church

Claims Go On

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

I cannot stop
The clock won’t tick
The red ink is barely dry
And I am still thick
School is here and there
Church is a right old state
And everywhere I look
The internet knows my mate
It’s all systems go
Blast off after morning prayers
And even when I’m done with OM
The computer shares my meditation affair
Then its off to see the wizard
And the debutantes of the old Oz
Who might as well be magicians
On C.N.N. or FOX with some loss
No time for a full stop
With my morning cup of coffee or some eggs
Then it’s straight back upstairs to my laptop
Kept some fair distance from my legs
Maybe its Huffington or Guardian
They give more than their fair share for free
But if it’s a celebrity diet or dinner
Then the Daily Mail is for (you and) me
Writing away I think of tomorrow
Tomorrow, sadly, I do not think of yesterday
So I wait for gold and diamonds
And some Rolex account as my pay
Maybe I will sell this or maybe I will gain that
The monkey mind will not stop for all the effort in China
And if I did get out to town during Covid-19
Then the Americans charge double for the Diner
Nowhere is peace and pieces are everywhere
For the farthermost exit of human contact
And when it comes to the afternoon from lunch
I am in front of YouTube for some enlightening tract
Maybe it is this way, or maybe the world spins on its tummy
Some of the ideas of evolution are really rather funny
And then the evening is the same attack
What is yours? As my creativity goes flat.
Something in the oven, maybe a toast and some cheese
But rarely is there time alone to talk to others and say please
So the night rolls on and the moon is kind to my appetite
And the sleep cares more than the Doctor
Who addresses my life as a goal for his wife
And keeps changing his leotard like a leopard with spots
Or something like that…
When the world was flat
And ideas were not so written about by the dead
Afeared of Christ as some 1900s white
Who got lost out of the East for some Upanishad.

Thus are the comments loaded on media
For the feed that the politicians read
And on they go for the midway news show
To get out and about in ways of their own seed.

For once this world knew horses and the man a pistol gun
For shooting and the heaven quite different
To the thugs on the street who keep prices high and mighty
While benefitting the law to be more than strength.

Fear of this God and respect of that one
These are the best years of Judges we have ever had
But tomorrow when the land is tossed to the youth and their tattoos
There is little room for imagination and good old Galahad.

So farewell England and hello Dolly
There is a sheep next to every Art work I am sure
But I won’t come to your Psychiatric affair
Without hell and your Bible knocking on your door.

And these are the strangest times for the knowledge of newness
The oddest respect for education after school
When a King prepares for some wickedest respect
And the wisest man is dying a stressed old fool.

For call yourself this or call yourself that
England was just taught about the Ego:
And Americans looked at Europe and smiled sadly with a loss
That Brexit should have taught them that long, long ago.

Now the Maharaja can despair like Arjuna
Their kind of tariff is with Omar Sharif online
And their Devis can stretch Yoga for the Guru Yoga next to them
Complaining that their human rights are not enough English Zen.

Thus are the cycles of life and wine represented
For the monied might to ride past Lord Denning
And the Swamis from Rajahstan to know the nuance of Imran Khan
Banned from the news for all that we were winning.

Can you rhyme well and compare to ‘Him’
The funny fellow from Bombay trolled me hard,
As the only one who had anything to say or lose
And give Krishna some mile high yoga at The Shard.

Thus will Yoga be taken away and the English encouraged to move on
So that India can repent the mildest rebuke that is sent
And Asians call themselves something like The Human.

I Feel Watched

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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.

What Does Writing Do

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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.

Enemy

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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.

Suffering

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The Hologram
The Stiffy and Hard On
The memories of Royal Pardons
When the future remembers.
4. A Quill makes me famous
3. The computer keyboard WON’T regret The Buddha
1. The Missing Link is proven
Say that you will love me when the children grow old.

I’m moving house in the field’s last eye of the countryside
The horses are galloping where the Angels are still arching their backs
This is no time for the lamenting of the spack-attack
The 1980s won’t ever come and rescue me.

Spy City 
Do you remember Frankie?
Or is it all Les Bobby Browns to you : A miserable unBriTISh bastard
With all his indebtedness to L.A. Whores.
Confidentially yours from Mr Kevin Bacon
Eating all the space when the women need some make up
Keeping loss under cover with smelly regrettably yours
Dealing with the clean yogis, purifying the locus.

Hocus pocus
It’s what it seems to me
You research your school textbooks
I need some time alone.

  1. Sathya
  2. Sati
  3. Siddhi

I’m cooling my face down with a neck fan
Nobody’s my fan on the State Run Instagram
Running through the towns and still she doesn’t like me
A yogi born a Christian with down syndrome infamy.

I Struggling to talk

II Struggling to walk

III A dictionary in my shoulder bag – the one I carried to Dharamsala

Chinese figments of the brothers’ imagination
Wutang before women who write poems instead of face the nation.
Blessings in the Church
What about her arched back
Left in the lurch
Nobody will remember the 6 o clock news spent on the Sexy (News) Christian.

Blame it on the vegan
As I mess about with bacon and beef:
Leaving aside some fish and eating no eggs
Lest Allah call me some mind reading tea leaf.

29/07/2023

The Walk We Walked

/ rrishi99 / 1 Comment

The daily award went to the sun and the moon
The kept track of keeping count and what occurred.
Less regularly, I would walk alone down a local route
Other times I would find you in tow, wearing either trainers or walking boot.

The walk was a circular affair, like our relationship
Mother and son, friend and altogether familiar way in life.
We would avoid handholding as I was a grown man by now
But keep close in conversation as you were a demure woman somehow.

Like her cardboard sheet that rolled along the road
The City Council dustbin that had been turned over
The oddness of a child’s toy left out for the refuse collector
You never refused to find the same roads more, best and better.

I was seeking the high life and wanted something more extravagant
To compete with family rivals and those enemies who had it all.
We talked and then we walked and kept our time apart
You knew how to counsel me downwards to protect my sacred heart.

Then one day you died and the roads were parted differently
They were all left for me. Some for Mondays, some for Wednesdays
It didn’t matter which day I walked on. The ghost was still forever
And I was as cold as a rainy dance by a tribesman lost for now and ever.

Then I came back to my senses and walked past the shops and their food
Remembering how you nursed me when I was a pauper and being rude;
Professing about how I had nothing and life had treated me unkind
Until Church was where I returned to, on a path that was troubled to find.

AI Summary

It’s a poem about the circular walks you shared with your mother — the trainers, the boots, the cardboard blowing across the road, the overturned dustbin, the child’s toy left for refuse — and how those small, ordinary details became the architecture of your bond; the speaker remembers wanting extravagance, wanting to compete with rivals, wanting a bigger life, while the mother quietly counselled him downward, protecting his heart, until her death broke the circle and left the roads to him alone, each day of the week carrying its own ghost; the poem ends with a return to shops, food, childhood memories of being nursed, and the rediscovery of Church as a place of orientation, a path difficult to find but necessary for healing, grounding the grief in a final gesture of humility and return.

The Travelling Man

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Life moves forward like a light shade in winter
When the snow knows the neighbours alarm
That the doors might be open in the lounge next door…
Letting all the heat travel throughout the house
Warming the fictional dormouse in the child’s homework
As the parent’s go bezerk at their choice of Christmas toys.
Something for the girls something for the boys
An ebullient sexual chemistry set from the chimney sweeping imagination
Of a top down economics in Industrialised England
About what the wealthy need when the poor man has spent
All his money on the kitchen table pies and cakes.

Is the caravan worth it this year?
Or do I need to cut down on the rudimentary beer?
Laughing on the phone about his personal performance all alone
When he has come home from travelling to the office in downtown Montreal.
That is where the American man knows his autumn from the fall
And the conservative consummate professional addresses Churches differently.
There is so much to see in life, why wait outside a Church
For the Fall of Man to pull you in and leave your office life in the lurch.

What would it profit you to gain your soul and lose the world?
In a world where the presence is felt at some point for Eve, the (new) girl.

AI Summary

It’s a poem about the soft forward‑motion of life, like winter light slipping through a neighbourhood where open doors warm fictional dormice and parents panic over Christmas toys, while the speaker wonders about caravans, beer, office workers in Montreal, and the way churches pull people in with the old story of the Fall; the poem moves between domestic scenes, economic worries, seasonal shifts, and spiritual questions, ending with a quiet reversal of the biblical riddle — not what it profits a man to gain the world and lose his soul, but what it means to feel the presence of something sacred in the everyday, embodied in Eve, the new girl, the reminder that life keeps offering beginnings even when the world feels cold.

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.

Last Days of Judgement

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These are the last days of judgement
There is terror stored up in the stories of the body
The smouldering wreck of a lifetime spent serving God has reached it’s end
The Bible bashers are here again!

It must be something in the brain Brahma has to sort out
:: Like gout in the walls and some other stuff for the cement driven doer
Open to all sorts of the panache in the times of working parental control over the internet
Except rebellion against Drs.

Nurses will follow like the Pied Piper towards hell
And somehow VHS will live on for those who have lived long
Leaders from abroad
The broads from Of Guys and Dolls
Those Audrey Hepburn imposters
Leaving the leader asking for more.

Man needs a woman like a barbecued hamburger on a sunny day in a good bun.
Why do you argue like cats and dogs about the racial superiority of Hinduism.
Longer and older than a Vedic Saved lie that a Chinaman can explain to a King,
This lingam is not for sale.

Jeff Bezzos knows why I am king of the whales
The mystery of the Blue Whale always kept me going
Why don’t you English embrace Creationism?
Why don’t you let individuality be tested by those hard knocks you shelter with big knockers and bad rhymes?

They don’t want to remembered as English time, when they are dead.
That is going to be something for us to deliver you from the Royal Family.
No Church of England as William spends the future
Science Fiction in the Welsh dales with my karma from Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible.

That is why I phoned America = come and watch the English bulldog bully his friends
Trashing Hare Krishna and the Naam
Celebrating Turbans and the Sikh rail road.

What did you build when your families insulted Krishna??
Why should we let you drink the Holy Ganga water?
Bottled up in a jar and now available online
We’ll never satisfy your corporate Tudor Street.
All those people men in Birmingham don’t meet in London.
Is this fact?
Is this not a poem Now?
Who walked past me and looked in the window at McDonalds in Northfield today?
How much does that racist have to say?

Worry about your own homes!
Social Services in deed
Another letter
More international feeds
Katherine on Instagram
A row from ‘Amal’ in time
Letters in response probably from George Clooney
Is this something his Area 51 could find.

[rishisunak]

What a piece of work is a question
#What novel reason is this
To tray 300 with Oxbridge muscle retention
And review wars spoilings geographically.
What is the best insult a politician has made of the poor
TV, dear sir,
I couldn’t ask for anything more.
Then La Morte D’Arthur is for European India
And they’ll control you with service in the docks for her in doors.

When are you married, naughty man
The dear Professor wants the Dr’s friend to know.
For all that Colonial gibberish he asked about
So that he could not go down below.
[Slammed]

AI Summary

It’s a poem about the feeling of living in an age of judgement, where religious pressure, cultural conflict, political spectacle, and personal fear all collide inside the speaker’s mind; the poem moves through Brahma, nurses, VHS tapes, Hollywood, creation myths, English identity, caste anxieties, and global misunderstandings, all while the speaker wrestles with being misinterpreted, racialised, or spiritually scrutinised; the tone swings between satire, anger, exhaustion, and dark humour as the speaker questions nationalism, faith, family, and the intrusion of institutions into private life, ending in a swirl of mythic references, personal vulnerability, and the sense that history, religion, and identity keep looping back in ways that feel both oppressive and absurd.

I Wonder

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I wonder at the light in the mind
The freedom that the morning waters find
The emotion of the sentience of me
Away from my jovial family.
What is this insipid separation in me
Content to be demented and demonstrated
Laughing out loud before the Northfield crowd
Walking and talking in Victoria Common about uncommon things.
Whispering under my microphone for the things the day brings
High mind and tender emotions and shallowest school boy belongings
Such wandering longings to begin again the journey of life.
The circumstances are repeated like the little boy lost looking for his mum
To make his environment feel warm, sound and comfortable
Not like those shadows aching his tired old brain
Remaining still inspite of all that strainging in the park
Not to look too deep into the hearts if dark at all…


What is all this news about The Fall?
Now I am a Church goer, the writing is not on that easy wall
Where the mission is so ministry that the members forget my poetic name.
I shall walk the walk of shame with my head held high
Until November rains mention the instilled nobility to the flowers again
And more than my disappointment is morning trade
In the hours away from my house I can afford to get upgraded.

AI Summary

It’s a meditation on the fragile clarity of morning, where the speaker feels both free and painfully separate from family, wandering through Northfield and Victoria Common with a mind full of longing, self‑consciousness, and the old ache of childhood vulnerability; the poem moves between tenderness and fear, between the desire to begin life again and the shadows that still cling to the brain, before turning toward church, community, and the slow dignity of carrying disappointment with one’s head held high, ending with the sense that even in shame or uncertainty, there is a quiet upgrade available in the simple act of stepping out into the day.