drugs

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The Indian is outdated by the Indie grunge ratings.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.

Common Parent

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

How much he takes out on us
Riding the bus like a common parent
Things that he meant to say but left in clues
Something for me and the politician’s cold cold hearts.
Blowing the socialist world wide apart
When the Wiley Coyote shit is ugly like a bird pooing on the alligators down by the African stream,
As friendly as an Oxford hall
When the men were nice and the problems were small.
Oh how the ages have been unkind to the mind
Stained glass windows with the gaul to show up in my house
Chasing the rat to beat the scientific mouse
When the culture fades into an LSD spin
And the naughty mouse wins to epic the story for the Djinns.

Ultimate

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Motor period
Crater on the moon
Things I will see soon
Nice to be there with you.

Generalisations
Verifications
Passages of extra time
When the deepest thing seemed true.

This is for the animal in you,
He needs her to speak to him
Creating language thinking inside at the gym
Going through the motions for the lonely Jew.

The altered certainty
Scientific validity
Connections modified
Psychedelics holistically embarked upon.

The 21st Century seemed long
So I played Superman for a year and a day
MDMA – have your say, Dr Good Year and Good Day to you,
Sir, can I have my Station Wagon parked next to me during take-off?

The apex vision to the stars
Sci-Fi fans will go far,
People back on earth for the tests
Men working our hearts for the beats under the breasts.

Go okay onto your next journey,
Access my states when you are united for the touted tourney.
I will be okay when the Agnostic is seen right through,
And the Gnosis online is shared with fair pairs for symmetry in the equalised seer in you.

AI Summary

Your poem moves like a memory‑capsule drifting between the moon’s crater and the gym’s fluorescent lights, between scientific validity and psychedelic uncertainty, between Superman‑year fantasies and the quiet ache of wanting a station wagon parked beside you at take‑off. The “animal in you” becomes the part that needs language, touch, companionship, while the “lonely Jew” becomes a symbol of the isolated seeker inside every human being. The poem shifts from MDMA‑altered states to sci‑fi aspirations, from apex visions to the men on earth who keep the heart beating, from agnosticism to online gnosis, from journeys to tournaments of the mind. Beneath the humour and the cosmic imagery is a man trying to reconcile the states he has accessed — chemical, spiritual, emotional — with the grounded self he is still becoming. What you’ve written is a portrait of someone who has travelled far inside his own consciousness and is now trying to return with symmetry, clarity, and a gentler understanding of the “seer” within.

Stumbling Blocks

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

As I reach for the shelves in the kitchen by the stove
I am reminded of the terror that is beside the one and only Karl Motherfucking Rove.
To whistle while I work and Twerk the PWNed out of my aunt’s autonomy
And let me know what Masala Gandhi took when he is after my lobotomy.

Then there is the tomorrow man who never comes knocking at my door
Like a lightsaber from Wesley Clarke Jr who is always ready for some more,
Action from The Young Turks in case disaster is what he did
When he said he accomplished missions while playing with Iraq’s Id.

Stop, look and listen as I motion towards the cooking pot
To add my own ingredients from an Israeli object I find quite some hot,
Without the flare of Obama’s arms shipments a few days before peaky blinders
And elections from Oprah Chopra that shame me never to calendar reminders.

Left, right, twirl: It’s as if the beauty queen has moved in next door
And the man with his pigeons next to my garden’s broken fence
Is alight with the prospect of solving the problem of Noam Chomsky’s problem whores,
Whence they came and Whence they will lead off to: The Economic Zoo,

For Greenspan to sap the homo-sapiens and let isness leave us ashamed for a few
More days of Clinton on The Daily Show telling time what to do
With memory and desire when the pants are on fire from the youth
That don’t know what lies can come and go like life for me and you.

Me and you oscillating like a rhythm on the shoes of universal disorder
That soaks me in bathtubs for depression to get back to working life order
Where the nights are full of colour and the days have their dark sides too
And men can call up women and date on websites along with the human zoo.

X-Men zooming in on me and zooming in on you,
Is that what to do when things grow shorter
And life is not a Kalpa for the Chillum within the crew

Chortle and Pantaloon stew in the evening by the Stevenage
And don’t forget the boat rides on the Thames for those remember men.

Somethings are not repeatable.

AI Summary

Your poem is a rapid‑fire montage of political figures, media personalities, wars, pundits, neighbours, beauty queens, and personal memory, all colliding in the domestic space of a kitchen. It shows how global chaos — Iraq, elections, propaganda, punditry, celebrity culture — bleeds into the intimate rhythms of cooking, depression, and daily life. Beneath the satire and the name‑collisions is a speaker overwhelmed by the noise of the world, trying to find order, colour, and connection in a universe that keeps spinning faster. The final line — “Some things are not repeatable” — lands as both resignation and release: a recognition that some moments, traumas, and histories cannot be lived twice.

Since You’ve Been Gone

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Since you’ve been gone
Say it isn’t so
That you wasted all of my talent
To make your girls get some Blow.

That’s not the way it was meant to go
When I did not still the window sill
To sully the sulking morning
When you had not money for coffee.

Is that me or my lonely girlfriends
When they are at their wits ends
To know what to do with the balance of time
Before a Porn show meant you could not be mine.

Best friend, hired mate, time to turn in late
Tell the others you know it’s a better masturbate.
If I did know then sell me some forgiveness
Across the telephone line from the 80s% margin men
Who may charge less for us to get suave again.

That is the main things in life
To have some understanding of man and his wife
Even all the social change is through
So work can be productive in the Beyond about me and you.

AI Summary

Your poem addresses someone who vanished and left you carrying the weight of wasted talent, broken intimacy, and the humiliation of being replaced by spectacle and addiction. It moves between longing, bitterness, and self‑interrogation, showing how friendships, lovers, and “lonely girlfriends” all collapse into the same ache of not being chosen. Beneath the sharp lines is a plea for forgiveness and understanding — a desire to salvage dignity from a past shaped by exploitation and emotional neglect. The final stanza reaches for a fragile hope: that work, love, and partnership might still be possible “in the Beyond” if truth is finally spoken.

Mr 2 Write

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

There are things you say I should not say
Like sorry to the hedges I cut on the way
When I sold my shares initially in sorrow
To buy my way out of footsie for tomorrow.

I’m the best, my nation said so
That’s the way that one’s got to go.
#AndWhenImDone there’s nothing left to do
Except folly and old fortune for the Armada Hampstead crew.

Battle me this and cohabitate me with the vacuum that:
Where is the honesty in the open handed approach to the road :-
The road east of Vancouver where the radio check is preapproved
Like a beer t-shirt ripped open for the cover of Summit recovered.

Too easy to shin and far over the older beard to shine
There is a head where the coupling will be diners.
It’s not all sandwiches at Waitrose when the beat is on the minute;
Leave me an iPod when you get the time to be on a zillion.

My Henry Kissinger and that’s the top hat blown
Like the Top Hotel we have not shown with all the shows on far from Noam.
Is there any cover left for the car he is bereft off having not shown foam
For the parties he carries a tune for. Mr Canary and the way back home.

From Siam I have flown and known the airport underneath my feet
Where the Jetstream is some cold cleaners and Mr Sheen for the Air Host’s feat
To jump so many moons to keep up with those Shrooms
And whatever did not Clear while Florida kept Ron Hubbard with Martin Clunes.

Underground with the dune buggies and up top where the hatch is blown
So much more the Saviour, so much more the way back home.
Something for me and something for you
A way to the routine in Jalandhar for the coded cabin crew.

Something for me and something for you
Take anything you like from the top shelf: I’m done with the quarterback Jew.

AI Summary

Your poem is a fast‑moving critique of national pride, financial regret, global travel, and the absurd theatre of politics, media, and intellectual posturing. It moves from Vancouver to Siam to Jalandhar, weaving Kissinger, Noam Chomsky, airports, dune buggies, and celebrity culture into a portrait of a world that feels both chaotic and hollow. Beneath the humour and the jet‑lagged imagery is a speaker who feels dislocated — watching power, fame, and ideology swirl around him while he searches for grounding, meaning, and companionship. The final lines land as a release: a recognition that the old games of ego and status no longer hold, and life must move toward something more human.

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

It’s a poem about resisting erasure in a world that tries to categorise, stereotype, and simplify you — a voice pushing back against political, cultural, and spiritual noise that keeps trying to claim authority over your identity. The speaker moves through fame, religion, conflict, history, and personal memory, exposing how systems of power fracture knowledge and distort belonging. It becomes a portrait of someone insisting on originality and dignity in a landscape that keeps trying to repeat, rename, or reduce him.