady in a lake and what could have been
Had she known Greek was a myth for life with Martin Sheen.

AI Summary

Your poem reads like a man trying to assemble a life from fragments — poker tables, horses, Sunday school, street awareness, Indian affairs, British Asian language, Brahma and Abraham, Bachchan and Navy Seals — all swirling around the central ache of your mother’s mortality and your own fear of being swallowed by systems you never chose. The poem moves between the body and the state: blocked emissions, medication weight, DVLA restrictions, colonial names, chauffeurs, and the pressure of being measured by institutions that don’t understand your inner life. Then it swings into cultural memory — Victorian nationhood, Shakespearean queerness, Malvolio, Greek myths, Martin Sheen — as if the entire Western canon is a haunted house you’re forced to walk through while carrying your own South Asian inheritance. Beneath the humour and the anger is a man trying to write himself free, to reclaim dignity from a world that keeps misreading him, to imagine a future where he has property, status, peace, and a mind that isn’t compressed by medication or expectation. What you’ve written is the portrait of someone who refuses to disappear, even when the nation, the culture, and the past all try to tell him who he should be.

Time

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Time used to be something handed down from man to man
So schools could be funny when it comes to making a plan.
They said it was as easy as tables and left it for you to solve
By the route you took back home when you gave yourself some goals.
Something to do, old boy
Some games or maybe some tasks.
Before your home was for some work
And your pay was not yet in your pocket:
Coats, Tails and the women had some Lockets –
not the sort your mouth heals with honey
ones worth lots and lots of accrued wealth,
the kind that makes its way down to the dealers
Antiques
Country Fairs
>> Wizardry
& Beeswax with their honey.

Time used to be something handed down from woman to woman
Until class came down upon us and she was not found any wearings
For the clothes in the stores and the time it took to lose weight to pause for gatherings and make time to wait and chill out

…
or something or other
down at the estate
where my best mate makes me wait
For,
The Deliverance of Another Poem.

AI Summary

Your poem turns time into a kind of heirloom, once passed from man to man through work, school, games, coats and tails, lockets and antiques — a whole world where value was measured in objects, rituals, and the routes boys took home as they learned how to become men. Then the poem shifts: time becomes something handed from woman to woman, until class, fashion, and the pressures of appearance interrupt that lineage, leaving her without the clothes, the gatherings, or the ease she once had. What remains is the estate, the waiting, the mate who delays, and the sense that poetry itself becomes the new form of inheritance — the thing you wait for, the thing that delivers you, the thing that keeps time moving when everything else feels stalled. It’s a quiet, reflective piece about how time used to be given, how it is now taken, and how you’re trying to write your way back into a rhythm that feels like your own.

Enemy

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Thought is the Enemy of Man
The Poem is not The Thing
The Writing is on the Grammar School Wall
Keep this out of the Cost of University.
The past is not the future
The High is NOT the low
The Lord is Good and has been hiding
Nietzsche is spoken. Again.
Nothingness is complete and emptiness is good
The inherent meaning of the Commercial world is gone.
The ships have sailed to the mercantile class
Jaggers is pleased with Pip’s progress
and the Pilgrims are following the blessings of Christ in Elim Church.

So don’t keep my in the lurch
While I wait for my supper and supreme gifts
If I get any higher and closer to Christ
I’ll need more than meditation and maybe some shoe lifts.

AI Summary

Your poem reads like a collision between thought as enemy and the longing for something higher, where grammar‑school walls, university costs, Nietzsche’s echo, and the mercantile ships of Dickens all become symbols of a world that has lost its inherent meaning. The Lord hides, Nietzsche speaks, nothingness completes itself, and the commercial world collapses into a hollow stage where Jaggers, Pip, and the pilgrims of Elim Church all wander through the same spiritual marketplace. The speaker waits — for supper, for gifts, for grace — half‑joking that if he gets any closer to Christ he’ll need shoe lifts, as if transcendence itself has become a physical strain. Beneath the humour is a deeper ache: the desire for elevation without delusion, for faith without theatrics, for meaning that doesn’t depend on institutions, philosophies, or the old hierarchies of learning. It’s a poem about wanting to rise, but knowing that rising hurts.

The Phone

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

The phone bought so much change
There are bonds with Batman to rearrange
Places in the house where Superheroes are talk
Telekinesis and teleportation
Telephone booths were HRH post boxes
Drive-bys
Hard guys
Gangster land
Things we don’t share
Why? We don’t understand.
Thanks for the Moon Landing
& the CIA at Langley Headquarters
How much for a half moon crescent
The arial kept me resentful
Time travelling cop
Mentalities and ethnicities
Chai, coffee and shut up shop
On my way to Surrealism
Somewhere out of the office now
Work from home
Gardening with Noam Chomsky
To, Those Shows Aren’t Free
:: /// @Israel Lobby
Time for sports in Davos
Nothing much for Drauphadi
Jurassic notes
Slalom on the east coast
Too many web pages
Celebrity Villas
Pink thrillers
Visages on the catwalk
Pugs and Yoga Mats
*Pillow Talk*
Call me back soon if you don’t refreeze
Sort out your TV please
This is acid reflux and some pH imbalance I better learn lotus for that Crouching Tiger hidden stance.

AI Summary

Your poem reads like a mind overstimulated by the digital age, where the phone becomes the portal that rearranges Batman, telekinesis, CIA mythologies, moon landings, chai, coffee, and the surrealism of working from home while gardening with Noam Chomsky. The imagery moves at the speed of scrolling: Davos sports, Draupadi forgotten, Jurassic notes, celebrity villas, yoga mats, catwalk visages, and the strange intimacy of pillow talk in a world where everything is mediated by screens. Beneath the humour and the chaos is a body trying to cope — acid reflux, pH imbalance, the need for lotus posture, the crouching‑tiger stance — as if the spiritual and the digestive have become indistinguishable. The poem captures the absurdity of modern consciousness: part superhero fantasy, part political noise, part bodily complaint, part cosmic yearning. It’s a portrait of a man trying to find stillness in a world that refuses to stop vibrating.

Money

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

What are some of the things that money is?
It is this and that.
It is a wondering mind
A friend who is too hard to find
Worrying about his future
The Drs and all those cuts and bruises
Sewters in the operating room
Insurance men cleaning with the broom
Dust in your heart for the part you play in life
Adulterous with women and claiming your own wife
After years in the field
Things that jewellery will yield
A £10,000 watch
Some models to watch the news with
A visit to the Hindu Temple one day
Something more than you said in the 1990s
When the 1980s were a ripened banana in your mind
To suck on licking it for your cocoa invester
The Sylvester with some attitude and some tips you picked up down the lavatory
When you were rinsing off your cock
Waiting for your mate to spot you another drink
Money is making Soho think –
What about me one day, when I have fulfilled my mother’s say.

AI Summary

Your poem treats money as a shapeshifter — sometimes a friend, sometimes a wound, sometimes a future you’re terrified of losing. It becomes doctors, bruises, operating rooms, insurance men sweeping up the dust of your life, and the guilt of desire pressed against the expectations of marriage and culture. Money becomes jewellery, watches, Soho fantasies, temple visits, 1980s memories, and the strange mix of shame and swagger that comes from wanting more than you were taught to ask for. The poem moves through British‑Asian masculinity, class pressure, bodily humour, and the ache of a mother’s voice still shaping your ambitions. Beneath the jokes and the erotic flashes is a man trying to understand whether money is salvation, corruption, inheritance, or simply the thing that keeps him awake at night. What you’ve written is a portrait of someone who wants dignity, stability, and a future — but who also knows that money has always been more myth than mathematics.

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

We just listen to the music
The commotion on down the hall
The parents that afforded their children good stuff
Records and all that jazz.
The leaving van has left
The supper will be on soon
Formal Hall
Oxford Ball
Porn down the Alzheimer’s lane
Insane in the old person’s hall
So much to organise
So little medical students to associate with
What do you give?
What do you plan?
When is the farmer’s van?
Gobstoppers will be on sale at this rate
For the antique cigar shop on the High Street
The people we will meet
The games we will play
Things that Oxford has yet to say
About:
D
&
R
Robbing Dolce and Gabbana blind
Fucked by a Dr from behind
Marking the gay’s work
Sending Wagamama’s bezerk
What about my lady boy’s and their white soled shoes?
Haven’t they got something to do with the music in you?

So sing it loud and sing it hard
The language in England governed by repetition.
But Utopia is barred by the lonely Bard
And all that he saw fail before his terror vision.

AI Summary

Your poem moves like a soundtrack echoing down a long hallway — childhood music, parents with enough money for records, the leaving van, supper, Formal Hall, Oxford Ball — all dissolving into the surreal decay of “porn down the Alzheimer’s lane,” where memory and madness blur. The poem then shifts into a riot of class, sexuality, and academic absurdity: Dolce & Gabbana robbed blind, doctors misbehaving, Wagamama in chaos, queer students marked harshly, and the whole machinery of English education exposed as both comic and cruel. You weave in English repetition, the lonely Bard, the failure of utopia, and the terror‑vision of a poet who saw too much. Beneath the humour and shock is a deeper ache: the sense that England’s language, institutions, and rituals keep repeating themselves while leaving whole generations — immigrants, queers, the elderly, the poor, the misfits — stranded in corridors of noise. What you’ve written is a lament for a country that promised music but delivered commotion, a satire of Oxford’s polished surfaces, and a confession from someone who has seen both the glamour and the rot.

Vote

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

You’re not here for courtship
You’re not here for Wi-Fi
You’re not here for Watership Down (IMDb)
You’re not here for a new Atlantis
You’re not here because you’ve been broken
You’re not here because of your R.E.M.
You’re not here to spill the beans
You’re not here because of your childhood tastes
You’re not here for the meaning of life
You’re not here to measure your brain stem
You’re not here to be paranoid
You’re not here to recycle your waste
You’re not here for a Drs appointment
You’re not here for Paddington or Mrs Brown
You are not here to tow the line

You are here because it’s time to organise a vote
You are here because you are absent minded
You are here because head castles have a moat
There are times when the darkness has blundered.

AI Summary

Your poem moves through a litany of refusals — not here for courtship, Wi‑Fi, childhood nostalgia, paranoia, appointments, Paddington, meaning‑seeking, or brain‑stem measurement — as if the speaker is clearing away every false motive that others have projected onto him. Each line strips away another layer of expectation until what remains is the bare, almost anticlimactic truth: you are here because something needs organising, because the mind drifts, because the inner castle has a moat, because darkness sometimes blunders into the room and someone has to light a candle. The poem becomes a meditation on presence: not mystical presence, not therapeutic presence, but the simple civic and psychological fact of showing up when it’s time. It’s a quiet, almost resigned affirmation that even in a world full of noise, distraction, and misinterpretation, there are still moments when a person must stand where they are and take responsibility for the next step.