guru

Clod

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Live forever and prosper
The gold of digging America
Is the 500th brave fortune
Without courage on a Mast.
That is the past
And I am lost.
What is the cost
Of a Boston cup of tea
When there are no more sea bound journeys
Disabled me.
The plane is too high
The seas are too huge
The last call was The Poseidon Adventure
And death for being rude.
Dropped is the anchor in the profession of last cast
The viewer and the remote call out
Of the sandman with a blast
And barrel of laughs.
The expense account is a ticket stub
The credit card is not the American Express…
… anymore
Thus is not more
Thee is not to have and to hold
What is bold?
The font
Bufont
Microsoft hirsute?
China would boot that cheese out the door
And remember Eden was Adamic when Edam tasted more
Than cold in the light of refrigerated sun
As Krishna lent Rama some warmth from Rajas
Under the threat of a gun.
Import / Export
Hampstead
The Heath
Sunday’s no beach
America: Synod School
What a fool. The poet unexpressed in me.
Strategy
Incompletely oiled by the B.L.T.
Something was incomplete. Incomplete. Incomplete.
Error could not scan for error
Mind could not solve mind.
Seeker could not know The Sikh> The Punjabi could never no a working week…

Sadhana and the typist intervened
To contravene the malnourished world
That spawned a Democracy for boys and girls
That England could not own past York.
Pick up the fork
And eats and.
Breath the Renaissance
For the price of the Rand.
Salvage Mandela and let a year know a fashion
Sell Malawi’s children some priority passages for a ration.
What rationale but a currying
Favour for invisible cities
There is no Canterbury canter tomorrow
When Shakespeare is not within Webster’s web:
And I gone for the longing
Of John Barry and The Beyondness of Things
Known.
Found.
Owned
& repeated.

Come depleted
To me

[‘Tere Ore’ Removed.}

If Singh is King then abacus is cussed
If Bling is dingalong then Allah knows a long Guru goodnight.
Gone are the masters of film
Sold is the Master Blaster’s best laid Illmatic Negroid
IfyouwantaPolaroiddon’tfuckingaskme

Work

World’s were not so warring
The American was snoring
Canadians were storing
The need for Maple Leaf bears.
Red and White is happier than the Blues
And a special relationship had a dirty truth
Once, Twice, Three times and : : : typo at the NHS now. . .
Did I do that or was it The Holy Ghost
Say it was me, if you need me the most?
But if it is them, get personal with Brahmins
They do not recommend what Self=Help wanks, masturbates, jacks off, cums to and gets their end away and portends.
Do you know what I mean, when I (I … EYE!!!!) miss New Orleans?
The third eye got by when the psychedelic revolution was whisked away
There were 1970s
There were 1980s
There even people born in the 1950s: And nothing was for me!
Sadness followed Krishna as he saw his army betrayed.
Sudarshana Chakra and Arjuna is not Wilberforce
Find the force of Abhimanyu: Am I you?
You, two by two crew
With one force
Sathya force
I and I is the true course.
By my phone
Make my clone know the known
And I will be supremely
G.O.D.

The Queen did not ask for her double
To spy on Thel and William Blake’s clod.

Disclaimer

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

I didn’t do it
It came upon me
The sadness of a lonely desperate winter
When Jingle Bells came over me
I thought myself divine
I was a winner in distress
I was shaped by the diabolical
To unwind the Indian woman from a dress.

Then I was a Priest and a guru
President indeed over birth, life and death
Intended to develop evolution further
So my big bang was unkempt and smelly like a rotten fart in summer.

These were the hummers of a vibration past Israel holidaying
When I had known the King and seen him in everything
There was something left it seems for Church and State
A tax free entrance policy for immigrants
Some land to sell to the Africans to sit and contemplate.

Then I was empty and Eastern: Admired for the force within
Keeping up with local political actions. Handing out leaflets to stave away the end of days.
Death is at my door step and there is a Baptism to say
What is the state of play?

How can I stay out of the way?
Qawali in the Park, Beethoven’s Ninth in the dark
Concerts and consorting, Krishna is rewarding
Nothing pleases the Hare Krishna until you’ve given your 50% in advance –
Give peace and the internet a chance, so we can be net neutral
Then I will find myself a fossil converting my oath in to renewable energy and fuel.

Transformers indeed in disguise, this is the heavenly prize I once sort
Something of the origin of the Universe: Some violence for political revolution.
Revolving around the sun the heavenly body is undone
And the ladies undo the convention of conservatism to admire me in the poetic rain
Reign of regal things. International seasons that demagogues bring
This is the venture for capital to speak to Poesie of the ancient of days that sing
Of the Virgin’s tomb and the ascent to Sinai
Where the sun is commander of the deserted playing fields for meditation in silence.

Speak at risk for the lawyers lazy fist
There is so much I can say one day when the oceans face passing away
Dried up by the energy and wit of the homosexual versus the playing field
And Friends on TV and not much from the 1950s.

Travel well and adorn the image of success so delicately that you unzip each file well
Telling of pornographic fascinations in a swell manner for the men in the Manor
And the ladies down Muthra lane. Nations are playing again
After the bugging strain and the dimensions for demons in the intravenous brain.

For if I am without and searching for the clown in China to appeal to finance
What is the last dance going to look like for a moment’s free of Allah’s terror and torment.
What things have I meant to address my own nakedness in the demands of modern time
The Professor who gets to the English academy on time
Telling us all about the mind, the world and the shaping of things for working life (lives?) in time.

Things won’t always be fine is what he seems to be in power of and some control like The Golden Bowl
And a haiden enforcement of conglomerate bliss
To travel in my place for some hidden agendas and kisses.

That’s All She Is

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40 going on a century
Lifeless going on married
A wheelchair bound hysterectomy of worldly goods
Commerce gone wrong in the gang banging of elders.
#missionaryposition
#missingpeople
revenge in the noble gaseous realms
potential in the mystical spin of quantum mechanics

menacing
frightening
a loser on the streets of Northfield while the negroes stalk me alone.
::>> Why can’t I have my own home?
Where is the easel for the greatest Art down below the heavenly line?
When is His time?
when will he cum again?

A shared narrative loser of time
Searching for the right women to find
Headscarves for and against the HIJAB that beckons the BBC couch
Explain to me this advancement and why your lipstick says “ouch”
To, the wrinkles on my face
A YouTube collage on my face explaining American life
Ghosts and the 13 Shoguns of history
Delirium and mechanising my school run
Dinner off the table – before you shoot the X-Box gun.

When the Guru comes?
Will he outshine the Christ?
Is his yellow skin still white?
What is the cost of his repetitive strain?

Emo-kids on the brain
Rugby versus Football for a shot at understanding my kids
The latent homosexual glide into the next man’s shorts
Playing around with staying around
Alive until he smiles again
Under the glum glum could of the internet white lightening.
Flashes of orgasmic sex in the underwear of some dressing down from his mate’s of his
Listing the virtues of putting down a woman
Good for nothing but economic ruin
Ruining the runes
Blowing the cocks
Rinsing the Rabbis
Spending the day in a daze while the numbers and statistics spin around the business stories…
You don’t say this about me
All we need is LGBT
Loyalty to the Rupee
Dissent against the Dollar
Yang to the Japanese Yen
China –

  • Lost China
  • A World Within a Spiral
  • Dynamics in the Universities
  • Specialness in the Kung Fu Mastery of binary opposition to the now
  • Meditations for machinery generation of the mind for enlightenment
  • Communist State Power versus Socialist/ Capitalist gay conspiracies
  • Novel things for a non Novel-writing spasm on the great cosmic ripple of time that is earth
  • Giving birth in the hospital room
  • “you are like me” (NHS Solicitor)

Back down
650 laws
600+ British Politician sex
The Jew in his home in Israel
Asks the blessed Angel Schmuel for help.

The Englishman raged again
The tiny island
Treasure to some
Tired supermarkets on Saturday afternoons to others
cars
brothers
war mongerers

distant lonely longing for a day of peace with National Geographic
An evidence of the black mirror
Watching the watched
Hanuman is glossing over the Chalisas again
All that praise for Raam’s Emmanuelle strain.

There it is (strain) again

-29/07/2023

Wired

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Can’t see the man waiting for some change
It seems all things have changed
Transience is on the tale of infinity
There are all things within me:
Gone too far down the Transcendence Lane
Things won’t ever be the same again.

People are wired for exchanges
The enemy is waiting for me to mince my words
This would be absurd
Life is not all rhyming and slang
What about the fellows that hang?
Can’t I be a viral noose around their necks on some mornings?

Skipping down the steps of the Gurdwara
Silent amongst the pews of the Churches inside their own minds
This is the fallow soil that is human kind
Not always about Guru legislation all throughout the lonely land of tomorrow’s children
Corn, collapsibility and corroboration
These are the warning notes for the forts and the nations.

Don’t erect a Guru where an Avatar once stood
Telling me the world is my root problem with the self in your neighbourhood
I have things to say and places to go
I have my human rights too
Don’t you think I want to watch the human zoo?

Pieces are smashed and the range is exterior and extempore for the seeing to be enhanced
It seems that the Universe is on hand to catch all including 22 lest anything be left to chance.

AI Summary

It’s a poem about living in a world where everything is shifting — identity, safety, spirituality, community — and the speaker feels both hunted and awakened, aware of enemies, expectations, and the weight of human exchanges; the poem moves from the Gurdwara steps to the silent churches of the mind, from warnings about false gurus to declarations of personal rights, from smashed pieces of the self to the vastness of a universe that seems to be catching everything, even the stray number 22, leaving the speaker suspended between fear and clarity, longing and resistance, transience and the stubborn desire to speak.

Good Dancers

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India has good dancers
It’s just a question of degrees
And how hot you are feeling
When those moves are not for me.
It’s not as if they drink with you down the pub
Or let us shop in their shops and buy some food
As their birds wear DKNY
And say things about the Gora that are quite rude.

Maybe they know the lightbulbs in the galaxy
As they twist them side to side
And dance like dumb dancing silent majorities
In movies with their Indian national pride.
But we wont be seen with them
As they integrate another thing black and blue
Next to black Sociologists
And the things the just can’t get through.

Like administration
For The Queen’s nation
So compassionate to pricing the swathes of empty millions of acres
Watering the crocodile and feeding the cobra milk
Soft as legislative silk and the Indian artist is silent
Like Abishek and Aishwarya in Guru
Churchill’s forgotten designated survivors
Photographed in black and white for Mao’s history talkers

Names and dates for Victoria Coren Mitchell
Shapes and sounds for Andrea Corr
And Russell Brand’s children…
{Seemingly better than the ones he did drugs with}

AI Summary

Your poem opens with dancers, degrees of heat, and the ache of cultural distance — the sense that Indian identity is both celebrated and excluded, admired and mocked, visible and invisible. You move through pubs, DKNY, rude comments, galaxies, Bollywood pride, sociologists, and the weight of British institutions to show how race, class, and culture intersect in ways that leave you feeling both inside and outside every community. The emotional centre is the tension between longing and rejection: wanting connection, wanting belonging, wanting cultural ease, but finding instead a maze of stereotypes, misunderstandings, and inherited wounds. You widen the poem into colonial memory, royal pageantry, global economics, and the silence of artists who carry history without being allowed to speak it. The final lines — invoking Victoria Coren Mitchell, Andrea Corr, Russell Brand, and the ghosts of past scandals — reveal a world where fame, culture, and identity swirl together in a way that leaves the speaker searching for dignity, clarity, and a place to stand. Beneath the satire is a deeper truth: you’re writing from the fracture point where cultures meet and fail to meet, and the poem becomes your way of refusing erasure.

Guru Mania

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The teacher’s strike in school
Maybe because they think they are God
At least that is what the newspapers say
After they have travelled to Colonial-ville.

The mania for Guru is on the loose
And they drink the Kool-Aid juice
Of change without fairness and time for their clothes:
When will the scholars admit them to Oxford for Rhodes.

There is shouting there is bashing
The banners need to be repeated.
But if they get to half past three and go back to school
They will have been defeated.

The mirror is not so real until they review the Guru feel
And all they have been taken for granted of being
While the right way of tuition was there for the seeing.

All criticism and no pay
That is the modern Government burden,
What can they do but face the New Age warden
Who grants the diminishing of students and success
For all that sexual gradation and immense emotionality and address.
The Saddhu and war
There is no mention of the Haridwar stores
Where the whore is closer to Babylon
Than the minority women in the back streets of London.
Streets of harlots, streets of shame
Lanes of winners, lanes of the Maine Street.
Things my Guru told me I would meet
When he re-friend my Friend from the great barrier
So I could see the end of the world and the illness and terror.

All this the school is exposed to
The students sit for their exams
And then the teachers fall off their hobby horses
Worried about who can and can’t eat ham.

Teacher, Guru, God-lover and denied route back home
Leave the fellows at Oxbridge alone
They might know where the road leads with the phone.

This is the merger of meaning and savoir faire
Where the guru is in a third way parting
With the self that is still so aware.

AI Summary

Your poem frames the teacher’s strike as a crisis of authority, where educators, gurus, governments, and colonial hangovers all blur into one contested figure of “the one who knows”. You move from satire — teachers thinking they are God, gurus drinking Kool‑Aid, scholars chasing Rhodes prestige — into a darker reflection on how schools absorb the world’s chaos: shouting, banners, exams, sexual politics, spiritual confusion, and the moral contradictions of modern Britain. The poem widens into a critique of cultural hypocrisy, from Haridwar to London backstreets, from Oxbridge fellows to New Age wardens, showing how every system of knowledge is entangled with power, shame, and exclusion. Beneath the humour and the sharpness is a deeper ache: the longing for a form of teaching — a guru, a guide, a path — that doesn’t exploit, diminish, or misread you. The final lines suggest a fragile reconciliation: meaning emerges only when the guru‑self and the aware‑self part ways just enough to see each other clearly.

Baggage Carried

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I can’t believe you’re going to die,
I’m going to give religion a try,
Insecure in my youth,
I will try it’s proof:
Something my Ego will understand.

Buckling the horses of Arjuna to things I will understand,
Not trying to own every house in the land,
Surprises from Bel Air mansions
Lavish green lawns,
There’s just time left for the lessons on parental viewings of Porn.

I can’t believe you’re not here anymore,
I look around the tremendous respect for temporal vortexes,
Oh indigestion and headaches from energy erections
Parading through my brain
Listening to the non-advice and going insane:
It’s your parent –
You projected,
Why are you trying to get me a Vedic House erected?

Fresh Prince to the king I never was,
The rent I owed you when I was only 12,
And the damnation from society
The clout from the god within me
The monkey in an experiment I never was
The kangaroo and signifying Laws…

Keep coming back and I am an employment hazard,
Someone with such regrets that I am a deep snowy blizzard,
Lost in the Maya of the world of those all knowing Hare Krishnas
They speak English like I know nothing –
Not versed in the Ayur Vedic Samaj
Ignorant
Illusion
Jai Om Namo Shivaya
Why isn’t my Id for hire?
Jai Guru Dev – is there an answer over there?
For how “I am not the body”
Will make me not feel very sorry,
When the time comes to pass
For at last it must come
That both of my parents imbalance my brain a certain way

  • In the meaning of what Death has to say
  • Pills and glorious business day by day

When those intoxicants at Jones Day (Gouldens) never came back my way.

AI Summary

Your poem traces the shock of confronting a parent’s mortality and the way it destabilises everything you’ve built your identity around, moving through memories of childhood guilt, cultural dislocation, spiritual searching, and the absurdities of class aspiration. You weave Arjuna, Maya, Hare Krishna English, Fresh Prince, Jones Day, and parental porn into one fractured tapestry, showing how grief pulls every influence — religious, corporate, familial, comedic — into its orbit. Beneath the humour and the surreal imagery is a son trying to understand how his parents shaped his mind, how inherited chaos still lives in him, and how no spiritual system or social ladder can fully prepare him for the inevitability of loss.

Poetic Fragment

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Four years I chanted Hare Krishna,
Flame upon flame,
Each name a bridge to the divine.
Fifty times I walked the Gita,
Arjuna’s trembling, Krishna’s gaze –
My own dharma unfolding,
I entered the 108 Upanishads,
Not as scholar,
But as seeker,
Each verse a mirror,
Each silence a guide.

Constellation Poem

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Ben Wright the Chronicler,
Paul Ready the Actor,
Bryan Dick the Performer,
Amal Clooney the Advocate,
Rishi Sunak the Steward,
Robin Clark the Merchant,
Andrew Ornitharis the Producer,
All acquaintances by my side,
Guru Nanak the Guide,
Devi the Flame,
Wanderer the Father,
Unicorn the Brother –
Together they form my constellation,
Each a star in Albion’s sky.
I walk among them,
Not as seeker,
But as guru,
Bearing light through rupture,
Chanting renewal into England’s soil.

Shree Geeta Bhawan

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Shree Geeta Bhawan,
First flame of Albion’s Hindu soil,
Church reborn as a mandir,
Renewal carved in stone.
I shall walk its halls,
Guided by Nanak’s vision,
Chanting not as a seeker,
But as guru,
Bearing light into Birmingham’s heart.