colonialism

Let Me Go

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

If you set me free
From the shackles of your past
I will promise to be there for you
When you pass the buck again.

It was alright for you
Trojan warrior and horse play
Crew neck T-Shirts and jumpers
When you wanted the Blue Review.

It was behind you
And you had all the settling you wanted
From the beginning to the end
Now I have to make amends.

And you throw all of history
Away like a life lined with letters
And a member of the illiterate
With the Illuminati beside Thee.

Save some thoughts for me
Let me get back to you
And see if I can do good too.

This is for you
Mt poetry emission truth
And see if you climb down your Ego.

There, I said it.
And my O.S. is just fine
Thanks for asking
It’s all in the taking, you see.

Then we can journal and write whatever you see as right
Just let me know what light is left on with the West v East so uptight.

AI Summary

Your poem speaks to someone who once controlled the narrative — a person whose past still shackles you, whose ego, history, and entitlement shaped your own sense of guilt and obligation. You contrast their ease — their Trojan games, their settled life, their Blue Review comforts — with your own need to make amends, to carry the weight of history they discarded. You describe how they threw away letters, lineage, literacy, and left you with the burden of meaning. The poem shifts into a plea: save some thoughts for me, let me do good too, let me speak my truth without being overshadowed by your ego. You invoke poetry, operating systems, journaling, the West and East, and the tension between light and tightness — ending with a quiet request for clarity in a world where cultural, emotional, and personal histories are all pulling at you at once. Beneath the calm tone is a deeper ache: the desire to be free of someone else’s past so you can finally live your own present.

GueTonEd

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

They told me I wanted to do one
So I lie and lean to the left
There is sorrow within me
Passion knows knowledge before it knows sleep
Poetry is a lesser pop song
Merit is demanding meaning in Islamic rhyme
And music in Bombay sounds fine,
Like finery in the old oil refineries of winers who dine
With elongated women who play with perchance
To off the rhythmical find
And punked up ink to the blinds
Rising like a Paki stack –
Up and always up: Never a fuck up!

Fuck up, mother fucker! And I will see you in the dump truck
Collecting rubbish like the good Fucked Up Dr says
Martin Luther King day!
It says your handy men are gay and you won’t play
On the streets and the sea shores
Where candy is crushed in the bottled mouths of mums
Mummying more than your Mata crew
Too rude to lie in lines with havoc on Drew
About his salary and fat carcass sitting lost
On the vultures’ solution to his camel feast
And how to translate his humour to an Arabic queen.

So I chose two and poetry wrote the internet
They let and the house was full of regret
Lonely furniture, hopeful bedside cabinet
A place to Kindle some bookish delight
A place to feel some horror book fright
A place for me and a place for you
A place away from the actor’s [so called] Acting Human Zoo.

Switch the Stanislavsky off
Let me hear your voice with hands around your balls : COUGH!
Cough like Roger Mc Gough and all those beaten poets
Who stood by Liverpool so that John Barnes would know it.
Left, right and then a goal –
Tell my soul that the Black Man is sold.

I am out for this shit on the web
Away from the Glen and all those Merry Arthurian Men.
Marionne, Marian and Atoinette – let me never regret
While my pen is still whet:
From one more fight between me and the Jews
For who never recommended O.T. tribalism between my brother, I and the (King and //…) you.

AI Summary

Your poem erupts from the tension between what others told you you wanted and what you actually feel — a mix of sorrow, passion, and the ache of being mis-seen. You move from Islamic rhyme to Bombay music, from oil refineries to elongated women, from punk ink to the pressure of racialised slurs, turning the poem into a howl against the labels and expectations forced onto you. The poem spirals into rage — dump trucks, Drs, MLK Day, candy crushed in mothers’ mouths — and then into satire: Arabic queens, internet poetry, lonely furniture, horror books, and the “acting human zoo.” You weave together Stanislavsky, Liverpool poets, John Barnes, Arthurian men, and the exhaustion of being caught between identities, communities, and histories that never fully claimed you. Beneath the profanity and fire is a deeper wound: the longing to be understood without being categorised, the grief of conflict with your own people, and the ache of a man who still writes because writing is the only place where the fight becomes bearable.

Durga

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

A normal anxiety pervades my kitty party
Where the cash flows wildy to please my sorority.
O.T. seasons ride hiding in the Super Bowl pricing
For an advert to my soul where the cost is tomorrow’s goals
In the company that analyses bliss
And forgets the sounded out price
The holy glacial meting ice
The terrors of fights in space
The loss of children in Chinese disgrace:
For Satan’s ____ hiss.

Count out the clock when the time said stop
And I could not work while the women went Twerk.
‘Tis the cause, ‘tie the cast
Men when they are acting are not last.
The Jerk (Simple IMDb) and “shithead” can experiment formally on Zee TV
< Mr and Mrs Bombay {(I dunno)} sell Sofas on ITV :: :: -à
“Come home soon!”
And the daughter left in the darkness leaving a hollow in the room
“I’ll be back before you know it!”

And the daughter laughed off emptiness so her Buddha Boy ‘shroomed
#Me
#Me
#MINE
“I am fine!” : Said the daughter
“I am watching Saif Ali Khan and thinking of you.”

The safe mother was walking about the table for more than Chai
When  she remembered the years gone by and times she felt angry rathe shy…
Such was the corroboration of the religious affair
While the daughter was opened to the public with Mousse in their hair.
Spray

AI Summary

Your poem moves between the glitter of a “kitty party” and the anxiety beneath it — money flowing, adverts selling bliss, melting glaciers, space‑age fears, and the grief of children lost in political systems. You weave together twerking women, Super Bowl pricing, Bollywood references, sitcom echoes, and the ache of a daughter leaving a room hollow behind her. The poem shifts into a mother remembering her own shy anger, a daughter insisting she is “fine,” and the strange collision of religious ritual, media culture, and family vulnerability. Beneath the humour and pop‑culture noise is a deeper wound: the loneliness of women performing happiness, the fragility of daughters navigating public gaze, and the quiet sorrow of a narrator watching it all unfold from the margins. The poem ends with a single word — “Spray” — like a freeze‑frame: the mousse, the performance, the ritual of appearance, and the unspoken ache beneath it.

Dr Deal

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

If Indians are kings and Punjabis are A.I. Commerce
What is the difference in longing for some drama?
When the karma and when the Cola?
What is the demand supplying my throat?

Come to me for dependence and I will slit a goat
And stand by Hamas for a chance to sign a post,
Where the farmer eats toast and his wife drinks tea
And there is some simplicity for Guru Nanak, his wife and me.

This is the age of the nothing but spoken word
When the computer will drive the nuts and page blots totally absurd.
There is something so riddled about a passage from a book
When the lower class is up for grabs in the tale of a crook.

Who sees what he prints and who says what he does
When E-Commerce is artificial like the sail of a Tale of a Tub
Adrift on Johnathan Swift’s ocean for nescience with Guru Gobind
To tell of locks in the fashion of rape that pain the body for Jats and Singh.

Come to me again and dance like an Indian veil
Then there will be snookered Pavilions where the comity is Princely.
Such is the deviance of homosexual travails
That Dharma is lost for addresses to cry and wail.

River, Turn, Flop and 2 in the hand for Mohammed
There is nothing on show but a backwards fly over in Iran.
Then the news cuts out and the make up drips for tears
And the growth of the Guru wilts for percentage before the Khans.

Khans over here and Khans over there
Nothing but sheer waterage with the jungle booking Clearwater:
And then the election that very much all but one nut wanted
To Musharaff Imams to Lahore for one more 2012’s lonely male daughter.

AI Summary

Your poem moves through a landscape where identity — Indian, Punjabi, Muslim, Sikh, commercial, digital — becomes a shifting mask rather than a home. You begin with a question about kings and commerce, then slide into longing, cola, karma, and the throat’s demand for meaning. The poem ricochets between farmers drinking tea, Guru Nanak’s simplicity, the artificiality of e‑commerce, Swift’s satire, and the violence of being mis-seen through caste or cultural stereotypes. You weave together veils, pavilions, homosexual travails, Dharma lost, poker metaphors, Iran flyovers, media tears, and the wilting of gurus under percentage pressure. The poem ends in a swirl of Khans, elections, Lahore, Musharraf, and the loneliness of a “2012 male daughter,” leaving the reader inside a world where longing is tangled with politics, masculinity, religion, and the ache of being misunderstood. Beneath the satire and chaos is a deeper wound: the desire for simplicity, dignity, and a place where identity is not a battlefield but a resting place.

Daintiest

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

It has been millions of tears
Tons of conversation
There are milieu of mélanges
For the Dentist to hang around for some manners.

It identifies itself as someone who is ringing
The phone for demands and supplied brilliance
But not so long ago they were set apart
By universal competition that leaves us dangling.

Thus the man is someone who is dainty
And set aside in the harrowest narrow margin of tomorrow
Lest domicile nation is developing the mounting
Of some art on his wall to hang out as the best.

There had to be some rude words spoken
As the cabbie took the woman back home after struggling
Saving money walking there to have an extraction
Forming herself on the way back for kids after school.

Those were the bottle jars that used to store the brine
Where the master was a hero for the lips that sold up fine
And kept the clients rolling past if they needed less pain
Than a diagram of deliverance from the bloody staring man.

Has he been by to see you? since his European gait
To find himself more integrated
Listening to moreish talk about Empire:
Let him deal with his letters and talk to him later.

So many people high above the table
After some school that made it simple
How to be the class that was truest
To the Drs today with a to do list.

AI Summary

Your poem moves through a world of tears, conversations, dentists, cab rides, and the small humiliations of working‑class life, where extraction is both a dental procedure and a metaphor for what society takes from people. You describe a woman walking home after saving money, a cabbie returning her, a man with a European gait talking Empire, and a class of people “high above the table” who learned early how to be the kind of students doctors approve of. The poem weaves together brine jars, rude words, narrow margins, letters, Empire talk, and the quiet violence of being judged by professionals who never lived the lives they diagnose. Beneath the observational tone is a deeper wound: the loneliness of someone who sees the whole system — class, migration, medicine, education — and knows how it shapes people’s dignity, pain, and silence. The poem ends with a sense of resignation: the “to‑do list” of doctors is a world away from the lived reality of those they claim to serve.

Wanderers of the Earth

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Wanderers of earth
Want is
Inexplicably unacceptable,

Requesting is for the child to the parent
Cult pattern, Offloading is acceptable.
Death has ceased to be at the door.

What poor worthless tradition

Is without the revision of the hours for the One?
There is always time for ‘King Kong’ (IMDB).
King Khan is not long.

Waters await the fragmented bait
Jailing the young for the wand.
Piff, Paff, Puffs on show – with the Ho
That Wants.
I did not ask for the ‘go down below’.

Travel to the Himalayas and ask of me there, what fare I need?
Feminist creed… Weed, in my tea?
What defense is for me, medically.
It’s only half past three.
Piscine?
Kuthrapali?
Bachchan?
Kapoor?

Moksha is Moksa upon the body of the watcher who Dalits his soul’s astral journeys

Returns to me
Do you know what pressure points are for,

All Fours!
God’s Dogs are rehearsing the hounds of hell for the bullet,
Next. Crying that it didn’t …
What a blast! Referent seeker, from a Bunsen Beaker
Laughed at by the Mayan Reaper for the “DRUGS” you name and fashion.
Hash Key ## Saw, a Paw Paw in the un-Jungle-less
So don’t best.

The vain is the vein that helps the whine grind the time until finding the uselessness of flaming,
Quranic deceit.
S(h)iva is replete

A champion worth muscles

The hussle is past due

The Jew of Deaths.
Muhammed is best. Faith is put to the test, honours are not for the poor but for the rich of past classes,
Greater than monies lies could hide in the righteous evil of literary lines.

Tell me a story, right to left
And there’s not enough money for the date that is guessed.

So, dying

He deleted it all.

The honour was not a test in an Oxford Ball.

AI Summary

Your poem moves through a landscape of wandering souls, unacceptable wants, and traditions that feel hollow without revision, blending King Kong and King Khan with Himalayan journeys, feminist tea, and a catalogue of South Asian names that become both anchors and ghosts. You weave together moksha, astral journeys, pressure points, hounds of hell, Mayan reapers, hash keys, and jungle‑less paw‑paws, creating a surreal world where spiritual longing collides with fear, satire, and bodily vulnerability. The poem spirals into religious tension — Shiva, the Qur’an, faith under pressure — and then into class and power: honours for the rich, literary deceit, stories told right‑to‑left, and the sense that someone “deleted it all” rather than face the test. Beneath the imagery is a deeper ache: the feeling of being judged, misunderstood, or spiritually mishandled; the exhaustion of carrying caste memory, religious complexity, and personal trauma; and the quiet grief of someone who wanted meaning but found only pressure, misunderstanding, and erasure. The poem ends with a stark, lonely gesture — the honour was not a test, and the Oxford Ball was not salvation — leaving the speaker suspended between cultural inheritance and personal dissolution.

Shakespeare

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Sheep stole my life
When I wandered too far for a wife
And the land was taken lightly
From underfoot with tax and sad goodnight-ly’s.
I was as welcome as my lost pole
To feel the whole world with my opened soul
Invaded and entrusted to the good honest degree
That even God would mean something for me.
Look here, look there and look over
The hills that had spoken of Goddesses and thunder,
To find, to seek, to touch, to thrill
The evil of excitement and a young boy’s thrill.
You did not deserve her, even for a day
And you will not require her, oddly as I may say
That marriage is a maze that fascinates me still
Throughout the loneliness of walkers who laugh at Shakespeare’s quill.
Many have come and few have been called
To separate his surrogate sisters from his gowns and balls,
Where muster and General frenzy the factions of deceit
With or without comedy so that tragedy is replete
With wisdom for one squire over another
When a masterless Samurai cannot know his own brother:
Who are these beings that life did not say,
Shakespeare was needing a laboratory to be gay.
Research his estate with legal grants
And claim you country with vacant plots;
Then one word will be quite quiet for the voices of Macbeth
To tunnel in fury the GCSEs and you’re A-Level tests.
I want to be – you
You are not – you still
There is death – stillness and your enterprise
The undiscovered country is still not before your eyes.
Ask and it will be given to you, knock and the door will be opened
But if Aragorn is not enough for the intellectual curfew
Then how much Shepherding will brown people need to learned few?
A joke at every corner and not one for the stave
Lends borrowing for naivety and hope for armies that are brave
To be or not to be without the thrust of a word
For one shared with Jesus the love of his ‘sblud.
For you cut me, sir, when you dance without tilt
Upon an earth that is farmed for the taxes of your phones’ quills:
Show me tomorrow when the test is biased A.B.C.
How Michael Jackson is bad science and referent
When you are so close to something I love(?)

AI Summary

Your poem moves through a landscape of lost love, lost land, and lost certainty, beginning with sheep stealing your life and a wife who never arrived, then widening into a meditation on marriage, masculinity, Shakespeare, samurai, and the loneliness of being a wanderer who still longs for belonging. You weave together hills of thunder, young boyish thrill, Shakespeare’s quill, surrogate sisters, gowns and balls, deceitful factions, and a masterless samurai who cannot find his brother, creating a world where identity is fractured across cultures and eras. The poem spirals into literary ghosts — Macbeth, Yorick, the “undiscovered country” — and then into modern anxieties about tests, bias, ambition, and the pressure to succeed in systems that feel rigged. You question who gets to shepherd whom, who gets to claim land or lineage, who gets to dance, who gets to speak, and who gets cut down by the tilt of another man’s confidence. Beneath the references — Aragorn, Jesus, Michael Jackson, GCSEs, A‑Levels — is a deeper ache: the fear of being close to something you love but never allowed to claim it, the pain of being judged by standards you didn’t set, and the longing for a future where your voice is not dismissed or overshadowed. The poem ends on a trembling note of desire and frustration: you are so close to something precious, but the world’s biases, histories, and hierarchies keep pulling it away.

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.

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.