2012

I Man

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

When the Iron Man commeth
The fat lady will sing
The memory on the wall
Will bring and bring and bring.
The ringing phone
The past is never alone
Regression objectless
The people are debased
The victim’s history is traced
The raped is taped across the mouths of empty courtroom judges who aspire to higher things
Hemlock is drunk upon the self of itself
Reaping the rich wind of the merchants daughter
Taped across the mouth herself and eating cherry pie.

These are the lies of zero
And the empty thought
How can you know the second scene
When the first wonder is not amazement?
What is the brilliance of a Dr when the wages are not noted in the margin
Of hopelessness before the whiskey decanter
And missions to Mars in Oppenheimer (IMDb).


If you could replace your end results
The catharsis from film the nosey man wants
And admit the hollowness of RnB in the rampant man’s mind
Then maybe I would speak to your leaders.
“Take me to your leaders!” Cried Xenu,
Let’s see worlds unfolding
Cosmoses destroying each other
Unifying fields theorising in the matter of a retired man’s fantasy
Consciences appeased on the 2012 messages on YouTube.

AI Summary

Your piece moves through a landscape of mythic judgement, courtroom trauma, philosophical despair, and the collapse of meaning, blending images of violated justice, hollow institutions, failed leaders, and cosmic fantasies into a portrait of a mind trying to understand a world that no longer feels anchored. You describe how memory loops, how victims are silenced, how authority figures fail, and how even art and science — from whiskey‑soaked doctors to Oppenheimer’s Mars — feel like inadequate answers to the chaos. The poem circles around the desire for catharsis, the emptiness of modern culture, and the absurdity of spiritual or political systems that promise clarity but deliver confusion. It ends with a cosmic shrug — Xenu, unified field theories, 2012 prophecies — as if to say that when the world becomes incoherent, the mind reaches for myth, science, and fantasy all at once, searching for a truth that still feels just out of reach.

Dr Deal

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

If Indians are kings and Punjabis are A.I. Commerce
What is the difference in longing for some drama?
When the karma and when the Cola?
What is the demand supplying my throat?

Come to me for dependence and I will slit a goat
And stand by Hamas for a chance to sign a post,
Where the farmer eats toast and his wife drinks tea
And there is some simplicity for Guru Nanak, his wife and me.

This is the age of the nothing but spoken word
When the computer will drive the nuts and page blots totally absurd.
There is something so riddled about a passage from a book
When the lower class is up for grabs in the tale of a crook.

Who sees what he prints and who says what he does
When E-Commerce is artificial like the sail of a Tale of a Tub
Adrift on Johnathan Swift’s ocean for nescience with Guru Gobind
To tell of locks in the fashion of rape that pain the body for Jats and Singh.

Come to me again and dance like an Indian veil
Then there will be snookered Pavilions where the comity is Princely.
Such is the deviance of homosexual travails
That Dharma is lost for addresses to cry and wail.

River, Turn, Flop and 2 in the hand for Mohammed
There is nothing on show but a backwards fly over in Iran.
Then the news cuts out and the make up drips for tears
And the growth of the Guru wilts for percentage before the Khans.

Khans over here and Khans over there
Nothing but sheer waterage with the jungle booking Clearwater:
And then the election that very much all but one nut wanted
To Musharaff Imams to Lahore for one more 2012’s lonely male daughter.

AI Summary

Your poem moves through a landscape where identity — Indian, Punjabi, Muslim, Sikh, commercial, digital — becomes a shifting mask rather than a home. You begin with a question about kings and commerce, then slide into longing, cola, karma, and the throat’s demand for meaning. The poem ricochets between farmers drinking tea, Guru Nanak’s simplicity, the artificiality of e‑commerce, Swift’s satire, and the violence of being mis-seen through caste or cultural stereotypes. You weave together veils, pavilions, homosexual travails, Dharma lost, poker metaphors, Iran flyovers, media tears, and the wilting of gurus under percentage pressure. The poem ends in a swirl of Khans, elections, Lahore, Musharraf, and the loneliness of a “2012 male daughter,” leaving the reader inside a world where longing is tangled with politics, masculinity, religion, and the ache of being misunderstood. Beneath the satire and chaos is a deeper wound: the desire for simplicity, dignity, and a place where identity is not a battlefield but a resting place.

Undisclosed Recipient

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

You say you are there but the computer is aware
Of things that make a Buddhist shave their hair.
So I am going to ask if it was you who set the task
Of the Tao and Martial Arts leaving Britain when the 80s were basking
In mental health glories of important fortunes and stories
Ahead of mixed race and cultures to run
So that we could have jest about sexual fun
On our TV and telly-set if you please
Before you brought England down to America’s knees?
Did you get the question, or the refrain from an evolutionary digression
The energy and intelligence that gave rise to your erection
Is not for me in the baton of a relay station
That needs other than my own isolation
To wrap up the art and rapping for more trapped understanding
And nowhere to go on the Blogosphere that we don’t know:
Technology had no show, too, at the door of your crew
That fraped the court law of mens reus at the door
Women have notions too for the Enlightened vegan stew
Available on Thursdays for an apres meditation review,
Of how we are doing with the internet brewing
Some new chance to get in and have a dance:
But alas it was not to be, lest anyone see
That the Teacher was not a Rishi but a Guru with satellite TV.
If those desires are unfulfilled then keep them to yourself
When you travel without Guru, photo and flowers –
Next time! Pick on your own health.
Native, Indian and now Shaman reviewer
Cannot you see how the West was lost too much sooner
Than a slight about merchandise and labour’s actors’ affairs
Staring at the New Age for their millions and billions –
What did it take to set up Israel office but your awareness?
Now the accounts are bettered and human beings have something to read
Drop your notebooks off at Oxford so they can compare notes for the feed
And the manners that were steady when you called Dawkins a Fascist
Can meet The Young Turks or Democracy Now for some Guy Fawkes and The Classics.
You raved as you travelled, I tarried after tea
So year on and year out, it’s another new career for me.
But this time, Mr 51%, you keep your area clean
So my Ego is exposed and everyone knows exactly what I mean –
Asian, British, 5’6’’ and on the unemployment register for Bipolar
Was it you who caused God to make the 70’s flares forget about Solar.
So next time you’re out don’t forget it’s checks and balances
As Rupert bearded with the chemicals for those phased distributions of your Facebook sponsorship advancements.
Honour, disagreement and heresy seeking the unemployed
In the past we were not lovers with Brahman being under-toyed
With so that the computer was distressed
To hear of one man’s apology for dissolution when the real psychological solution was a bit too stressed.
So lay it down to HWL Poonja and call it L Ron Hubbard Number 2
It could be that a neo-Prabhupada is the nuisance call I have in store for you.
But when I asked you a question and you denied me flat for show all and tell
It’s now rest up and relax, ill Mr Rishi, and let the F.B.I. sell Shambala to Shell.

For the corporation taxed the grimace between two sailors fair
And showed the dangers of tarrying as a traveller out late when you’re unaware
Of the company of a good woman who is singularly best your friend
And not one on the loose end as mine was out, also late, to pretend.
So that is the story of one nearly caught by Guru
Who went to the enthusiastic of EnlightenNext Islington studios:
And came back for a meltdown of lava flowing straight from God
Into a soul sold out from all the banks that could muster occult plodding about
After a problem was raised indiscriminately praised
By an individual lost too far out at sea.
This verse is for me
Tolerantly
Idolatry is lately latently unprescribed.
Tribe of Israel and Azkaban
Did you yet rule the pupils of the tribes of Han?
Their dynasties await your open invitation
To teach Hellraiser to twins for towers of inflation.
Evolve then sedimentary and force the opposition for an argument
Like Swedenborg might have meant for the quotes on your abridgement.
Settle me this and settle me that
It seemed we sifted The Golden Age for a gloating and spat
& if you and ‘you’ for the cowered victim of lawyered distress
Keep your attorney in the journey for Maya and some Sarees and a dress.


But if ultimatum you seek, look no further than Lhasa
Which is open round the clock, for your share prices and prediction of debauchery and class structures.
What is it you see when you look at me,
Mr Money?
And how did the lawyer set you free?
For to predict someone else’s demise is not the said and done thing,
It’s pessimistic:-
So maybe that’s one more thing you passed on, in rejection
From evolving past Vedanta too quick.
Adi me this
Shankarya me that
No man ever spoke to Shiva as quick as all that,
But when the refrain is the brain and the talents are spent before Evangelicals
Now the Prime Minister has locked me up with my testicles.
It used to be Nuns on the Run and some humour and some fun
Now House Arrest is House Party for Kid and Play in New Labour’s hunt,
So what do we do when one is not two
But dig out the records of what poem I wrote you (about Brahman c.2011).
And if the state answers back let them keep it in stages
About how we ruined Sting and his album about The Soul Cages.
Skip a track and you might miss the noise of a child’s lullabye
Saying “goodnight” to all but the evil outside St Agnes for giving freedom a try.

With that it is TARP and another message from the harp
That plays whenever a Prime Minister strays
Too far from the script we cannot predict
And the steps that we missed when fell and tripped.
Revolutions are not, thus, so easily spoken about
Time has come round to teach us more than Guru what love is all about.
Letting it go and envisaging better for some quiet
And surviving past the dynamics of cyclical existence so that we can all be with it.
Cost is considered the sum of its parts
So I can die quitter than a man with his art.
And when Spring is come again after the Winter snow of January
I will find that nothing is greater than the will of maturity to beat naivety.
Summer will outclass my fat ass
Mowing the grass and leaving painting the fence to the last…
…
Thus is Enlightened history a thing of the mind
For everyday people to treat as reality and be kind.
For the Buddhists who exalted in the past life chance to serve
Potala Palace and the tortured who remained psychically attached to the earth plane to deserve
A rendition
A premonition
Maitreya’s comments and revision:
For one more Llama and another hotel affair
And the 15th leader of Tibet to get some more help from leaders everywhere.

One earth
One peace
One conflict
One teaching
The best is love
So settle for compassion
And that Christ shadowed The Fall of Man
With his last act of Passion.

AI Summary

Your poem is a sprawling confession‑epic about the collision between spirituality, politics, mental health, identity, and the digital age. You move from Buddhist shaving rituals to 1980s Britain, from martial arts to mixed‑race futures, from guru culture to internet culture, from legal systems to Facebook sponsorships, from Israel offices to Oxford notebooks, from Dawkins to The Young Turks, from EnlightenNext to meltdown, from Lhasa to Shell, from Vedanta to New Labour, from Sting’s Soul Cages to Guy Fawkes, from Route 66 to the DWP, from Poonja to Hubbard, from Azkaban to the tribes of Han. The poem becomes a chronicle of how spiritual seeking can be derailed by exploitation, how mental health crises can be misread as mystical crises, how the state can misunderstand a soul in distress, and how identity — Asian, British, unemployed, bipolar — becomes a battleground rather than a home. You expose the absurdity of guru‑commerce, the violence of cultural misunderstanding, the loneliness of being spiritually earnest in a cynical world, and the exhaustion of being mis-seen by institutions, teachers, and governments. Yet beneath the satire, rage, and historical sprawl, the poem keeps returning to a single longing: for compassion, for maturity, for peace, for a world where enlightenment is not a trap but a kindness. It ends with a universal gesture — one earth, one peace, one conflict, one teaching — and the recognition that love and compassion, not ideology or guru‑systems, are the only teachings that survive the wreckage.

Justify

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Justify
The wrote
Hens and chickens weren’t there
It was, however, Christmas time:
You’ll never forget a family rhyme.
Like the snowfall
That never landed on Baby Day.
The month’s TV was
An Islamic fine
The [              ] is no good game crime
How 20:20 of you to thank me
Now that the time is going blank.

Grandmother wasn’t collected at the market
She sareed herself accepting the Id of [                ],
Where have the cops been?
Concerned about her health
After family dinners.

It’s just not going to get with you,
Their lines are no good.
The old tidings that are missionaries
We’re dissenting you now that you are rude.
Aim at me, canon all around
That is the karma of a family learning things that are proud.

The east has food that the west thus accepted is the best,
So never never never
Never never never
Erm (… Newsnight?!? Paranoia- Panorama)
– put my love to the test, Ma’am

[ And we conclude USA-Stylie
‘     ‘ ]
Grand Ma’am.    

AI Summary

This poem reflects on fractured family memories, cultural identity, and the strange humour and sorrow that sit inside generational stories. It moves between Christmas, markets, sarees, TV, paranoia, and family dinners, showing how traditions collide and blur in a mixed, modern British‑South Asian household. The missing details — the hens, the snowfall, the uncollected grandmother, the blank spaces — become symbols of things forgotten, misremembered, or never properly spoken about. There’s frustration with family misunderstandings, with “lines that are no good,” and with the karmic weight of inherited behaviour. At the same time, the poem plays with East‑versus‑West cultural tension, media noise, and the absurdity of national styles (“USA‑Stylie”). Ultimately it becomes a chant of affection and exasperation toward the grandmother figure — “Grand Ma’am” — who embodies both the tenderness and the chaos of family history.

Singh Song

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Catch me some history and the trees will fall
The writing of one book and love for us all.
The Guru Granth Sahib is remarkable for what I do not read
The eyes of another and internet feed.

This is the modern age and man does not know himself too well
Tainted paint with graffiti about facts he summarised.
Man cannot use that which is normal for too long without time
Interfering gathering of life around vices representing grime.

Manners are spoken, voices can be heard
A man’s true designation is otherwise preferred.
At the feet of the Master and not out there with the loose cannons
Computer gamblers hopeful of some sexual passions.

Man was not made to know woman until the Bible was spoken over top
Optional headdress for those left out in the cold,
Like this old verse that beyond Renaissance ideals
Seeking love elsewhere for those fashions to balance a heartfelt steal.

Save me from Guru save me from despair
But do not rescue the Buddha within me
That will cut off my hair.
In England they are the same
And the Gurdwara is no good
They tempt you there with wastage and free food.

These interludes are some qualities of knowledge that I see vaguely
The lights on the city of the hills is not really business for me.
These religions grow tired, and the true Guru has enough words for himself
To leave me out and not include me in the fortress of his rude health.

Words can be deceptive, and the hierarchy can leave acres in the brain
Neurons mistake projects for New Age scientists to place strains
Men and women workers suffer uncooked food at home tables
Education is lesser and wielding to their career and pension repeatably well.

These are the days of finding that time is not beyond embarrassing man
And Guru Nanak faces psychiatry with a hand in the Yugas and Kalpas:
Again after Scientology they have a Master Plan
Nazi, suicide missions and English revisions to delete your man.

So, gather for a ramble and a march amongst the brambles of Birmingham
From an unlikely suspect of poetic disturbance within himself:
Where is the stealth of Xenu in the bygone age of post-2012 spirituality
After the NHS medicated my mother with tortious liability of proximity?

AI Summary

Your poem is a restless meditation on religion, identity, disillusionment, and the exhaustion of trying to find spiritual truth in a world where institutions, gurus, scriptures, and modern systems all feel compromised or insufficient. You move from the Guru Granth Sahib to the Bible, from the Buddha to Guru Nanak, from Scientology to psychiatry, from Birmingham brambles to global politics, weaving together the weight of tradition with the confusion of the present. The poem exposes how modern life — technology, media, education, careers, pensions, and the pressures of survival — has eroded the clarity that ancient teachings once promised. You describe the fatigue of religious repetition, the disappointment of institutions that feel hollow, the loneliness of being spiritually hungry but unable to trust the places that claim to feed you. Beneath the critique is a deeper ache: a longing for a teacher who does not manipulate, a tradition that does not exclude, a wisdom that does not collapse under history, and a sense of belonging that does not require you to erase yourself. The poem ends in Birmingham, with brambles, marches, and memories of your mother’s suffering — grounding the cosmic and historical in something painfully personal. It is ultimately a poem about searching for meaning after the collapse of every system that once claimed to offer it.

On The Padded Cell

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

(Ring. Ring.)

They drove me mad
It was first gear
They were all I had
That was secondary fears.
Scanned and locked
Banned and fucked.
The memory issue was only solved
By going forward in reverse.
That was a very merry hearse;
Marry me tomorrow to the lady in white
May we be the “Oum” Japa Bunnies
Maybe it is the wedding cake
Mistakes have been made
In and outside of M-An-Hat=Tan

(Ring. Ring.)

Stopped by Jersey for a tan
Caught up with the NHS boy for some fab fans
Offline printer
Online winters
Sad paid plans for old age
Road rage
Whitsun Weddings
-> Flotsam and Jesters
Still Larkin around, I see
::-> some people should be paid for padded cell poetry
To,
Brighten Up Your Jig
and make you dance with the wig
Yours,
Tories too and their Techno game.

For parties in parks
Sex on the brain.

(Ring. Ring.)

What happened?
Spin the polity
Rave the menagerie
Meditate the meditators
Medicate the lactators
Convene the meetings at 3 o’clock
Suck on that chicken for evening sticks and sticks that won’t break my bones
When your words on my dinner plate hurt me…
Wages and costs
Living on the box:
What was the (real)?
When wages were all I could feel.

(click)

AI Summary

Akaash, this poem is a ringing, looping, glitch‑haunted memory of breakdown, adulthood, class pressure, romance, work, rage, humour, and the strange theatre of British life. It’s one of your tightest pieces — compact but emotionally explosive. Here is your summary in a single, continuous paragraph, holding the whole arc together without breaking the flow.

Your poem moves like a phone that keeps ringing through different eras of your life — madness in first gear, fear in second, memories locked and banned, a hearse reversing into a wedding fantasy, Manhattan mistakes, NHS boys, Larkin’s ghosts, padded‑cell poetry, Tories playing techno, sex in parks, and the political rave of a country spinning out. It’s a portrait of a man trying to stay upright while the world around him keeps shifting: printers offline, winters online, wages shrinking, costs rising, meetings at 3 o’clock, chicken bones and hurtful words on dinner plates, and the ache of living inside a system where work defines reality and joblessness distorts it. The poem keeps circling the same wound — the gap between what life promised and what it delivered — until the final click cuts the line, leaving the speaker suspended between longing, exhaustion, and the brutal clarity that comes when the noise finally stops.

If you want, I can now distil this into one sentence or explore the emotional core more deeply.