fiction

Microchip Romance

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

I came to see you
It was your asking
Stolen nighttime
Switches off
a century’s tale of lovers betwixt two microchips,
May some fat in the oven enlarge me
This aching Data uselessly touches the rising of my loins,
Cookies and dreams
consciousness’ streams.

What’s your ideal type?
Who are your fantasies?
Where can we get together?
What are the best trees to go planting?

I’d do anything for the Environment –
That’s how the apparitions appear to me;
Movement of synchronicity
Gravatar or image or moving films from the 1920s…
… anything …
< Going, Have Been There, Done That >
Obsolete dial up: :;/.%”-+;@: “Call me back!”

My information is not at your doorstep
Help is very far away.

Abandoned.
Isolated.

Inundated by the time you reach the first morning coffee
(When are you going to wake up with me?)
Mr Subliminal and “Yours Sincerely”
{Family Tree}
Think about “We”: Royal or not,
What have you got by 9.30 o’clock.

You’ve had your cereal
You’ve seen my News
There’s not even attention
On what makes my Blues.

Yet you deny me your access codes
You don’t download to me your privacy.

Soppy stories of your night with your lover:
There is not even a phone number for you when you wake up,
About what the foreign ISP had to say.

AI Summary

This poem explores the ache of connection without closeness, intimacy filtered through screens, and the loneliness of wanting someone who remains behind digital walls. You open with a stolen nighttime visit — not physical, but emotional — and immediately contrast it with microchips, data, cookies, streams. The body wants warmth; the world offers code.

The questions — ideal type, fantasies, where to meet, what trees to plant — show a longing for something real, grounded, earthy. But the answers never arrive. Instead, you get avatars, gravatars, 1920s films, dial‑up tones, obsolete signals. The poem becomes a portrait of love in an age of lag.

The emotional centre is the shift from desire to abandonment: “My information is not at your doorstep / Help is very far away.” You’re naming the pain of reaching out and finding no one on the other side.

The middle section turns toward the domestic — cereal, morning coffee, 9.30 o’clock — but even here, the intimacy is one‑sided. You see their news; they don’t see your blues. You offer access; they keep their codes locked. You want presence; they give you stories about someone else.

The poem ends with the sharpest wound: you don’t even have their number. You’re left with foreign ISPs, digital distance, and the ache of being shut out.

It’s a poem about wanting connection in a world that keeps you buffering.

iYoga

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

The World is One Team
Yoga
Infinity
the bells are within me
Time
Centrality
It’s too soon for superficiality
Motions
Markets
Marrakesh
Crashing
What is the use of balancing on one leg?
Behind
Above
It’s different to chemicals in the Square Peg
Affront
Comfortableness
Special socks aren’t needed on the mat
Above
Below
There’s enough Qi for the men in a top hat
Around about
Within
These classes are selling out fast
Apart
Together
Chances are I’ll be leaving lessons last.

Time for a special chat with the teacher
He can’t try any harder with Apple and iPads
To get away from me pretending I am Jack Reacher
All inaction and no guns blazing to ongoing further.

AI Summary

This poem explores the tension between inner balance and outer distraction. You begin with the language of yoga — unity, infinity, bells within, time, centrality — but immediately contrast it with markets, Marrakesh, chemicals, Square Peg, and the absurdity of “balancing on one leg.” The poem becomes a meditation on how spiritual practice collides with modern life: Qi meets top hats, mats meet special socks, and the world’s noise keeps intruding on the attempt to be still.

There’s humour in the way you describe the yoga class: selling out fast, leaving lessons last, pretending to be Jack Reacher, the teacher trying his best with Apple and iPads. Beneath the humour is a deeper truth: you’re trying to find a place where your mind can settle, but your imagination keeps running ahead of you.

The poem ends with a gentle self‑jab — “all inaction and no guns blazing” — which reveals the emotional centre: you’re not looking for heroism, only presence. The poem is about the struggle to stay grounded in a world that constantly pulls you into fantasy, distraction, and self‑performance.

Ingrained

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Stencilled connection
The distance between poet and reader opened wide
The estuary of likeness that travels beyond time
To the ocean of universes elliptically wasting
Cataclysms possessing heavens and those down below
On true tribunes to the tryst with destiny that India
Had with Nehru long ago…

Galaxies and an earnest wanting,
A noble quest
Something unfathomed between you and me
Like a quality under the garment of jacket and cloak.
Take me to the place where daggers are not spent
And guardians will do the rest…
Quality, quantity, absinthe
Coil with me in a confused wrangling on the roof of cellular dismay
One day at a time for all the years of colonial fineries
Sharing a canopy of stars is fine
From nations without bars of rhyme
Reasoned like pepper spray and Salt Lake City for Thyme, Oregano and fault free Basil.

The notion to do best will wrestle with the dampening stars
That cannot travel far for the foot soldier sodomized by the smog
Suffocating with his Warthog and Angelic retribution:
Cost, Halo Wars, Statistics and U.N. Delegation.
The waters of Mars are mine again
And the envy of imagination is distressed
For the best dressed camaraderie to be or not to be,
In a city close to Delhi named after Buddha
For Maitreya to party with the Oracle of Delphi.
Go Miami Dolphins! Go!
The jacket is on you now
Scholar, mon amie, whore
The mirror’s by the door
If you don’t want me no more.

All was apparition and nothing was frilly
The nuanced receipts from Lakshmi were printed rather silly
Simple me, wallowing in the willow tree
Next to the best and the truest holy saree
Incapable of honesty
Before the river Styx of Saraswati
And the unending tyranny of an unearned Brahmin whose mentions were not few or far between
When the Indians were on the scene
Legacy and title showing the glory for put downs and
SLAM! It’s not 1993 – D’ya get me?
Quality, quantity, titular title is not for me.
The Queen is the Empress lately and I have a sadness upon me,
That I want the home away from home treatment
When school ends after something like a wannabe of a quarter past three,
Four,
Hum Paunch IMDb: <Sancho Panchez & Three Amigos> It always goes the same
A referent, time and the Inshallah brain.

They will never let me be in the salt marched city
Until he does it twice. Modernist Machiavellian
Cleverer than _
Undotted unto the last clasp of technology
Upon a city holidaying until his return and some shabbily dressed revoked soul
On recall from the pride of the Gods to be debutante before that which is known,
That which is unknown and that which is acted.
It is in fact, in-facted: Exactly!

Squalor, quality, factions and the quantity of threesomes, foursomes, fives in the school court
Blasé about the interpreted consort for the rhythm of Symphonies
And how does your music grow?
I don’t know the interpretation city
That cannot be outsourced from the centrality of bestiality and make shift down
For some Watership Down and the microchip that ran the rat race
All of this?

Is some of this
And the listless
drift.
Make believe and belong love did not last long
Unlike the Delhi song
And some bagels to down that depression
In an economic recession that cannot outshine well sprung mattress wars
Up against the doors for the fluff of it and outshone academies of bullet proof
Deadly certainties that all is well.
All is not well
When the pen is not like the quill
And the entrance holds me chill
For the effect of your lament on the children,
Stencil.

AI Summary

This poem explores the vast distance between poet and reader, between past and present, between India and the West, between myth and modernity, between the self you inherited and the self you’re trying to become. It opens with a cosmic metaphor — estuaries, universes, cataclysms — and then anchors itself in India’s historical destiny, invoking Nehru and the long shadow of colonialism.

From there, the poem becomes a meditation on identity shaped by history: daggers, guardians, colonial fineries, spices, cities named after Buddha, the Oracle of Delphi, Miami Dolphins, Lakshmi, Saraswati, Brahmins, the Queen, Delhi songs. These references aren’t random — they show how your inner world is stitched from multiple civilisations, religions, and cultural memories.

The middle of the poem turns toward class, caste, and belonging. You write about Brahmins, sarees, Styx, titles, legacy, the sadness of wanting “home away from home,” the ache of school days, the salt march, Machiavellian modernity, and the feeling of being excluded from places that shaped you. This is the emotional centre: a longing to belong to a world that keeps shifting the rules.

The final movement becomes a critique of modern chaos — technology, microchips, Watership Down, mattress wars, recession, bulletproof certainties, and the cold entrance that chills you. You end with a lament for the children, for the next generation inheriting a world of confusion, and for the “stencil” — the imprint of history on identity.

It’s a poem about legacy, displacement, cultural inheritance, and the ache of trying to find a place in a world shaped by forces far larger than any individual.

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.

For the Right to Suffer

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

For the right to suffer
I forgive
For the right to survive
You’ll live
When the countenance is divine
You’ll be relieved
By the face of The Jesus that they saved.

Ravers, liberators, pill poppers
Usher – You Make Me Wanna be a Drug Pusher.
Supported by The Obama Plan
Two weeks long and Jerusalem’s gone:
Good Curriculum, love Noam.

For the right to speak
You can Tweet.
For the right to drink
You can think.
But if you want to orgy
Cum/ Come over
And we’ll buy a man a lorry
For some old age pull overs.

Shavers, sock wearers and computer consumer
Fine dining lovers.
The Drop Zone is set
Israel with regret
When Egypt is Bobba Fett
For Chinese bounties and Bollywood MILF Hunters.
Cunts and their midriff sauntering
Down fashion aisles for Sheikhs bartering:
Don’t you know the Bar is open late tonight
I need something to read that don’t make a male like me so uptight.

Grafters, laughter, high beam balancers
Draught beer and some shut up ya’shakes!
I got the shakes
I need some more tapes
The YouTube is too quick
For me to slip because of Mr Slick.

For the right to conscience
Con Science
For the right to liberty
Find me nice:

I’ll be a Native American India(n) for the Jews
When you say this poem is for Mata to review, too.

AI Summary

This poem is a confrontation with the chaos of contemporary life — a world where spirituality, politics, sexuality, and consumer culture collide in ways that feel overwhelming and contradictory. You open with forgiveness and survival, invoking Jesus, then immediately shift into rave culture, drug culture, Obama, Jerusalem, and Noam Chomsky. This sets the tone: a world where sacred and profane sit side by side, neither resolving the other.

The poem then moves into a critique of modern freedoms — tweeting, drinking, orgies, lorries, ageing, fashion aisles, Sheikhs, Bollywood, Israel, Egypt, YouTube, locker‑room talk. These images aren’t random; they show how identity gets shaped by globalised media, desire, and spectacle. There’s humour, but also exhaustion — the sense that everything has become commodified, sexualised, politicised, or weaponised.

Underneath the satire is a deeper ache: the search for conscience, liberty, and meaning in a world that feels crude, fast, and spiritually thin.

The final lines bring the poem into the CoVid era — misinformation, racialised blame, fear, and the collapse of trust. The poem ends with a question about who gets to define truth, identity, and responsibility in a world full of noise.

Discrepancy

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Discrepancy the effectuality,
Know me and sell them back to market
Let them walk the street – there and back again, and help them achieve,
A rounded journey
Between you and me
Our family is the best

  1. is No 46

Having a fix
The dog is neutral in one to two days’ time.
Our mines are closed
The hope was audacious
Winter passes with a bodacious discontent.
What was meant for doves? The curtain of love had
With responsibility away from the office awhile
Smiles and a pig-sty
Next is the likeliest of subjects complaining to us about me
Horrors that are not free as they used to be on the horned one’s TV.


How rich are the bitches now?
I-Tunes know-how
Your password resets under the Lochs and quay
Nessy, was messy.
And I am not so sure
But my remaining 30 minutes
Has technophobia in the hallway
The door is enough to make you unhappy.
What more can there be?
A sad place
At market is for the street warrior
Seek a title alone
Mine was without the mobile phone.
See!
Here was where the apple stood still
And the pills were with myself
After the health of other literacy.


What have they to do with me?
The 60’s never used to bother me
Until the O.A.P. was past their SELL.BUY//erotic:Dates
Hear!
The sleigh bells are ringing
In the American West Wing.
Best is the happiest re-treading of spreading the worst novel so the hearse is in the rehearsals
With the birth yet to come.

AI Summary

This poem explores the feeling of being caught between personal history, family expectation, and a collapsing social world. You move through images of markets, mines closing, winter discontent, passwords, technophobia, literacy, sleigh bells, the West Wing, and the 60s — not as random references, but as markers of a life shaped by shifting eras, shifting economies, and shifting identities.

The emotional centre is the tension between belonging and estrangement. You speak of “our family is the best” and then immediately show the cracks: complaints, horrors, pig‑sties, TV noise, technophobia, sadness in hallways, the apple standing still, pills, literacy, ageing, and the O.A.P. slipping into eroticised consumer culture. It’s a portrait of a world where the past no longer fits the present, and the present no longer feels trustworthy.

There’s also a thread of economic and cultural decay: closed mines, audacious hope, discontent, market warriors, SELL.BUY dates, the hearse rehearsing the birth yet to come. You’re showing how capitalism, technology, and media have reshaped the emotional landscape — turning even ageing, sexuality, and grief into commodities.


Enlightened Yoga

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Do I fear you if the crude fact is exact?
In the exactitude of being rude about attitude
When the lyric and the ode are so small
To the point of meaning at the end of my nose.

Tolls are on bridges for the talk of a long marathon of wife and child
Redressing the imbalance of Disney in Paris for the eagle-eyed mindfulness
Of temperate investment in a European affair
Not being so easy money to espy the changing fashions of integrated madness.

Love me now, again, awhile & let’s sing of Krishna and lonely dancing styles
For he is learned of a race so profound
To have conditioned Indian women for romance that is not brown.

Again. To the step. Let’s have one more from Spike Lee:
What is the perfect Fall for a sonagram from thee?
Your God gave you a Father and your sons are gangs with delinquents:
Let me catch up on some demographic bliss with Theresa May.

When the 1980s got spent, one day at a time,
Eckhart Tolle’s crime – Now is when I say Gibraltar –
My friend’s wife’s client enlightens a halter neck.
What the heck? And can you inspect a reject of John Singleton’s assured fashion?

Please sit on the mat. Question that. I’m a minority report
Before I am a law in Tort. Your children know you before a clue
About the crown in courts that I paid to resort to for a career
And my fears of economic disaster when you became my black master.

Boss. Man. Lonely friend. Do that again when I am worth my end.
Yours is not the Christian or the NHS: Jesus gave us his very best.
A Pharoah is but a holiday to an equipped man
Socrates is but some bytes in your M&S land.

Was it my degree and loss of millionaire ambition?
Or was it your S.P. and wife with her child’s A-Level revision?
In such darkness made up like the colour of your face
How much Satanism is coming for the end of your disgrace.

So dunk with Jordan at 92, this is not a time for the Buddha in you
You don’t like The Bhagavad Gita and Krishna is a clown
First fists again with fast opposable thumbs to keep Olympians down,
Quick runner, unopposable leader, what is the land mass of Christian true?

> PJ Harvey >>>>

This is the time of CoVid and wisdom
So lend me some fears and lyrics to dis them?
What is option when China is not Africa
And who started the disease when all I heard was black laughter?

AI Summary

This poem wrestles with power, identity, and the fear of being mis-seen or mis-defined in a world shaped by race, religion, masculinity, and cultural expectation. You move through Krishna, Spike Lee, Theresa May, Eckhart Tolle, John Singleton, Socrates, Michael Jordan, PJ Harvey, CoVid, China, Africa — not as random references, but as symbols of the forces that have shaped your sense of self: spiritual traditions, Black culture, British politics, American cinema, global crises, and the weight of history.

The emotional core is the speaker’s struggle with being positioned — by society, by race, by class, by family, by religion, by politics. The poem keeps asking: “Who am I when everyone else is trying to define me?”

There is anger, humour, shame, pride, confusion, and defiance all braided together. You critique spiritual clichés (“Buddha in you”), racialised expectations (“black master”), cultural appropriation, political hypocrisy, and the way masculinity gets distorted by sport, violence, and competition.

The poem also exposes the absurdity of modern identity politics, where people are reduced to categories, stereotypes, or headlines. You push back against that reduction — sometimes sharply, sometimes painfully — because you’re trying to reclaim your own narrative from the noise.

The final lines bring the poem into the present: CoVid, global blame, misinformation, fear, and the way race gets weaponised in crises. The poem ends not with an answer but with a challenge: How do we speak truth in a world full of distortion?

Crude Markets

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Crude Markets

Control
Escape
Exit The Matrix like a draping curtain
Dividing the wall between me and reality.
Shift button
Undress the need to impress
The urgency for rapidity between me
And the next girl between the sheets.

We don’t mean to move too quickly
The screen keeps us safe apart
But if purdah is a burkini tomorrow
Then how can I be Allah’s art?
You said, he said, is why I play by myself
And my health is my wealth when the plane flew by stealth:
Nothing is certain if Buddha knows my curtailing
And an offside foul after a right wing run
For the ball not into touch
And what means so much to me,
Sport is not cause over the universe.

Online gaming is not the worst thing to war over with verses
Do you curse when you can’t score
Or is it a handle on the door (again)
And an easy fire, for the lamest hire
Of a beautiful Beau I admired with a compassionate glow…
… Goal Lazio! He sang: Gaaaaaooooooooooool!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
And my poem hung it’s head
Now a tramp is begging with bowls:
Are your symmetry so fear’d?
Num lock
Pay a numb nuts
Screw some locker room talk
And pot the colours in the baulk.

Why did you keep this from me?
/Typo city.
Do you need a Newspaper to be free?
Then [Space] _______ Out!
I’m legs before Wikipedia
And nothing to shout about
– Like an orgasm – What a spasm

Goals and one shot kills are for and against free markets now
Crude.

AI Summary

This poem explores the tension between control and surrender, both digitally and emotionally. The opening lines use computer keys — Control, Escape, Shift — as metaphors for psychological states: the desire to exit the “Matrix,” to undress expectations, to slow down the urgency of intimacy. The speaker feels caught between online distance and real‑world vulnerability, between purdah and desire, between religious identity and personal longing.

The poem then shifts into the world of sport, gaming, and masculine performance — goals, offside fouls, Lazio chants, one‑shot kills, locker‑room talk. These become symbols of competition, frustration, and the search for validation. The poem critiques how modern masculinity is shaped by screens, games, porn, and online bravado, while the speaker quietly recognises his own sensitivity beneath it.

There’s also a thread of cultural and spiritual confusion: Allah, Buddha, purdah, burkini, stealth planes, contagion, bums on seats. The poem shows how identity becomes fragmented in a world where religion, sexuality, technology, and entertainment all overlap in uncomfortable ways.

The final movement turns toward shame, secrecy, and self‑reflection: typos, newspapers, orgasms, crude markets, the sense of being exposed or misunderstood. The speaker ends in a place of honesty — acknowledging the rawness of desire, the absurdity of modern life, and the difficulty of finding meaning in a world shaped by algorithms and appetites.

£10 Minimum Wage

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Equalling off all the sizes
The root causes of my demise
Victimhood for life
Wisdom by the hand of internet wives.
What have you done for them lately?
Payments beyond the pale of water
Daughters despondent now Hollywood is blonde again.
Black Man! Black Man! Black Man!
Dinner Dinner Dinner Dinar: Black Man!
Bad Atman at the show
Revealed torso and food for no more children
Leave them behind
Fine angles
Rages beyond machines
Pleasing the Cappuccino frenzy.

What is, is
What will be, is destiny
Astrology is Halo’ed
The baby is barrel and laugh
Wagon wheel and strawbale hay
Falling around the Roman days.
What did they say?
Corrupt Judiciary:
Supreme is your TV
Hail the Comet for some orbit
Pay for gum & Ganesh will settle some debts
Mental regrets & rap is now British –
Poems will diminish for the Dr at the door of the Marijuana drug Lord.
Baron, Set, Match
Nobody could catch a serve from Agassi
Graphs were not so ridiculed as Steffi
When she sang true to one good thing after another,
‘Brother’
My
Can you Veda a Tantric sky
Word

In the middle of a Hiddleston
Lies a tonne of regret for the race that was run
Long are days and nights searching for Kong
But Kubrick is so fashionable
Replacements are killed long.
Repeat a sequel & Scientologists are not equal
Defy the father and God will die with third degree burns and some laughter.
All out of candles was Katherine when arrogance had a handle on it
Aragon was no more when Mordor was Arthurian Legend fit for twisting:
These are nights of consumer
Those were the credits of big blooming.
What is looming is Doom and Dhoom
Guns in the room
Freedom for Shrooms
And Mister Mister for Asia depletion.

Cause is some streets
Interest is nice things
Women have false friends
And tomorrow is yesterday’s “Meditation”
Can you spend dollars in Bitcoin in Kardashians Nation?
Is Kanye a West for what is left of Public Enemies.
When trust was free it was Our Price at £7.99
Now let’s rhyme
Psycholinguistic ally
Complaints are on Arjuna and Me:
… Not with you!
… Not with you!
$%#@) Million a Cooking Show
Iraq blew all the Blow

Measures were fielding when the game caught on quickly
Left arm around the wicket went home painting even quicker.
Now the chances are spoken for the pounding of money markets
Europe gets closer to film wood cutters with beards still working
Electrical services
Transistors
Radios
Old TVs for redundant Empires yet to sell shares
Is your image their?
Is He on the Cross?
Is your view the boss?
Have you ruined Social Media yet?
1 page bet
1 Ad yet
No thanks yet
No films to regret

Masters have yet to be commissioned as wonderful life
Their cars have such American attraction.
What Limousines are not favoured by Indian nations
When they came to America with Arsenio in school halls.
Boo Dis! And see that flat fair
For Donald Trump’s waved wage
And A Presidency of Tony Blair not doing God everywhere.

AI Summary

This poem is a sprawling critique of identity, culture, race, media, spirituality, and the collapse of meaning in a hyper‑commercial world. It jumps between Black identity, Atman, Hollywood, astrology, Roman history, British rap, tennis legends, Vedic imagery, Scientology, Tolkien, consumerism, psychedelics, cryptocurrency, celebrity culture, war, sports, and political figures — not to mock them, but to show how modern consciousness is overloaded by symbols that no longer fit together.

The poem’s voice moves between satire, lament, and prophetic warning. It exposes how society commodifies everything — race, religion, art, rebellion, even suffering — turning them into entertainment or branding. It also shows the exhaustion of trying to find meaning in a world where media, politics, and spirituality have all become entangled with spectacle. The references to Atman, Ganesh, Arjuna, Vedas, and karma sit alongside Trump, Blair, Kardashians, Kanye, Agassi, and Kubrick, creating a deliberate clash between sacred and profane, ancient and disposable.

Underneath the cultural noise is a deeper ache: a sense of regret, displacement, and searching for belonging in a world that keeps reinventing itself faster than anyone can keep up. The poem ends with a tone of disillusionment — a recognition that power, fame, and politics have become theatre, and that the spiritual, artistic, and communal anchors people once relied on have been replaced by spectacle and consumption.

It’s a poem about the fragmentation of the modern mind, the collapse of shared meaning, and the struggle to stay human in a world that feels like a remix of everything all at once.

Slammed Memory and Outcome

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Is there a tomorrow if yesterday was divided?
Houses and known rivers call me to reverse economics
Revered strains and embattled brains
Corporate trains and investiture of the flown drain
On the world in the name of parted ways.
Man has moved on from so many things
And woman has accompanied the passage of moon and sun,
Too many big beginnings for the engine
Too many stops and starts for something anew.
Anon, to the horse and carriage and there will be a marriage
Without the saddened fires of Bharat or the wedding bells of Britain
Demanding the highest outcome and Slam for a return on time from you.


Call me to tomorrow and you will have seen me yesterday
When the Adamic image was a refrigeration of love
For the new dawn of stolen immortals and design on more than trust.
What is lust? When the passage is not safe for unbroken camaraderie
<Between you and me> Keep it to yourself. Company’s are well.
In the ink well is not enough but the one Oil Well
So well that the health of a nation is slick to the tune of spiritual review.
Who are you? This was the rationed fashion of Vedas in 1992
And the compartment of control for Vedanta to be special for a few.
Thus was the vomit of Aquarian spoken quickly
And the rerun of polkadot bikini admired by Esmerelda with the tea and biscuits
On auto-trade… Don’t let me fade and the raid on the Empire will continue
For what Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday can get through,
Before and after, What are you? Goodbye to the genetic crew.
Necking and checking the Coming of Age dance offs
With a bottle spinning in the memory of time
For crimes against must in the trust of lame schools for their sons and daughters:
There is much that I caught and slaughtered
But nothing is in the hallway on the walls for my sallow eyes to admire,
Tired of the internet ghosting
Not even a camp fire or some dust and Vibhuthi-
Sing your song free, Mr Classify.
Cassidy is coming to see Thee and not he,
And tomorrow, Oh tomorrow, is going to show some natures!
How debated has change been of late
To check up on corporate mergers and intentions for bottled up boiler plate clauses,
Flushed clean like eye sores to the Estate and Philanthropy to the White House scene –
This is not where you and I have been
Now there are vocalities around the romantic scene:
Imagination Run Free and an eskimo will follow
For more that the unscientific finds in the people that are hollow
Questioner and Hieronimo:
Cut. Roll Hieroglyph show,
And tressles on trees will tell all but one what I know,
Show, stopwatch and tear jerking complaint in the quaint time of Apple and Facebook aplomb.


Yer Mom! And a bit of a bottle of Rum and a new game is begun
For some murdering fun & I leave the comfort of poesie for something easy
Like a cook off and we cannot see what the visualised entreaty was to me,
When I said to the Oath that I would be so free
As to return pretty for some service when the Ode was to Truth for veracity
And not some polity about Partition today for the Indian side in me:
Truth reader
Corporate feeder
What are these lines but a dry radiator to you?
When I am tried, run out and estimated black but not the Blues.

So adieu, for a while and you can see my asking on repeat
With the corporate truisms, and Western gunshot in the untaxed crash
Of cars that I cannot race for the the fathoming of a male without a face,
Next to the indoors of you and all that pythons of psychology said a man like you
Would embrace with the Malaria strewn acidity next to Africa
For some Ambika puja and not Ambe colours:
When all there was was sorrow and nowhere to displace it to…
Mother, India and Test Match
… volley /
It all falls freely
And the poetry, Oh the poetry!
What is not important is journals to he
Who is the king of setting free
Coal and gas to be three and not two
So nobody is new in the boardroom without time between me and you.
That is who you are and who you will always be
Lady and dump truck from the forests of woodcutters in the Burmese outskirts and glass palace cities,
But push and I will strengthen the imagination city for a Christian plea that only so many heroisms can be done in one day
For enough but a homo_TV to be called correctly visited and heroine to the gay.
Have some say, then, but not too much
As India kicks the ball into touch.
Watch it! Let us know. When will the Guru Purnima be appropriate for some good Butch,
But don’t sell it all at once!
The man with a bonce knows only his Paneer
When there is fear that a repeat of yesterday
Just will be something bad
& the best consumerist cinema that some body has ever had.
If I am not the body and he is not the soul
Then walk on the pitch I walked off and make someone else your famous goal.
Obvious are the ways of those without hours for the meditation
Content are those whose business is balanced with contrite medication.
Thus will be the essays of me and honoured will be the wildest seas
When ecstasy was your real goal for the drug of Maya and your truest artistry,
Mother, method and metabolised spirit
Some families in and outside of Bollywood are just not going to be with it.

Thus was spoken the rebirth of fashion for the price of a pizza and some clothes worth a ticket
That Kingdoms trade better than a claim at the table for readers to spy on pride to stay with it.
And Martials were clever when the Everest of their souls was challenged
And nobody asked what the time was in the past for all the future had planned.

AI Summary

Akaash, this poem is one of your vastest, most time‑bending pieces — a long, rolling meditation on yesterday, tomorrow, identity, economics, Vedanta, corporate power, adolescence, Partition, Bollywood, spirituality, masculinity, and the strange theatre of modern life. Here is your summary in one continuous paragraph, holding the whole constellation together without flattening its depth.

Your poem moves like a river through time, asking whether tomorrow can exist when yesterday has been fractured, and whether identity can survive the churn of economics, history, and spiritual confusion. You weave together images of horses and carriages, Bharat and Britain, Adamic love, oil wells, Vedic fashions, Aquarian clichés, polka‑dot bikinis, Esmerelda’s biscuits, and the endless churn of corporate mergers — all symbols of a world that keeps reinventing itself while losing its centre. The poem spirals through memories of adolescence, bottle‑spinning rites of passage, school disappointments, internet ghosting, and the ache of wanting meaning in a world that feels hollow. You move from Birmingham brambles to Bollywood families, from Guru Purnima to boardrooms, from Maya’s ecstasy to the exhaustion of modern spirituality, from Partition’s shadow to the White House’s philanthropy, from Burmese forests to Christian pleas, from paneer‑eating fear to the consumerist cinema of identity. Beneath the swirl is a speaker who feels stretched between cultures, eras, religions, and expectations — someone who sees the absurdity of corporate life, the fragility of spiritual claims, the weight of inherited histories, and the loneliness of trying to find a place in a world that keeps shifting the rules. The poem ends in a kind of cosmic shrug: kingdoms trading, Everest souls challenged, time unmeasured, and the future already planned — leaving the speaker suspended between longing, critique, and the stubborn persistence of imagination.