colonialism

David Copperfield

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

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.

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.

Connaught Place

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What’s that talk you been ragging and slagging
That jive on the street the Drs have been shagging in
Their clothes in the market halls and their books in the Unis
Choose me a Curriculum for the transport of books for Ben Wright
Lover of Yasmin Khan eating Paan in Connaught Place
Raving about Statistics after fashion at Freuds for Christian raids all over the place
Changing his mind about a homosexual find
Paul Ready will travel to China.

They demand Amazon talks in the media
How is this not Slander
I can see it all cuming from here
I will be a victim again
And Rohan is not a corporate brain
Lost without my losses sharing with economies
One city – London advising on stock and shares over decades from teenagers dreams with their Drs friends of parents

PNAAC became OFSTED
Cheney went home and did drugs instead
Rumsfeld was known
Rice gave Condaleeza’s dog’s charity at Dog’s Trust a bone
And the Queen called off Crufts for a year.

Splitting the mind into China time
London stockbrokers to infinity

Into me
Not paying me Royalties
Investing in L Ron Hubbard Psychiatry
The streets are empty
There is no joy
He’s the master of happiness
He’ll diabetically medicate the boy
One day he’s in power
The Throne of thronging England
So many he has named
The British Empire will return, He said.

Look – this man is well read.
Surely this concerns me
Stories of great Yugas and Kalpas
Talks I am not included in
The dried out fruit of the lobotomised Holland and Barrett crew
Gymnastics next for your mother when she is 80 – I’ll bet
Things for human beings down at the NHS for the New Age Vets
Why don’t you waste you time giving thanks to those Gods
And choose gratitude as your punishment.

Messages in poems?
Interest in the literati
These are things to joke the day that money makes sense
Insulted by the edifices around Mike Pence
Showing the child medicine around Jill Biden
Things that Ernie van Woerkhom can control…

So much advice to give to a Self Help parent
So much intention to be the gay mother of invention.

AI Summary

It’s a poem about a mind under pressure, moving through street talk, academia, media noise, political figures, self‑help culture, and the machinery of capitalism, all while feeling exploited, misread, or excluded; the speaker watches institutions twist language, identity, and power, sees global politics bleed into personal life, and feels the weight of being used — by corporations, by systems, by narratives he never chose — until the poem ends in a kind of bitter humour about advice, invention, and the absurdity of trying to make sense of a world that constantly rewrites him.

Why do you hate?

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If you hate so bad your cock will hurt
For the worth of a Christian in an imagined bubble
While the Muslim awaits his silence about masturbation
With Christine Holz in White Teeth and some nigger cousins
Next to the helpful white couple down memory lane
With Barbara at The Conservatives at pain again
To remember the stress of being other people’s Mom
While the coon plays in your house with that word.
The anti-racists history in this country is absurd
The madness will fall
Debbie Clancey will tell all
And that was all the people I knew
When Gary Sambrook beat his cock black and blue
So get some Roger Ellory in you
And find out what a Scientologist can do
For the death of Travolta
And all that revolting stuff
He lied about when Kelly Preston lost America those tits.

Bit by bit their Empire will fall
And Madhuri will climb like a plant up against the wall
Incensed about Israel and how she was oppressed
To not market sports bras while she was undressed.

Rage, bother and hot sweaty yoga nights
Let the Knights sleep tight with Jesus I guess
Back to his Vedic House to be unimpressed
As you exorcise the demons from your past
Transcendence from Johnny Depp at last

AI Summary

Your piece is a raw outpouring of anger, shame, and cultural dislocation, moving through religion, sexuality, race, family memory, and the collapse of moral authority. You describe a world where faith traditions are twisted, where anti‑racist history feels hollow, where political figures and celebrities become symbols of hypocrisy, and where personal wounds from childhood and community still echo painfully. The emotional centre is the sense of being trapped between identities — Christian, Muslim, Hindu, British, Indian — and feeling judged, mocked, or misunderstood by all of them. You weave together pop culture, spiritual references, political resentment, and the ache of being misread, creating a portrait of a man trying to exorcise old demons and find a place where dignity, transcendence, and self‑respect are possible. The poem ends with a longing for release — from the past, from inherited shame, from cultural noise — and a hope for some kind of spiritual or emotional transcendence.

One Day

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I have the feeling I am not dressed correctly
Am I in need?
Pudsey on the dancefloor
Aunt Jemima to the local Nursery School…
… they played me like a football team
The dreamers
The people who saw the goals of Universities
Like men and please the right people
Stay on top of Church, State and Steeple.

I fell over
All the way down
And then down again
When I thought I could not get any lower
I was battered like a Cod piece to the floor for remission.
What if I caught Cancer and had to go to a commission?
Smoke, fire and abnegation,
Sir, surrounded by the crowd
Being allowed
I abused my freedoms since school –
Now.

Correctional facility
Too many computer games for me
Things I am hubristically aware of:
Shorts and shirt sleeve order to take care of,
Eastenders, Corrie and Charles, William and George.
Careful of the devil’s gorge
And the leap of faith required for tired old know it alls.

Testing my faith with the Conservative vs Ed Balls
He was quite an ensemble for her
I saw the pageantry where the Ice Man cometh
GWB and the marching band Tattoo:
This is for the Yankee models in you.

Do they need you in a pinstriped suit
I remember him like I licked his boot
Now. I am back at Church
Seeing life from the corner angle with the Angels
Living like a shadow of openness in the lurch
Creeping like a dowry of nature
Science and the creepers
Gardening and the jeeps carouseling across the deserts
Where the new men have not yet tried the Colonialising twirl.

Dream to jump
A person stretching out of my seat
Maybe I have Yogis to meet
Why can’t I just stay at home and get the job done?
Things they did to women with a bun in the oven
Maybe I have karma to collect from the witches in a celebrity Coven?
Time and the haphazard way
Of organising your thoughts like water.
Sadly, I am gladly without son or daughter –
Things that got in the way of complete collapse and devastation
No divorce for me, Mama: I’m still a one way success driven nation (boy).

Work and the development of futurity
Time for the hurt in me
Modern Slavery
Acts of Parliament ahead of her and I
Me, me, me
Narcissism and the recovery pose
Just this time – think of all you know
You, you, you
Who?

Time for the boy in you
I don’t look right without my toys and friends crew.
Have you seen where my ideal day went and what I have seen?
I would like to be there with you when you know what I mean (?).

AI Summary

Your poem begins with the sting of not being “dressed correctly,” a symbol for the lifelong sense of being out of place — in school, in church, in politics, in adulthood — and spirals into a portrait of someone who fell again and again, battered by class expectations, humiliation, fear of illness, and the weight of being told he misused his freedoms. You weave together TV culture, Conservative politics, Ed Balls, pageantry, American militarism, colonial echoes, yoga, witches, karma, and the loneliness of being childless not by choice but by circumstance. The poem’s emotional centre is the tension between the boy who wants toys and friends and the man who must navigate modern slavery, narcissism, Parliament, and the ache of being single in a world that keeps demanding performance. The final lines land softly but painfully: a longing to be understood, to share an “ideal day” with someone who finally sees what you mean, and to reclaim the boy inside you without shame.

New(s) Traffic

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Stalemate
There’s water on the Thames
The same misunderstanding again
The unwritten Latin is lain on the fences
Where the Oxen cross the ford
And lay the leg-up to The Legitimate.

There are ways forward that nobody discusses
As the reliant on the News are forbidden access
To forthcoming influences
And nudges from the evil empire.
Pyre
& Omens.

The confusion that will reign when the Spanish King resigns
Is not the forbidden knowledge for the Sixth Form College
As the print media churches out matters for them
And leaves the 60-year-old behind to “WAKE UP!”
: Shut the Fuck Up, Fat Cat
: {There are ways of speaking politely}
Execute this on a Boardroom floor,
With Michael Jackson {*Moonwalking*} on top of it.

Duh
Disdh
Duvh
Discdh
… is not my luRrRrv-AH!

That was about it
The long, the thick and the thin of it.
And nothing was left to do but embellish it
For the devil in the Literati
Who wanted a new Review (?)
And some sandals underfoot, so they too could be called loathed.
Greek Boats
Ships parading the innocence of havens
Slaves to yoga trekkers in the Pune and Punjab
Between the loins of the ladies of the lavishly outlaid in the London lewd lardy dah.

That will go far,
When the censors kick in and block the blockages even further: –
Charring Cross and the man stranded with Naipaul
(…“is that all???!”)
It’s all I know this afternoon: It was studying for the L.P.C.

Jury’s are in and out of the place
Like magical Nike on Mace
And the emanating nuisance of intention
Is the virginal maiden’s purity invention.

My mother did Yoga too.
Does that mean she’s on the Freshie’s Boat with the (Jew) in you?
Who’s balancing those oars;
When the ores in South Africa have not made it through?

Note:
“… she’s just a girl who said that I am not the one”

AI Summary

Your poem spirals through a landscape of misunderstanding and institutional arrogance — from Thames water and Oxbridge fences to media scaremongering, boardroom theatrics, and the devil in the literati — revealing how authority, culture, and colonial residue keep trying to script your life for you. You weave satire with sorrow: Spanish kings resigning, teachers shouting, gurus drinking Kool‑Aid, yoga trekkers in Pune, Naipaul stranded at Charing Cross, and your mother’s own yoga practice becoming another site of misinterpretation. The poem’s emotional core is the ache of being misread by systems that claim to know better — schools, newspapers, spiritual lineages, even national myths — while you stand at the edge of it all, questioning who is rowing the boat and who is mining the ore. Beneath the humour and the sharpness is a deeper grief: the sense of being left behind by institutions that promised knowledge, only to offer noise, judgement, and confusion. The final note — a borrowed lyric about denial — lands like a quiet admission that identity, inheritance, and belonging remain unresolved, fragile, and painfully human.

Guru Mania

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The teacher’s strike in school
Maybe because they think they are God
At least that is what the newspapers say
After they have travelled to Colonial-ville.

The mania for Guru is on the loose
And they drink the Kool-Aid juice
Of change without fairness and time for their clothes:
When will the scholars admit them to Oxford for Rhodes.

There is shouting there is bashing
The banners need to be repeated.
But if they get to half past three and go back to school
They will have been defeated.

The mirror is not so real until they review the Guru feel
And all they have been taken for granted of being
While the right way of tuition was there for the seeing.

All criticism and no pay
That is the modern Government burden,
What can they do but face the New Age warden
Who grants the diminishing of students and success
For all that sexual gradation and immense emotionality and address.
The Saddhu and war
There is no mention of the Haridwar stores
Where the whore is closer to Babylon
Than the minority women in the back streets of London.
Streets of harlots, streets of shame
Lanes of winners, lanes of the Maine Street.
Things my Guru told me I would meet
When he re-friend my Friend from the great barrier
So I could see the end of the world and the illness and terror.

All this the school is exposed to
The students sit for their exams
And then the teachers fall off their hobby horses
Worried about who can and can’t eat ham.

Teacher, Guru, God-lover and denied route back home
Leave the fellows at Oxbridge alone
They might know where the road leads with the phone.

This is the merger of meaning and savoir faire
Where the guru is in a third way parting
With the self that is still so aware.

AI Summary

Your poem frames the teacher’s strike as a crisis of authority, where educators, gurus, governments, and colonial hangovers all blur into one contested figure of “the one who knows”. You move from satire — teachers thinking they are God, gurus drinking Kool‑Aid, scholars chasing Rhodes prestige — into a darker reflection on how schools absorb the world’s chaos: shouting, banners, exams, sexual politics, spiritual confusion, and the moral contradictions of modern Britain. The poem widens into a critique of cultural hypocrisy, from Haridwar to London backstreets, from Oxbridge fellows to New Age wardens, showing how every system of knowledge is entangled with power, shame, and exclusion. Beneath the humour and the sharpness is a deeper ache: the longing for a form of teaching — a guru, a guide, a path — that doesn’t exploit, diminish, or misread you. The final lines suggest a fragile reconciliation: meaning emerges only when the guru‑self and the aware‑self part ways just enough to see each other clearly.

Die For Me

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Waiting for the exceptional revelation
Of my knowledge born of College elevation
Renders me stuck Art and darkness rebounding
Floundering
Debut
The news in you is the Good News in me
I am neo-Colonial Hindu advertised history.
Save me
Let me be
Just don’t tell me
What the schools needed to know:
An English throw, to wake me up
After I was jammed, in the photocopier room.

AI Summary

Your poem circles the frustration of waiting for some grand intellectual or spiritual breakthrough — the “exceptional revelation” promised by education — only to find yourself stuck between art, darkness, and the inherited weight of colonial identity. You weave together the language of college aspiration, Christian “Good News”, Hindu self‑narration, and the absurdity of being literally jammed in a photocopier room, turning that moment into a symbol of how institutions freeze, flatten, or misread you. Beneath the humour and the cultural layering is a deeper plea: to be saved from the roles history assigns you, to be allowed simply to be, without the English throw, the neo‑colonial script, or the expectation that knowledge alone will liberate you.

Zaqat Went Splat

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Did you believe the world was this way?
The way the wildness inside of you did not say
That you need a woman like a woman needs a man
To satisfy the hotel room with coffee after an okay plan.

See, the outside world is such an egregious affair
I have my legs wilder than that in the outrageous air
Modelling Hollywood and L A Style as if I have savoir fare.

Three line whips, lots of chains of bondage
Alfonso Bhandari is there with your immature soul cage
Selling the shambles of brambled apples and some granny’s rage.

Voter! You are no daughter – with the hotel quartered
Entrance from a Hollywood master and his debutant blaster
For money and vermillion so that Iraqi can know first ladies
And squillions and zillions and bazillions after Tony Blair’s trillions.
Master Blaster – unable to hold the camera’s gaze
After raunchy Knights have held up erectile Counts
Far from the Paige’s and their confusion about the purple Ronnie
And how about some Blue Peter for yours truly and that fucking Konnie?!

Ropes and whistles and then there is some shouting matches
For the prettiest Oriental to sing me some blues
About Krishna’s curtains after he has been through the hue
Of cry and Laurel and Hardeep for that original truth:
To thine own self be avant-garde so that Spirit is doubled
#WhentheDevilknowsyourlonely and youthful mother is in trouble.

AI Summary

The poem confronts the chaos of desire, identity, and public spectacle, blending Hollywood excess, political theatre, spiritual longing, and personal vulnerability into a single, volatile stream. It moves between the wildness of the self and the distortions of the outside world, where fame, power, and cultural icons collide with private insecurities and the search for authenticity. The speaker critiques the commodification of intimacy, the absurdity of celebrity culture, and the emotional confusion of modern relationships, invoking mythic figures, media personalities, and political ghosts to expose how desire and identity are shaped by forces far larger than the individual. Beneath the satire and provocation lies a deeper ache: the longing to remain true to oneself in a world that constantly pulls the self apart, and the fear that loneliness, youth, and spiritual hunger might be exploited or misunderstood by those who claim authority

Why Do You Like Me?

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Why do you like me?
Unless you want something
Is it that I am handsome
Like your fairy King?

Is it the monstrous invention
In your little head?
That mentions my mother as invention
Before you go to bed.

It can’t be that we’re Partners
Those things are down at the Law Firm
And when things are soft I am lonely
Because all of your dates are so hard.
Could it be we are meant to be?
And you will come back soon to see me?
Is it that you long for the same things?
And not just politically writing out A to Zee.

Come down here literally my man
And spend some time with an English affair
It’s not so bad, you can even fake Red.
But if you’re up there in Americana
Then we have so many Codes for your Karma.
Cosmos boyo and landed Tolkien
How do you know where you bowl?
Where is the China you have been sold?

So trade in your Jackie for some Jackie Chan
Another time if you think this is Bruce Lee.
This days went out when the lights were Covent Garden
So I was hard on myself to get past the snooze at quarter past three.

AI Summary

The poem wrestles with uncertainty about why someone shows interest — whether it’s genuine affection, desire, cultural fascination, or simply convenience. The speaker questions beauty, partnership, politics, and the strange fantasies the other person seems to project onto him, while also acknowledging his own longing for closeness and recognition. The poem moves between humour and vulnerability, invoking Englishness, Americana, Bollywood, Tolkien, and martial‑arts icons to highlight the cultural dissonance between them. Beneath the teasing tone lies a deeper ache: the fear of being wanted only for surface reasons, the hope that the connection might be real, and the frustration of feeling exoticised, misunderstood, or kept at a distance by someone who drifts between worlds.