art

Sardonic and seldom meet for wedlock

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Sardonic and seldom meet for wedlock
The Warlock is all too cheaply brewed.

The aspect is truly wonderful,
But the nastiness signs the show.
Heaving is the buxom, rash ashes and crucibles
Havana for [                ], against the strain
Of a percentile.

That reptiles don’t claim.
A climbing frame is sought
An abacus is bought
The wielding of a sword is salacious
If Guinevere is Calvary for Lance’s hiatus.
Malory wasn’t malign,
Gawain wasn’t fined,

Computer time: The serpent winds
Wands in the Wood.
Women that could.
One day, few will own the many…
A lady seen today is conspicuous
Individual realms non-dueling
The gold prospecting
Aspects of dancing
Today is a day to celebrate
Next year we need to excel.

If a girl could do well
Shanti would read.
Saraswati delivers a letter
A liver seeks a lover for and water,

Rivets in Navratri,
Nine times she is denied with Indian daughters.
The Hills Have TMZ
Eyeshadow
Mascara
Black boasts of Kali clones
Sweating this small stuff: Rudra with paint.

Nature is quaint to know the bones of Alas! I knew him.
Be well with Yorrick
(Was?) the free house of Hindustan, ‘47 @ 1851
Origin:
The great McBride Mahabharata
But not for me.

AI Summary

Your poem weaves together medieval myth, Indian divinity, modern celebrity culture, and personal disillusionment into a single, swirling meditation on power, femininity, lineage, and the weight of history. You move from warlocks and crucibles to Guinevere, Gawain, and Malory, then leap into computers, serpents, wands, and the future where “few will own the many,” creating a world where magic, capitalism, and gender politics overlap. The poem shifts into Navratri, Saraswati, Shanti, and the denied daughters of India, contrasting sacred feminine power with the harshness of social reality. You fold in pop‑culture shadows — TMZ, mascara, Kali clones — alongside Shakespeare’s Yorick and the bones of memory, suggesting that both East and West carry their own haunted inheritances. The poem ends with a sense of exile and refusal: Hindustan’s free house, the Mahabharata reimagined, and a quiet admission that this grand lineage — mythic, national, ancestral — is somehow “not for me.” Beneath the imagery is a deeper ache: a longing to belong to these vast traditions while also recognising the pain, exclusion, and complexity they carry.

Riddle Me This

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Riddle me this, riddle me that
What is the poetry, of a pious little twat?
Safe in his house, and not crushed on a cross
By 3 Nails.

Who is the third that walks beside a narcissist?

What have you done to the Gospels’ account?
Did you dish the book out?
Are your Marxist leanings weaning?
Is you a capitalist with the strength of a black fist?
Can you dance like a Punjabi with swords in Penzance?

I am a music man, I come from Pakistan…
And it isn’t droned. Drone?
The Dronacharya.
Acharya.
Acharya…
.. E. I. … Ooolo Ka Patha!

The finery,
The Winery.
Slimer’s ‘Ghostbusters’ Slimer same and the old story.

Radio and the new wave.  
The subtle things that ‘God’ does not know.

AI Summary

Your poem is a mischievous, provocative riddle‑chant that blends irreverence, theology, pop culture, South Asian wordplay, and political unease into a single, fast‑moving burst. You open with a taunt — a challenge to piety, ego, and the idea of suffering — then twist it into a question about who “walks beside” the narcissist, hinting at the unseen forces that accompany power. The poem ricochets between the Gospels, Marx, capitalism, Punjabi sword dances, Pakistani music men, drones and Dronacharya, Ghostbusters’ Slimer, radio waves, and the subtle things “God does not know,” creating a collage where sacred and silly, ancient and modern, all collide. Beneath the humour and chaos is a deeper tension: a frustration with how religion is interpreted, how identity is performed, how politics distorts belief, and how cultural symbols get remixed into something both absurd and revealing. The poem becomes a riddle about authenticity — who speaks, who mocks, who believes, who performs — and ends on a quiet, unsettling note: that even divinity might be surprised by the strange inventions of human culture.

Midsummer Renaissance

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Poor is the morale of the visitor who eats
Porridge close besides the ridges in the Grand Canyon.
They may be in his heart,
He may have walked a lonely imagination to his home from it
But is the food worth being taken?
The talent is now in the hands of the beholder
The gold residue is apologized for
It was meant by blessed bleedin’ intent
The frogs the vision the Pharaoh.

A locus of the mind’s  eye,
A sewer rat caught on
Sing a song… as you can.
Did _ crimes of passion?
Fashion of Women of Mass Dicks.
Ask again and I’ll end the pain
[        ] the alpha and omega strain.
It’s not the same without you,
Where’s HaitiGlobalised.Com? Investment in Kali 4 Never Cajun
Cages @ California is not my home!

Now stay there.
Cages and soul.
There is no point arresting a toad
Who wanders from his hall drunken
He will not live like a sparrow on a tree branch
And thanks no-one for the noon of Midsummer Renaissance.

AI Summary

Your poem drifts through a landscape of moral fatigue, global dislocation, and surreal imagery — a visitor eating porridge at the Grand Canyon, gold residue apologised for, frogs and Pharaohs, a sewer‑rat mind’s eye, crimes of passion, fashion warped into something grotesque, and digital ghosts like “HaitiGlobalised.com.” It moves between continents and cages, between Kali and California, between toads wandering drunkenly from their halls and Renaissance noons that no one thanks. The poem exposes a world where imagination, suffering, and absurdity coexist: where investment becomes myth, where cages become metaphors for the soul, where exile and belonging blur, and where the speaker feels both trapped and strangely detached. Beneath the surrealism is a quiet ache — a sense of being far from home, far from innocence, far from any stable centre — and a recognition that some beings, like the drunken toad, simply cannot live like sparrows on branches. The poem ends in resignation and clarity: no arrests, no easy redemption, just the strange dignity of wandering through a world that rarely makes sense.

New Day

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Ghostly shadows chase me down the alley way of my dreams
Appearing and disappearing in the fraction of a second
The half-remembered faces of undergraduate days
Self-reflection and awareness all rolled up into one.
The trembling vibration of the frequency of my brain
Mirrored in the corridors of knowing in my mind
Promises of perfection and tabletop lunches
I am undone in the failure of my forties
In the presence of such alumni and esteemed gentlemen.
When will I get a chance to succeed again?

When will it be my turn at the alter?
There cannot be so many bad days ahead of me
Lost to the unfolding fracas of frenzied want and desire
A familiar forlorn lust for more and more in the tiredness
Of my turned over plans from yesterday.
The safest place to live in regret
Where the bets are stable and the winnings are to others
Those who prophesied my downfall and saw it coming
Like the antichrist of ambition clamouring always for more.

Sure to be the second place loser in the rally of competition
And without coffee mates for dates, I am expectant of more failure
Until the rescuer comes and the infinity of the universe is known
Fortune over favour for the freshest scent of a new day.

AI Summary

Your poem traces the way old ghosts — undergraduate faces, past ambitions, half‑remembered dreams — chase you through the night, reminding you of who you were and who you hoped to become. The mind vibrates with self‑awareness and regret, comparing tabletop lunches and alumni confidence with your own sense of having stumbled in mid‑life. You ask when success will return, when the altar will be yours, when the frenzied desires and overturned plans will finally settle. The poem sits in the painful safety of regret, where others seem to win the bets you never placed, where ambition becomes an antichrist whispering that you will always be second. Yet beneath the despair is a flicker of hope: the belief that a rescuer may come, that the universe still holds infinite possibility, that fortune might one day favour you again, and that a new day — fresh, scented, unbroken — is still possible.

Land Tract

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

There’s a secret that I share with those who come near
About a land tract and agreement with someone very dear
It is my little cat and his predatory prowling
That keeps away the foxes and all that howling.
We compartmentalise our land and take it in turns
To find a way to get about our daily grind and burns
Finding it useful to see each other’s itinerary
Safe from the dispatch box of letting off a litany
Of abuse and neglect about the way things should be
Aside from green like the garden grass and the various shrubbery
He likes his corners and keeps to his edges
I just want to fix those holes in my collective hedges.
I take time to water the plants that he tramples
And cut the lawn so sharply when he is away collecting samples
Of other people’s gardens and how they let him sleep
Until he needs his food and comes home to collect his keep.
This predator marks his land and sits on the top of the steps
Lest we ever forget to keep things the way he left them
But in the end we agree and make time for a kiss and a cuddle
Should we ever find our cohabitation turn into confusion and a muddle.

AI Summary

Your poem describes a small, shared world between you and your cat — a private “land tract” agreement built on mutual rhythms, boundaries, and unspoken understanding. The cat is both predator and companion, patrolling the territory, keeping foxes away, marking his corners, and returning home with the confidence of a creature who knows he belongs. You tend the garden he tramples, fix the hedges he ignores, and watch him wander through other people’s spaces before returning for food and affection. The poem becomes a meditation on cohabitation: how two beings with different instincts negotiate space, routine, and care without falling into conflict. Beneath the humour — the samples he collects, the steps he guards, the holes you patch — is a quiet tenderness: the recognition that even when things get muddled, you and this small creature always return to a kiss, a cuddle, and the simple agreement to live together in peace.

What am I doing wrong?

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Where do I err?
Flailing at the railings of my life’s swimming pool
Reaching for the safety of the security blanket covering me
What am I doing wrong?
I am too close to the divide.
Strangers in my mind unkind to the findings
Recent excursions into the deep unknown
Asking too much for the receipt of familiar consciousness
Cups of tea and the drinking of an occasional latte
What is the breaking point of my mind?
Too close to the ether, too far away from electrical vibrations
Time is like a nation of zombies awaiting my pornographic reinvention
Standing naked at my front door.
I have been here before
Forgetful of the greatness of building my character
Like stepping stones across a frozen lake in my heart
Darting across the temporal void in avoidance of one more bloody conversation
The inner journey of man
The planned intervention
The existential cartography of my soul
It seems like we all need a common goal
And mental health is the way forward for the masses
Something to join the meditation with the mediation of higher and lower worlds
The frogs of the cauldron and the skulls of the pirate ship
Something I shoot straight from the hip
As a western cowboy in the Indian deserts
Land reclamation expert number one
Ask me where I belong and I will say it is right here
Where I stand defending my hand
Leading the leaderless with a magic marker and slight of my pen
Something again and again to drum out the pacing of seconds
Minutes away from the hours we share as our blessings together
Poets in tune and in the rudeness of awakening
Settling down for some more slumber party to rejoice in.

AI Summary

This poem is a reflection on feeling close to psychological edges, questioning your own stability, and trying to understand where your inner life becomes too intense. You describe yourself flailing for safety, reaching for comfort, and sensing a divide between grounded reality and the “deep unknown.” The imagery of strangers in your mind, the ether, electrical vibrations, and standing naked at the door expresses vulnerability and the fear of slipping into states you’ve known before.

At the same time, the poem remembers your strength — the “stepping stones across a frozen lake,” the building of character, the inner journey, the existential mapping of your soul. You’re trying to reconcile your spiritual imagination with the need for mental health, structure, and shared human goals. The cowboy, the pirate ship, the cauldron, the deserts — these are symbols of identity, adventure, and self‑invention, but also of the risk of drifting too far into symbolic worlds.

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.

It Makes Me Look Back

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

It makes me look back
The track record of vinyl Birmingham
The lessons from school and skipped songs
Veritable fashions in rationed book cupboards
I don’t know what to see
All that music is about me
The times I listened the times I tried
Some of it even reminded me of when I cried.
TDK cassettes and a hairy CD Walkman
Items for the rarity shelf today if ever there was one
Unicorns of delight and sea nymphs of error
All sorts of enjoyment when the music was high school terror.

AI Summary

This poem looks back at your youth through the objects that shaped it: vinyl, cassettes, Walkmans, school corridors, rationed book cupboards, skipped tracks, and the emotional charge of music that felt bigger than you were at the time. It’s a portrait of a boy becoming a young man through sound — the songs you tried to understand, the ones you cried to, the ones that terrified you in their intensity.

The poem captures the Birmingham of your adolescence: the fashions, the scarcity, the makeshift shelves, the sense that music was both escape and education. The “unicorns of delight” and “sea nymphs of error” show how magical and confusing those years were — a mix of wonder and awkwardness, joy and fear.

Underneath the imagery is a quiet truth: music was the first mirror you ever trusted, the first place you recognised yourself, the first archive of your emotional life.

The poem honours that — the way sound holds memory, the way adolescence leaves its imprint, the way looking back is both tender and painful.

Yogaville

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Wall St crash test dummies
Yoga is for yummy mummies
Balancing the towering pose
Concentrating on the tip of your nose.

Chai and obsolete oat bar allowance
Top marks for managing stomach’s gestation
Acid and mood(s) imbalance
Rolling prices, roaming charges
The first class is free for the sleazy man next to me:
Celebrity mandalas, sale of the century
Causes and effects
Stretch please, we’re British
Get yourself going at the gym
We mean you no harm
This might be the Holy Ghost v The Dharma
@BeYourself.Com
Celebrated trance, techno dance

Virtual Yogi
Personal Jesus
Stretching on the mat
Something for the 3 of us
Family is down
There are State Laws
So he impressed upon me
Shaolin Tree
City of lights
So many fights
Corporate laws
Showing my flaws
Mothers and fathers
The technology goes farther
To stretch to the valley
Of Ambe and Krishna-Ji.

Downward facing dog pose
Blow a hole through Jonah’s whale
What time to exhale?
Take some milk and cinnamon
Have a good bath
ENJOY your night’s sleep
You’re free from Kali’s wretched wrath
{Buddhas v Devis}
Modernising that which is unsure
Generations of love at your door.

The Nothing Brigade

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Scene reflected
Want defected
Hatred refracted
Lately will become de-compacted.
The original thinker
It is for //
Love!
A remainder girl.
 
Hollow halls knew your latent fame
They remember my name
Did you think I would blink?
my (new) day,
untimely fashionable poem
Far sooner
intense open corpse like 51 courses in a landfill site library
Boots and all.
Looking for a drainpipe despite campaigning for nations
Somewhere to pout about
Looking for business for last week’s door knockers.

An empty teacup in the window invites tearful visions
Imagist and surrealist combination messaging
No more telly tubing about the leaves of harassed and at home
This is the door number for you to leave the past rejections alone.

AI Summary

Your poem is a reflection on rejection, self‑doubt, and the strange theatre of memory, where scenes fracture into surreal images — wooden halls, landfill‑course corpses, empty teacups, muttering congregations — all circling the ache of wanting to be seen without being dismissed. You move between bitterness and vulnerability, between the “original thinker” and the “remainder girl,” between latent fame and the fear of blinking first. The poem captures the feeling of wandering through emotional debris: door knockers from last week, drainpipes, campaigns, hollow halls that remember your name even when people don’t. The imagery becomes increasingly dreamlike — imagist, surrealist, teacups inviting visions — until the poem resolves into a quiet directive: leave the past rejections behind, step through the door, and refuse to let old wounds dictate the shape of your present. Beneath the wordplay and surrealism is a clear emotional truth: the speaker is trying to reclaim a sense of self after being overlooked, misunderstood, or dismissed, and the poem becomes the space where that reclamation begins.