churches

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.

Neurodivergent

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Pictures of success
Excess dancing of fiery emblematic
Time spent undressing tragic dreams.
There is no more seems
Terror plots
Yesterday’s waste
Forgotten travelling clouds;
Mesmerising water
Of the neurological passageway,
They have thoroughfare.

The concrete reality of a subterranean jungle
Met with monster-like deceitful strain
Going this way and that way
A fitness survived fit for a King’s competition.
Elements combine some new way of rage
Desperation pants for a damp rag to wipe a sweaty face
This day and that old something.

Can you wear a bonnet and go to the races?
Or stay with me while I pace up and down the streets?
So that at the end of the year it is still Christmas
And there is some imaginative space where we meet.
It cannot be your world, when I am jobless too –
For those pictures of you dinner and dancing
Never show the real world like a workplace for you.

Despicable covered clothing
A sheath of apple and two timing pie:
Terse reprehensible verse
Taking reality on time of some guy’s interpretation of some guy’s interpretation.

Hold on! Catch some beats – there is rhythm in these streets;
And the message of the new century unfolding
Is that horror is not the old archaic armchair of the untold
Frightening night that might lose me
In the pleasure of anonymous spendthrift ways:
When stars pass as human beings
And dark partial truths follow wet nights and days.

AI Summary

This poem explores the tension between the images of success the world sells you and the inner reality of uncertainty, joblessness, longing, and emotional fatigue. You open with fiery, emblematic excess — the glamour of success, the seduction of dreams — and immediately contrast it with terror plots, neurological passageways, forgotten clouds. It’s a world where beauty and danger sit side by side.

The middle of the poem shifts into survival mode: a subterranean jungle, deceit, sweat, desperation, the king’s competition. These images show how adulthood feels like a maze where you’re constantly trying to stay upright, stay sane, stay human.

Then comes the emotional centre: the contrast between someone else’s glamorous life — dinners, dancing, bonnets at the races — and your own reality of pacing the streets, joblessness, and the longing for a shared imaginative space. You’re naming the pain of asymmetry: their world looks polished; yours feels raw.

The poem then turns toward language itself — terse verses, interpretations of interpretations, the way reality gets filtered through other people’s stories. You’re questioning who gets to define truth.

The final movement is a warning and a confession: the new century’s horror isn’t the old Gothic fear — it’s the anonymous, spendthrift, nightlife‑blurred, truth‑distorted world where stars pass as humans and partial truths follow you into the wet nights.

It’s a poem about trying to stay real in a world that keeps slipping into illusion.

Monsters of Game

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Monsters of fame know the game that I name
But redrawers of old drawers cannot know the originality:
I claim! Stay with me & you will see. That is seeing,
And I am being. Keyboard, laptop & mouse:
If I am not grateful for my house –
Then who is the Conglomerate upon me
Greater than the North Sea and the airspace now governed by the School of Commoning
And evolutionary strains for more melody than harmony
| The right to not be repeated |
Poetry will not be defeated.
Even clowns have hands to stand on,
Do not admire the programmers’ random.

There is no-one to know how the space can be cleared
Fellows handle doorknobs for men being a different kind of fellow they fear.
Estimation is a cleverer way of describing the giving
That has not thanks in the miniature that is still living
After the wars of the East that fell down for the cleanest cocking
Of a gun to not know the right time to go door knocking
And find the Dame with the same man: Sing to me your Christmas plan.

Some games knew boards and the years bowled over wickets
So that the PLO could go underground and down below
The seas of the wavelengths for Mata’s density and travels
In the New Age of opened bowels and tortured remains
So that Puja could clean brains and Aarti told Saraswati:
‘Better the devil she knew’. Time is through with you
Clouds have fractures and health knows matters
Knowledge is in tatters and men know manners.

So be polite as Jews feminise the day
And hurry back home from the Christian who is Jolly Roger,
Tomorrow it is karma for the Muslim to have sway
As Mind Body Spirit stays with it for ‘Who is gay?

AI Summary

This poem is a confrontation with power, identity, and the right to speak without being swallowed by the noise of the world. You open with fame, originality, conglomerates, the North Sea, evolutionary strains — all symbols of forces larger than any individual. You’re asking: Who gets to define meaning? Who gets to repeat? Who gets to stand out?

You then move into fear, masculinity, and social hierarchy — doorknobs, fellows, wars, guns, Christmas plans. These images show how men are shaped by fear of other men, by violence, by tradition, by the rituals of belonging and exclusion.

The middle of the poem becomes a swirl of politics, religion, and cultural inheritance: PLO, Mata, Saraswati, Puja, Aarti, Jews, Christians, Muslims, karma, Mind Body Spirit. You’re not attacking any group — you’re showing how identity becomes a battlefield when history, faith, and modernity collide.

This is the emotional centre: you’re overwhelmed by the way the world divides itself into tribes, labels, and competing truths.

The poem ends with a kind of exhausted satire — a world where everyone is categorised, feminised, masculinised, spiritualised, politicised, and judged. You’re naming the absurdity of it all: the way identity becomes a performance instead of a home.