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The Indian is outdated by the Indie grunge ratings.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

The poem blends tavern revelry, cultural nostalgia, spiritual yearning, and generational disillusionment into a critique of how enlightenment, identity, and rebellion are performed in modern life. It moves from carefree summer fantasies to darker reflections on drugs, religion, money owed, and the shifting hierarchies of race, faith, and artistic relevance. The speaker watches old archetypes — the blonde charmer, the Christian debtor, the Indian mystic, the grunge‑era rebel — collide with contemporary anxieties about authenticity, belonging, and being “outdated” in a world obsessed with reinvention. Beneath the humour and cultural mash‑ups lies a deeper question about legitimacy and transgression: why some people insist on standing outside the law, outside tradition, outside accountability, even as they borrow from the spiritual and cultural worlds they claim to transcend.

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.

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

The poem compresses domestic life, political noise, cultural memory, and personal disorientation into a single stream of consciousness, where reaching for a kitchen shelf becomes the trigger for a cascade of intrusive associations. Figures from global politics, media, war, economics, and pop culture flicker in and out like static, creating a sense of a mind overloaded by history and commentary while trying to perform ordinary tasks. Beneath the satire and absurdity runs a quieter thread: fatigue, depression, the desire for order, the search for connection, and the awareness that life moves in cycles that can’t be repeated. The poem becomes a portrait of a self trying to cook dinner while the entire world — its wars, its pundits, its myths, its neighbours, its memories — barges into the room.

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

The poem traces the aftermath of a relationship marked by disappointment, exploitation, and emotional residue, where the speaker confronts someone who squandered their trust, talent, and intimacy for shallow pursuits. It moves between accusation and self‑reflection, touching on loneliness, the collapse of shared futures, and the absurdity of trying to find meaning in the debris of digital life, self‑help clichés, and transactional relationships. Beneath the sharp edges and bitterness lies a quieter longing for dignity, forgiveness, and a sense of mutual understanding — a hope that even after betrayal, social change, and personal disillusionment, something productive or humane might still emerge between “me and you.”

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 moves through a world of travel, commerce, colonial memory, airports, Kissinger shadows, Noam Chomsky echoes, Waitrose sandwiches, Vancouver roads, and Jalandhar routines, weaving together global politics with the intimate ache of someone who feels displaced everywhere he goes. You describe selling shares, cutting hedges, being told what not to say, and carrying the weight of national pride that never quite fit. The poem ricochets between Siam, Florida, dune buggies, Scientology, Martin Clunes, and coded cabin crews, creating a sense of a man moving through systems that never fully saw him. Beneath the humour, satire, and cultural references is a deeper wound: the loneliness of someone who has travelled far — geographically, emotionally, spiritually — and still feels judged, mis-seen, or excluded. The final line erupts from that wound, not as a belief but as a cry from someone who has been hurt by the world’s hierarchies and is trying to name the pain without yet having a safe place to put it.

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.