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Women Sell Handbags

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

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

Pick and Choose

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Pick
The puzzle
The optimal start up speed
The world is spinning around
The why is so pertinent
The where is so evident
These are the things we know
So I went down below
I mediated the earth’s core
I asked the time travellers for more
The culture we adore
Those who adore the messages from the past of VHS
The best man’s hairy chest
The father in your arms doing his best
These are the things I tested
To see if I could stay seated when the violence was no more pacifist
Clench
Yogic retention
Imbalance and detention
Partition of special relationship
Llamas in the Whore House
Green Berets through the front door.
I reaped the remeberance of an Oxford Degree
I forgot my mother (again) to avoid misreading the Church as S.P.

Choose
And I am undone
The choice is too fast for thought that is ruined
It’s the same for us all
Special people being strange in a normal world broken by Buddha’s mirrors
Mental health adrift the tides of life lived by fine people
Directors dealing with the ladders some people don’t climb
Most people don’t climb these corporate ladders.

Then
How? I asked [poetically]…
Are we supposed to talk?

AI Summary

It’s a poem about the difficulty of choosing a path in a world that spins too fast, where the speaker dives into transcendence, memory, VHS nostalgia, family echoes, yogic strain, and the weight of spiritual and cultural expectations, only to find himself overwhelmed by the speed of thought and the strangeness of being “special” in a world built for ordinary ladders; the poem moves from earth’s core to Oxford, from Gurdwaras to gurus, from violence to pacifism, from identity to exhaustion, ending with the simple, human question of how people are meant to speak to one another when the inner world is so dense and the outer world so unforgiving.

David Copperfield

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I saw what I did not think I see
I felt what I did not want to be emotional about
I lusted after a failed school girl
And effortlessly fell into the trap of the Vegas millionaires.

Stay aware and be wary of the elephant walking down the glitzy path
Laughing at your youthful alliance with knowledge, nature and glamour.
Then the mystery of the Almighty will befall better things tomorrow
When you see the mirror of your mind tell your secrets.

He tried that kind of crap: Making the pyramids disappear from the historian’s view
Nothing left in the lifeless motel for me and the bird I’m nobbing:
Something to fill the time between the desperate playlists on the radio
And the used car salesmen I still respect for his human endeavour.

Why can’t I consort?
What can I accomplish?
Where are my nuclear thoughts?
Who’s that girl…
?

Masters of deception and the inflection of lonely erections
Hard up for the mothballs in the wives’ cupboards
Sceptical skeletons making elliptical gestures in the ghostly realm
Disappearing statues and eating well afterwards down the formal dinner table
Suits and terrible things in the evening waltz with Sabrina’s affairs
Nothing for me until I dance until the end of love
And finish with a finale at the universe’s end
For the masters and servants ruling Commanders and British people:
A beige suit a day keeps The Milky Bar Kid away.
One day you will track lions again
When the brain is not the doer.
One day you will poo well again,
When the laughter is not a cow mooer.

AI Summary

It’s a poem about seeing too much — about confronting desire, disappointment, illusion, and the strange circus of masculinity that surrounds you, from Vegas fantasies to disappearing pyramids, from used‑car dealers to magicians, from lonely questions to comic self‑mockery; the speaker feels trapped between lust and guilt, spectacle and emptiness, ambition and self‑loathing, watching the world’s deceptions mirror his own inner ones, until the poem dissolves into a surreal mix of sexual frustration, spiritual exhaustion, and absurd humour, ending with the sense that the body, the mind, and the world are all misfiring at once, yet still trying to dance, laugh, and survive.

Danny the Spy

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There was a friend called Danny
Things caught up with me
Times were tight and money was not easy
The women flowed and the flowers grew
The young children walked
Wailing in the desert for the educational classroom.


Such was the predicament
The consternation
The memory havoc in the rush hour of Windermere
Lakes of disaster and a failing standard
Gold standard
Centre lane down the bowling alley
Middle Way with Mr Blair
And all that jazz with Toni Morrison
And those niggers following her from Luke Skywalker
Chasing England’s first black female llama Evaristo
Building Empires
Selling rush days their due
Calling out the ennui from the business classes
Casting votes on the Obama scene
Dreaming of the N-Word in extempore revision
Some decent delicious decisions
Feminists of the past and a caste system worth remembering…

Then one day, the spies came knocking
And Dharamsala was not coming.
The Tibetan Llama had not gone to Washington
And Reigate was where the Cameron kudos stood
When the child had come to my classroom
And the KPMG Exec had balanced his books
At the Handsworth Mandir with some checking on the Soho Road
London had come to set them apart
For the pure at heart
Desiring more than cynical cycles of suffering
Dreams from Lhasa of good hunting.

AI Summary

It’s a poem about a life caught between personal memory and global turbulence, beginning with a friend named Danny and widening into a panorama of tight finances, wandering children, literary giants, racial tensions, political figures, and the long shadow of empire; the speaker moves through Windermere, Blair, Morrison, Evaristo, Obama, and the N‑word with a mix of critique and exhaustion, then shifts into a world of spies, Tibet, classrooms, temples, and corporate audits, where London and Lhasa, Handsworth and Washington, Dharamsala and Reigate all blur together; beneath the swirl is a longing for purity, clarity, and meaning — a desire to escape cycles of suffering and find a place where dreams, identity, and history stop colliding long enough for the speaker to breathe.

Chinese Poet Star

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Separating the wood from the boys
Metal Gnosis and erotic string theory
Fellows of the Dao at St Hugh’s crowds
A Chinese Centre {for Harold and Kumar}.
With love,
From the Bhakti boys
Something from Queen (IMDb)
How about the scene with those sex toys.
Did you think they came to see you?
The Bollywood crew
What about those Delhi bellies?
Have they seen the Buddha too?
2 Live Crew
Something for the Casino man in you
Come and see our central vase
Find your way out of your celebrity maze
Thy will be blonde
Amazon wonga
There’s no room my Inn
Things the saviours see in their diners.
Mick Jaggers gone Peaky Blinders
Chinatown and the Pagoda down the road
Lessons from monarchs
Leave without saying anything about Toad
Wind in the Hollows
Why didn’t you say so sooner
Abigail Crooner
There’s so much we can agree on
Solid ground
Milk drinks to be found
Coffee made us proud
Manifested from the Sacred Ground
1990-Web Ology
B.P.S. for Mum is not for me
CV developers in every city
New Age knowledge to climb over
High states to climb down
Get over the state of being brown
Yoga is all over town
Penniless crew
Travelling is not so important for the Brahmana in you
Driving Licence test
{Facebook would be best}

AI Summary

It’s a playful, chaotic, culturally overloaded poem where the speaker moves through Daoist fellows, Bhakti boys, Bollywood crews, Chinatown pagodas, Peaky Blinders, monarchs, yoga studios, CV factories, and New Age knowledge, all while poking fun at celebrity culture, racial anxieties, spiritual branding, and the pressure to reinvent oneself; the poem blends humour, satire, and self‑reflection as it jumps from sacred ground to sex toys, from Amazon money to Wind in the Willows, from coffee pride to caste jokes, ending with a wry acknowledgement of how identity, ambition, and spirituality get tangled in a world where everyone is hustling for meaning — even the Brahmana trying to pass a driving test.

Sticky Times

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When I sort out a problem another one comes
But it doesn’t fill the past as I sit on my bum
Some say it is a dismal story but I can see my name in lights
Marketing products to the Almighty and advertising my fights.
The remissions of ideas is sticky times and light working over time
The mental concoction of the brain in the middle of the frame
Settling down to some more advanced medical protection
Where the immensity of the Maker is jumping around again.
The loss is not measured by religious decree
Being a Sannyasi is just not for me and my family
Nor are we Vasyas turning around some mentality
Justifying effort before the lap top and full frontal ennui.
Mind cap on during the forty something days and nights
Nothing to show downtown in the business of busman’s’ rites
Churning away the midday rush and the feisty famous people’s kit
So late in the asking of permission that the merriment is not shit.
These are the well known ways the twists and turns of images show up today
I don’t know what will happen if I happen to add japa – what other words will I add and say?

AI Summary

It’s a reflection on the endless churn of problems, ambitions, spiritual experiments, and work‑life pressures, where the speaker feels caught between religious ideals, caste‑coded identities, modern labour, and the grind of daily survival; the poem moves through frustration, humour, and resignation as the mind tries to stabilise itself amid medical worries, business routines, and the weight of expectation, ending with a question about what new words — or burdens — might arise if the speaker adds even one more spiritual practice to an already overloaded inner life.

Sexy Tombs

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I like the sound of Twitter in the morning
The vibrations from army camps in the past
The congregation of warfare celebrating triumph
The herald of ages trawling the sea shanties
The memory of moody men and the hallowed ground of Devonshire.

Is this where the Tolkien family stayed when they planned his estate?
IS this what C S Lewis thought about when he planned a Christian tax rebate?
Render to Shakespeare what is Shakespeare and leave Caesar alone for a day or ten
Then we can amend time with some rhyme so that men can get back to work again.

COVID was not easy
Brexit was rough play
9/11 was enormous
The financiers might have been gay

… it’s something to say


This day will be long
I am dropping formal lines for an invention’s song
I celebrate myself too much and the computer is my pen
It is off the Buddhist looney bin again and again.
The past is the future and the future is not yet here
I have decades of unemployment in my mind to fear
This leads to anger and then the hatred eggs on a beginner
Writing letters to the Royal Family about national problems that don’t make me a winner.

On and on goes the day
There are only so many poems I can write.
I am lost without an editor
So am blaming mankind for being white.

Lend me your ears then friends as I direct my mind well
Something better than an online social media writer
Something for my father to get involved in as well.

For he is away and we do not use the modern mobile phone

Alone one day
Death is on my mind
Shallow corporate graduate life is not retrospectively
Kindness is going to win
The empty hanging line is a noisy din
“Make the pain go away!”
“I’m lost in outer space without Hindi or Mandarin things to say!”

On and on three times the clock will strike twice for the congregation I leave behind
Feeling lost at sea on a death bed with King Arthur for the shimmers in my mind
Settle down dear Muse
England will be fine
In the last place is Facebook and Youtube
For the Arjuna that I did whine.

The mirrors look back at me in time
On and on those verses do me harm
T.S. Eliot is all I know
The rest were hard to follow
We had not Wikipedia
The art was regal, well dressed and hollow.
I don’t know you – Mr Cavalier Poet and Milton’s Esquires reaping rich the wind with America’s hidden cowboys..
What’s this land that William Blake found when I was only asked to read what I could choose to be wrong about one day?

Prophecy this then America and sweep the floor in a cabin in the Himalayas
As you look for carnal longing in my made up Yoga
One with God at home instead of with Maya
Wrapped up in winter in layers and layers.

I shall not Chav and remark that I am open to the futures of Intelligensia
Needing names to be different like you have and have not done in the past
If Wilber did it, there are other Kenneth’s that can go free
For the illusion of love from Andrew Cohen, ripening lawyers
Frosty drawers
Salacious claws
The last lady in black will attract some spack attack
An attack so mean I mean to repeat it when I do
So history changes in the rude review
Time and time again the regression is a strain on my brain
And I admire the Radha swamp where the undergrowth is Maine Street.
The things we meet while Radhanath is so certain of the past
When things could have been different to conform sin for songs about me at last.

AI Summary

It’s a long meditation on memory, national upheaval, literary ghosts, and personal anxiety, where the speaker drifts from the sound of Twitter and old military echoes to Tolkien, Lewis, Shakespeare, COVID, Brexit, and 9/11, all while wrestling with unemployment, self‑doubt, spiritual confusion, and the fear of being left behind; the poem spirals through anger, humour, and despair, touching on the Royal Family, American politics, Hindu cosmology, and the loneliness of writing without an editor, before settling into a final reckoning with mortality, Englishness, literary inheritance, and the desire for meaning in a world that feels both too large and too hollow, ending with a sense that history, spirituality, and identity keep looping back, demanding interpretation the speaker is exhausted from giving.