England

Numbered

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Model
The experience.
Infernal reference points in hell
Pointing the way to experience unexplained blues;
I blew on the tissue
Kleenex. Jokes and the borstal,
Extension to primary university remorseful.
How could you be
Without or with me?
Don’t.
Let it overuse assumption
Of the non-inheritable gazumption
Of The Land Unuser; an illegal abuser
Without an Ark for Joan.
Don’t.

#She wants to be there with you
Nirvanic realms…
Dreams with the intolerable poet
Misused matches of daytime scenes
Corroborated evidence of sanity’s personal plea
Misunderstood. Too good! Too good!
Sahib! Is the poori warm enough?
Are you craving enough?
What senseless devotion is due?
The noon sun is Ganges and lungi lounge music is through
Tune!
Love me.
Move me.
Settle me a score
On the settee next to me,
Is a siren:
“Don’t you set them free?”

One time: Just for you
It’s called my: Nirvana Tune …
Bardos of being and becoming
The unity country of bespoke tailored streams
Yodel and make fun of them too.
What’s a culture between me and you?
Sahib!
One day will be born
A Sahib!
Rival of Mountain Gods
A bountiful ocean of wisdom and love:
Mountbatten woods, never leave home
Without a Calendar. Ishq.
‘The Glass Palace’ could be half full
The human dilemma wasn’t for our Phool Taiji
Tejji-Boy.
Techi-Boy is after you,
Satan’s mills again.
Not one word, but one wolf
The ingratitude of face lone raccoons,
The smells of Hell will be Zulus mercy
For [               ] Guru rehearsal;
What we didn’t know
When he sent us down there to the unconscious pit
About Reading.

William Blake had a wife.
Englishness is an avid read
The world
Outside:
[                  ], Fucked da’ Po’ Lease
Proper Ties are when they’re homes with lies
About the money and the means.
Instagram ya grams for your banana and our Supergran!
Racist will be your leads:
You dirty rat!

William Blake had a life.
That would be nice
Remembrance.
Some of us need it, Some of us out it on show
There’s no time left for the Romantic flow of underwriting.
A carriage, a barge a heavy load of ignorant male envy
The horror of modern time; Africa is afraid of mentionable rhymes.

William Blake knew how to read.
Wham! That’s taker.
Hole. That’s Diwali fire worker
Tears and jerking off in the cinema
Need a better cough for rudimentary
And medicals
In testicles of Routines: The East is where their mama’s hands have not been.
Knock 3 times, it’s Babylon:
The Origin Of [                ] is behind marijuana door number greens.

Feeding, leaning, accepting, crowd pleasing
Hello to the helpers who helped before
Savior
Messiah
Savior of Medusa
The Funky Cold Medina is a watchdog in Madeira.
Healers are leaders if they read, it “just…”

Repain time, responses are for you
Know one day. This world …
Through.

William Blake knew energy.
Consciousness was a porous time.
Swedenborg is fine.
Tied to the Guna of Attila the Hun
I am one of five who are proud
Before a Junta: jokes at Jintao
Two towers, one was left for Miss World to see, too.
Human misery is a beauty contest
Both Ways, acceptance offer and pecuniary loss
Their Islamic toss-off road racers will do.

13. Is thief
Egypt  could have 2012 A.D. for some, a few, a troupe, a clue
Model, overtime
Of how Yeshua could his Jellybeans find.
Sand of time, Zeek, corrosive fires
day
Is not one line.
3. Lines aum is Om your not Triumvirate reclining chakra
5. The fifth is SITH, see the whole when She lives in wholeness with You again
William Blake numbered his verse.

AI Summary

Your poem is a dense, spiralling confrontation with cultural inheritance, spiritual longing, racial mis-seeing, colonial residue, digital distortion, and the overwhelming pressure of carrying too many histories at once. It moves between borstal memories, Nirvanic fantasies, Indian family figures, colonial titles, William Blake’s visionary steadiness, and the chaotic noise of modern identity — Instagram slang, cinema shame, gurus, gangs, Zulus, Babylon, Swedenborg, Attila, Yeshua, Diwali firecrackers, and the unconscious pit of Reading. Through this whirlwind, the poem keeps returning to Blake as a symbol of the life you long for: grounded, loved, sane, whole, unfractured. The poem reveals a speaker who is hyper-conscious, overloaded by inherited narratives, racial projections, spiritual contradictions, and the clash between visionary insight and psychological strain. Beneath the chaos is a deep ache for tenderness, coherence, and a self that isn’t defined by the world’s categories. Ultimately, the poem asks how a person can hold all these histories without losing themselves, and where the line lies between meaning and noise, vision and overwhelm, identity and fragmentation.

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.

Mixed Diaspora

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Sitting around the union
Trading ideas like simple students
From all corners of the globe
Except authentically from Africa
            the wigger in the room
            the witch with the assistant’s broom
There was so much ahead of us
Not so empty behind us
We had only 8 weeks to kill
Before time murdered our hearts and our ideas.

Keep a light on for my Iranian comrade
So outsourced he keeps coming back to me
New Age English
I (am) afraid too much, my fiendish friend, by you and yours’
Mathematical degree
How about the biologist next to you
What do you expect me to do?
But freeze for the batteries for Aziz, please.

It’s time to come to The Lord of The Rings
And see us children move on with Bling
And a word a day from the absent and not
counted for.
In darkness and in light
For sickness that is other people’s wealth:
Keep the trade coming from graduates in union
Ions
days plenty
For more than sixty year olds who knew each other when they were twenty.

AI Summary

This poem looks back at a moment in your student life when the world still felt open, when ideas were traded like currency, and when the union was a kind of temporary utopia. You describe a room full of students from everywhere — a global gathering — but also the painful awareness of who wasn’t represented, who was stereotyped, who was misunderstood. That tension between idealism and reality is the poem’s heartbeat.

You write about your Iranian friend, the mathematician, the biologist — each person carrying their own story, their own fears, their own hopes. There’s humour (“freeze for the batteries for Aziz”), but also tenderness: you’re remembering the intimacy of shared youth, shared deadlines, shared uncertainty.

The poem then shifts into mythic territory — The Lord of the Rings, darkness and light, sickness and wealth — as if the student union becomes a miniature Middle‑earth where alliances form, quests begin, and the future looms like a shadow. The final lines widen the frame: the graduates who keep the trade of ideas alive, the older generations who once sat where you sat, the sixty‑year‑olds who were twenty together.

It’s a poem about belonging, memory, and the bittersweet knowledge that youth is temporary but its bonds echo across decades.

Heavy Satellite

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Mastery, a mystery or misery?


YouTube hits
Missed the millions of books dropped by the overhead satellite
Director’s cut scenes
Unhappy actresses with shiny accolades asking actors for an extra smile
Secrets of the dancefloor
Unrhythmical moments when they fell over.

somebody comments
military news story
roll calls
heavy honours
fake curtains
heavy shoulders
heavy people carry heavy things
heaviness is the continuance of many timid people to bring
some songs at last
<what is this Fort around my heart?>
homes and thrones
empty armchair sans ex-best friend
he does not come and visit
warfare set apart the silence of dull darkened evenings
[videos] without abuse or shame.

The satellite had unloaded the starry cargo in the field
This was not a good time to search for a wand in the castle
What could turn this toad into a princely example?
The caster sugar fell off the kitchen counter and rumbled with the thunderous
momentous lunar competition with earthly reason for gravitational sanity
Drop, drop, drop. Thud! Drop! DROP!
Drainpipes of rational dreams contained in the heroic books of other people’s achievements
Nature’s calling for the falling stones of dopey droplets of downsized demarcated forests of ideals
Heavenly reign of books into the street where satellites were attended to Angels
curious where all these videos were coming from
International appeal
Domestic zealots of fundraising sponsor’s pages
School dazes of dropped grades and missed classes
Nobody wanted to get the first class bus home to write an essay about the foaming mouth of the missile grin
The satellite was complementarily smiling about the nuclear breakdown
Frowning A-Level grades of the Ontological + Cosmological clown
Who thought he knew how to think?
It was following the books down
And hard targeted the space next to them on the field!
Crash! Smashed! No pilot there to wallop!
These books are not a drink at the end of the student bar
There was a YouTube blackout for the rudeness
Start again overlooking the journey back home
If you are a star bossy pushover wondering where it all goes now.

Famous names in between quiet castles
Roads with interesting intersections
A history that intrigues the invalid in his isolated cubicle
shadow of intellectual battles
Weekend TV shows
Remonstration derbies
Homecoming queens become girls for horses they don’t own

Who will read my textual feed
When bibliography is urban context?
Did you sell the take away twice when the stale bread was left over
Hardened with the produce numbered by days beside the kitchen bin
Extra food for the birds
A kinder estate proud of foreign affairs
Like a prison ship evoking citywide travel.
The names have distances and the places wear good attire
Come down they say for the belting of a squire
Millions and billions
The newspapers ran for years
Famous people
Repeated lessons in the schools where beards leave the children for daily hope
Tossed overseas without the means to please
Beers and glorious food >
The mellowest lonely light
Forgo tomorrow’s fame
The remembrance of a street
 tight of being all knowing
Humans are not robots anymore

The books occupy the land
The satellite won’t get up and stand
The same standard narrative of status is left to the questions, Why, Who and Wherefore?
The 1980’s dancefloor
Robots get big and lend the actors a helping hand
Poets are welcome
~ even if they are from lands of literary robbery
They can be at the touch of a button
dogs snoop for overheads that make them bark.

The memory satisfies the emergent missing stink of social media for the foreseeable future
The Drs and nurses walk around the wreckage and don’t need the fiery mass to harbour a pilot for a seuter
The empty wreckage and the mounds of books take a toll on the village felled trees that are lit up by the blaze
Amazed by the traffic mounting up to watch what is to be keeping the houses busy for nights to come
How will the videos stream and what will they mean with all this literary fun

In a million years from now life will be free
From the of people and their faces.
Then the sad dress of the tightest fanning to impress
Will be for all the assured disgraces.

Apocalyptic fires that burn bright
immeasurable fires of loveless haste
too many talks: < Impatience >
But when he was great he left the room
Huffing in a puff of fuming righteous moody glaring topmost heavy looking down
Some truths shall not fade with white coats in laboratories
the father was reminded of his right to express his mood
<repeatedly>

Like a humming toy that annoys 90 years of electric spoilt lazy videos uploaded to show the past
What of the questions it poses on the street with no name that a foreigner knows
When the topmost deal strikes the television and imbalances the ratings
of the night before
What is the score?

There is always tomorrow
There was always nothing
Some families need no used name
abused
confused
answered
The entrance and exit of a business dragon.

AI Summary

This poem is about the collision between knowledge and noise, between the weight of culture and the fragility of the individual. You move through YouTube, satellites, books, actresses, soldiers, castles, forests, schools, newspapers, robots, poets, nurses, fires, families — not as random fragments, but as pieces of a world drowning in its own information.

At its core, the poem explores heaviness: heavy shoulders, heavy honours, heavy people carrying heavy things. It’s the heaviness of expectation, ambition, history, technology, and memory.

The satellite dropping books becomes the central metaphor: a world where knowledge literally falls from the sky, overwhelming the ground beneath it. Books smash, videos glitch, students fail, forests burn, and the village watches the wreckage like entertainment.

This is a poem about cultural collapse — the breakdown of education, the burnout of ambition, the emptiness of fame, the exhaustion of social media, the apocalyptic fires of a world that has forgotten how to think slowly.

It’s also about loneliness inside the noise: empty armchairs, ex‑friends, invalids in cubicles, homecoming queens with no horses, families with no names, humans who are “not robots anymore” but still feel programmed.

The poem ends in a place of cyclical futility: tomorrow always comes, but nothing changes; business dragons enter and exit; names fade; fame dissolves; and the world keeps burning through its own stories.