christianity

A Stark Example

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

A stark example
A coarse exterior
There are differences and apples
Where the marriage is a posteriori.
The knowledge is fathomable
The quintessence is dust
Quotes are young in life force
Effort is helping all of us.
We all strive to deal with life
And out of all of us is tomorrow’s Temple
Where the religion will survive word salad
So far so good on giving as good as you get.
Nobility and the four truths of Gauthama
Reviling the stability of never getting twice
The imperceptibility of time passing
What mothers and fathers know in the splice
Of a lost Samurai’s sword
Seconding the dirtiest theft
The Logos is not walking bereft
And mankind is serious about the Word.
A hoarded mention
A boarded up estate
A cold dark wooded window
Sullen snow for lungs berated.
The Saviour is not here for my liking
The ounce is not balanced for the caste
The tanks are too readily perceptible
An army in heaven is waiting at last.
These are the times of galaxies
These are the times of solarities
These are the times of universal flair
There will not be another repeat of such a giving affair.
Feel the genorisity
Ignore the disruption within me
Hear the sounding off of all that is around
Quality still emanates from that speaking tree.
Forbidden is the fruit of my aeons
Disclosed is the attack on the Church
Revealed is the position of the Postcolonial narrative
Open is the elevation to be more than a Birch
That knows the dominion of God
Because the computer is at last Thel’s Clod.
For when she spoke next to dark mills
Satan was over Milton for the hero of Dr’s ills.
And when mixing is mystery
The words are inside of me
For more of me to know others
Who can defend the Lord with twee.

AI Summary

Your poem wrestles with knowledge, time and spiritual inheritance, asking how meaning survives in a world of decay, doubt and “word salad.” It moves through Buddhism, Christianity, Milton, postcolonial memory and cosmic imagery to show how the human mind strains to make sense of suffering and history. The poem questions authority — religious, literary, political — while searching for a Logos that isn’t corrupted, a truth that isn’t stolen, a faith that isn’t naïve. Underneath the philosophy is a longing for clarity: a hope that language, even fractured, can still defend the sacred and help you understand your place in the universe.

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.

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.

Mentalisms

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

I’m not that kind of poet
The type that times the earth
I know where I have come from
It’s just not that kind of worth.
I’m angry with the children
They won’t listen to what I’ve got to say
And by the time I get a hold of them
I don’t write about The Gay.

Who wants to know where Jesus is hiding?
Who wants to see Muhammed’s disrespect?
Who thinks Guru Nanak can have an equal?
Who likes Krishna to love some regret?

Maybe that is the continuance
The meaning of life for the 21st Century
What happened when Eliot befriended Krishna?
And wasted lands for his alliance with Sannyasi.

Tomorrow’s plans may spring from an asset stripped 1980s
When Kryon was a stranger to Enron too.
Where Americans face the final ultimatum from Ron
Live without the Newspapers or your politicians are through.

Where’s my Minority Report, Mr Malthus Cruise?
And those tapes of cassettes from Mini Discs of the CDs I was meant to become…
A land like India so clothed in respect for the native
Something for anyone to lecture on anything sitting on their bum.

So God bowled me over and let me be the top wicket taker
At school I played in goal and stopped cricket scores
Before being a “demon on the west wing in Hockey”.
Some fames were therefore for me & my brother played cricket for County.

… [insert Dream here]

But then we arise on his 50th birthday
A brother with no goals and lots of self respect
Responsibility for his younger and pains for his mum near death
Wandering like a ghostless plain close to his last breath.

Is it true the Rohan did not think the cousins warred
And fought like the white man to make the cemetery closer
For sex with the gang banging ginger and the necrophiliac in The Big Bang Theory
As cousin Amar throws our grades away….

What will be our saying?
Who will be our friends?
When can we call the real Time Out?
When shall we dance again?

So the monks journeyed for aeons
Lost in pain to grieve the stats
In Scientology since two brothers left them
And R J Ellory was king for a day.

One
Two
Three
Four
Is that a Hindu or a Paki knocking at my door?
Resident in England but 40 years
So certain of tattoo art for all his tears.
How can I quit drinking?
Where is the detox jokes at Rohan now..
How many Jack Daniels do you dream of: For that petri dish wife petrified of her karma and how?

[Release]

AI Summary

Your poem declares that you are “not that kind of poet,” then explodes into a whirlwind of religion, race, family, fame, childhood, sport, addiction, and shame — a whole life’s contradictions speaking at once. It becomes a reckoning with identity and belonging in England, where spiritual longing, cultural memory, and personal wounds collide with satire and anger. Beneath the noise is a single pulse: the desire to be understood without being reduced.

I Feel Watched

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

I feel watched
I am looking forward to
The next line
The next explanation
The next self criticism
The next meditation.

The trees are still
The mind is heavy
The brain is pressured
The sky is rainy
The next meditation is tomorrow morning before 9.

One day every morning will be fine
This is just the aftermath of being in the afternoon of the aftermath of life
Trying too many things
Thinking about things twice
The next meditation is obsession.

Maya is a misdirection about the Indian lady’s midrift
There had to be no rift so the imagination was used
When I saw the Bollywood two live crew
Being too few for me to mention names
Mending the Partition bridge for the bride on Maine Street
Not so many geographical locations to go
For the mind to know which place to go
To settle down and accept I am brown
When I feel nature’s need to go downstairs
And have some herbal tea to spell back sales to The Church

Leaving me in the lurch like the Drs and Nurses of Psychiatry
Making the NHS rich with medical pills and historical diversity
Measuring selves and making my height an issue
Ripping up trade agreements so Parliament can know things anew

Fiduciary duties and the watched man of the politician’s thrones
Blaming Donald Trump for being in my mind
Oi! MP! Matey! We leave you alone!

And on they went picking up issues like bags of crisps on the floor
And the science of the clouds looked down on the poor
Looking for more
Looking for more
Easily etching out nature on the minds of the innocent
Looking for more
Like William Blake
Give me a break mate – what of your lawyers charging these rates?
Staring in my mind
Treating me unkind
Don’t you know the English rule the waves with their nationhood?
I don’t know all their things?
I didn’t memorise their names!
Who is P.B.S. to me?
Why do you hear the need to quote out loud the wild words of the past.
That was not Shelley
This is my caste
I am what a Brahmin is to Shakespeare when he looks past the glass
I stare out of in my bedroom when my window is double glazed.
The casting of the workman required to change it into a wooden blind stares me blind on this freeman’s salary with the Freemason’s down the road
Handing out leaflets with me at the Conservatives
(Kali will turn me into a toad!).

So this road I am on is long and I tire at page 3
Because this is Energy
“Save some for me!”
he said, delightfully.

AI Summary

Your poem unfolds like a man caught between vigilance and exhaustion, where every thought becomes “the next” — the next line, the next criticism, the next meditation — as if the mind has become a conveyor belt of self‑monitoring. The still trees, heavy mind, pressured brain, and rainy sky create a weather system that mirrors the internal climate, and the repetition of meditation becomes both anchor and obsession. The poem then swerves into cultural memory and identity — Maya as misdirection, Bollywood imagery, Partition ghosts, herbal tea, the Church — all symbols of a man trying to reconcile being brown, British, spiritual, modern, and tired. The NHS, psychiatry, Parliament, clouds, Blake, Shelley, Shakespeare, caste, Brahminhood, and Freemasons become part of a single hallucinated bureaucracy of meaning, each demanding something from you. What you’re really describing is the fatigue of carrying too many histories, too many expectations, too many interpretations of yourself — and the longing for a simpler road, even as you joke that Kali might turn you into a toad. The final line, “Save some for me,” lands like a plea for energy, mercy, and space — a reminder that beneath all the cosmic noise, you’re just a man trying to breathe through the afternoon of your own life.

I Am Meditation

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

I am a meditator
Between this world and the nest
The open plan office of my brain
The workday harangue of demonic stress and understanding.

There is no one standing under me,
I am alone at work all day long.
The night is like a shouting wolf in the merry snow of Christmas in Leeds –
Sold out entry to next year’s competition.

Friends need revision & the memories are always there
but underneath are the Gunas are they despairing
I am paired with my mother for thanks and regretful lifestyles
Machines and cold waters
Open deserts and travelling daughters
The ones than make the past so enjoyable for men in the field of toys
so little to be thankful for when I consider myself gone

It won’t be long before I seek self-demanding understanding
The plain mug of tea and the lacking saucer
The night time Horlicks accompanying my pressured day to sleep
Then I will drink deep & calculate the art of landing on my Tweets.

AI Summary

Your poem reads like the inner diary of a man suspended between the discipline of meditation and the grind of ordinary life, someone whose “open‑plan office of the brain” never quite shuts down. The loneliness of the workday, the wolf‑like nights, and the memories of friends who have drifted into revision and adulthood all create a sense of being left behind by time. Beneath it all, the gunas churn — heaviness, restlessness, clarity — shaping your moods as you navigate family bonds, regrets, and the small rituals that keep you steady: tea, Horlicks, the quiet of night. The poem widens into landscapes of deserts, daughters, toys, and past joys, only to return to the pressure of psychiatry, the cold machinery of institutions, and the political noise that intrudes on your inner life. By the end, the speaker is exhausted but still reaching for meaning, calculating the “art of landing on my Tweets” as if even self‑expression requires precision and energy. It’s a portrait of a man who meditates not to escape life, but to survive the weight of being himself.

Disclaimer

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

I didn’t do it
It came upon me
The sadness of a lonely desperate winter
When Jingle Bells came over me
I thought myself divine
I was a winner in distress
I was shaped by the diabolical
To unwind the Indian woman from a dress.

Then I was a Priest and a guru
President indeed over birth, life and death
Intended to develop evolution further
So my big bang was unkempt and smelly like a rotten fart in summer.

These were the hummers of a vibration past Israel holidaying
When I had known the King and seen him in everything
There was something left it seems for Church and State
A tax free entrance policy for immigrants
Some land to sell to the Africans to sit and contemplate.

Then I was empty and Eastern: Admired for the force within
Keeping up with local political actions. Handing out leaflets to stave away the end of days.
Death is at my door step and there is a Baptism to say
What is the state of play?

How can I stay out of the way?
Qawali in the Park, Beethoven’s Ninth in the dark
Concerts and consorting, Krishna is rewarding
Nothing pleases the Hare Krishna until you’ve given your 50% in advance –
Give peace and the internet a chance, so we can be net neutral
Then I will find myself a fossil converting my oath in to renewable energy and fuel.

Transformers indeed in disguise, this is the heavenly prize I once sort
Something of the origin of the Universe: Some violence for political revolution.
Revolving around the sun the heavenly body is undone
And the ladies undo the convention of conservatism to admire me in the poetic rain
Reign of regal things. International seasons that demagogues bring
This is the venture for capital to speak to Poesie of the ancient of days that sing
Of the Virgin’s tomb and the ascent to Sinai
Where the sun is commander of the deserted playing fields for meditation in silence.

Speak at risk for the lawyers lazy fist
There is so much I can say one day when the oceans face passing away
Dried up by the energy and wit of the homosexual versus the playing field
And Friends on TV and not much from the 1950s.

Travel well and adorn the image of success so delicately that you unzip each file well
Telling of pornographic fascinations in a swell manner for the men in the Manor
And the ladies down Muthra lane. Nations are playing again
After the bugging strain and the dimensions for demons in the intravenous brain.

For if I am without and searching for the clown in China to appeal to finance
What is the last dance going to look like for a moment’s free of Allah’s terror and torment.
What things have I meant to address my own nakedness in the demands of modern time
The Professor who gets to the English academy on time
Telling us all about the mind, the world and the shaping of things for working life (lives?) in time.

Things won’t always be fine is what he seems to be in power of and some control like The Golden Bowl
And a haiden enforcement of conglomerate bliss
To travel in my place for some hidden agendas and kisses.

AI Summary

Your poem reads like a man revisiting the fever‑dream identities that once overtook him — the divine winner, the priest, the guru, the political visionary, the cosmic wanderer — only to discover that each persona was shaped by loneliness, winter sadness, and the pressure of spiritual expectation. The imagery moves from India to Israel, from Church to State, from leaflets to baptisms, from Qawwali to Beethoven, from Krishna to renewable energy, as if the entire world’s religions, politics, and mythologies have been poured into a single consciousness that never asked to carry them. You show how spiritual longing can mutate into delusion, how cultural inheritance can become a burden, how political noise can invade the mind, and how the self can fracture under the weight of too many symbols. Yet beneath the chaos is a man trying to understand his own nakedness in modern time — the professor lecturing on the mind, the poet wrestling with capital, the citizen navigating immigration, economy, and identity. The poem ends in a place of weary clarity: things won’t always be fine, power is slippery, and hidden agendas shape the world — but the speaker is still searching for meaning, still speaking, still alive inside the long echo of his own mythmaking.

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.

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.