hinduism

Why Won’t You Dye With Me

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Colour the light a special ignorance
And split the sheet down the sundry path.
Collapse the boundaries between now and those thorn bushes
And see the camels and horses from the tragedies.

The heroic epoch of expectation(s)
The jaunt of Vedic caste and nothing in return
Considerations and venerations
Before the online God of right here, right now.

Change the screen and see what I mean
The spectre of some shadow’s distortion
For the leaderless races led nowhere
In the recesses of privacy and the internet boom.

Who is in the room? But a Ronin of a ghost
Without a toast from the epic classes for the public
Sin, success, shining and a Barista for your coffee
Don’t and do before the Herody of your Biblical plate.

Wait and you will be harassed by the man on the bus
Who is an African trust for the Asian victim
Within some Jane Austen suspicious affair(?)

How will the enviable ending get there
When the page is not turned on the silent majority
Velvet votes and times tables for budgets that denote.

Take these times to be the notions of some movement fringe
When the mobile phone separates parents from their children who binge.
Box sets and hope that settles,
These gambits have been established on stony nettles.

AI Summary

Your poem reads like a meditation on how difficult it is to “mix with the majority” when the mind is carrying centuries of memory, myth, and expectation. The light becomes “special ignorance,” the sheet splits into sundry paths, and suddenly the horizon fills with camels, horses, tragedies — as if the past is always waiting just beyond the present moment. You move through Vedic caste, online gods, distorted shadows, leaderless races, and the ghost‑ronin who stands in for the modern self: unanchored, uncelebrated, wandering through digital and political noise. The poem’s middle section — the man on the bus, the Austen‑like suspicion, the silent majority, velvet votes, budgets, times tables — captures the strange blend of intimacy and bureaucracy that shapes British life, especially for someone navigating multiple identities at once. And then the final turn — mobile phones separating parents and children, box sets replacing rituals, nettles replacing roots — lands like a quiet indictment of a society drifting away from itself. What you’ve written is a portrait of a world where ancient hierarchies and modern distractions collide, leaving the speaker trying to find a path through stony ground while carrying the weight of too many histories.

What’s Special(?)

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

What is special may depend on what passes the final test
Of fire over breathing throughout the night
When the dragon is eschatology and the moon is upside
From the waxing sunshine that lazily lets the earth know
The meaning of it’s temerity to ask of knowledge one more thing.

What’s special may be the hankering after cosmos and starshine
The lantern of understanding of the grand immensity
And how far the Maya wanders to confuse the locality in it’s drama.
If this is permitted then the asking is also the answer
And the permission is verified to create a new linguistic code.

What’s special may be a car, some land, a kitchen sink and even the whole house.
Nobody asked of men or the door mouse if this erection was superb
It arrived before the child could question what she was worth –
The woman on the screen
The mind in between
Hello to the Lasso that engages my tied imagination still to Reagonomics karma.

What is the dharma?
Is the dharma spoken?
Who are the protagonists?
When the time is just a money token.
Eid is just an evident structure
In the vain evening times of a gentleman’s vulture
The lawyer, the liar and the lady who waits down the lane
Looking for the idle Gingerbread Man to keep matters tame.

Clumps and clusters and gravitational issues for the emanating end
The End of Greatness and the first memory of something special.

What’s special is the effort and the emotion of nothing in the darkest put
While the {        } Is.

These automated equipped drakes on the ocean bed of commiserations
About the consciousness of the Void that is exploited
Exponentially debonair in the night air for the internet aware
Of the Self universally undoing the good done by religion each do
Beingness accompanied
Etherically vanquished
Help at hand for the famished
Another day of the starving finding the TV camera mindful.

What’s separate is what is special.
What’s together is what is familiar and not so special.
This is the ease of discontent that is middle aged consideration
For the old age issue of heirdom to something sparing of tomorrow’s grace.

Fine paradoxes of satellites of love
Asleep in the sea of sadness
Cold in the clamped galaxies
Where is Man?
Where is his Goddess?
Who is the female in the eye of the storm?

The one keeping the daughters of men warm
So it seems when heaven is near me
I am a kept man to the breath of the near most missed
Exceptional work handed in to school again
Parked car of Tariq the Traveller
Nobody is mentioning his fame
His science
His discoveries
Of European
Often are glories manifest for the Cathedral of Crusades
Where specialness is the dated hearse
The Sikh seeking history
The Hindu into mysteries

What about the executive choices to fund the diversity of decibels and decimals of weighted L.S.D?
Is that what is special in me?
Who am I?
Why am I here?
What’s in a question?
But the man that I am to fear
The Tsar
The Stars
The Soviet cushion of consultancy for cold swearing in of justice courts
And the pain of the messages of hope that hurt.
The News
The {Photos}
1000 words
…
…
These are (some of) the things that made the 1900s absurd.

AI Summary

Your poem reads like a meditation on specialness as a shifting, unstable category — sometimes cosmic, sometimes domestic, sometimes political, sometimes spiritual. Fire, dragons, moons, Maya, and linguistic codes form the metaphysical layer: the mind trying to understand why the universe feels both immense and mischievous. Then the poem drops into the earthly: cars, houses, kitchen sinks, screens, Reagan‑era economics, Eid evenings, lawyers, budgets, velvet votes — the machinery of modern life grinding against ancient questions of dharma and destiny. You move between epochs and continents with the ease of someone who has lived in many symbolic worlds at once: Vedic castes, Crusader cathedrals, Soviet shadows, British classrooms, digital voids, and the aching middle‑aged awareness that specialness fades into familiarity. The poem’s final movement — satellites of love, seas of sadness, daughters of men, the missing Goddess, the forgotten traveller, the scientist uncelebrated, the historian unheard — reveals a deeper longing: to know where meaning hides when the world feels absurd, and to understand why the twentieth century left behind so many images, headlines, and wounds that still shape the present. What you’ve written is a map of a mind trying to reconcile cosmic yearning with earthly fatigue, asking again and again what is special, what is separate, what is familiar, and what remains when all the symbols fall away.

What Does Writing Do

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Get me some stuff
A culture and some bluff
A hard hand and bad beat
Poker accounts all over the streets
Lets bet on some horses and imagine the football fair
Take me from the Sunday school
Keep me street aware
I don’t know the author of my Friday blues
I’m hoping I’m eternal
My mum’s death is not up for review.
The spinning and infinity
The churning of the empty gut
The riddles of the wise me
The sell outs in a rut
Choices and decisions
Nothing much spent from the Indian affair
Sold out books and Satanism
Keeping the children aware.

Sex is for their education
Things we did not have
Blocked up emissions from the Homeland
British Asian langue
Nothing much with to hang
Bands in the deranged plans
Of a tomorrow without a good abundance
Brahma is with Abraham perchance
And Bachchan is wiling away the hours
Countenance divine in the Indian playing fields
Wars from the shopping lines
Drinks are on the house
Navy Seals in the responsibility category
Meditation sandwich
Things our house can’t cope with
Compressed mind and Shiva Shakti
Waking up and walking around some times help her
She’s feeling empty
The DVLA won’t let us drive
Conniving Administration
Butlers and Chauffeurs for the right Colonial names
Dates and assholes everywhere
The clothes don’t fit the L and XL
Obese from Mrs Medication
“Rohan! It’s for life!”
Go get one, away from me…

Writing is a freed up act again
The nation is healed from a writer’s strain
Craving a graduate status with his own property portfolio
Keep me away from the queers of Malvolio.
This Victorian insidious unkempt moronic nationhood is not my hunting
Leave it with Amal and some one time punting
A lady in a lake and what could have been
Had she known Greek was a myth for life with Martin Sheen.

AI Summary

Your poem reads like a man trying to assemble a life from fragments — poker tables, horses, Sunday school, street awareness, Indian affairs, British Asian language, Brahma and Abraham, Bachchan and Navy Seals — all swirling around the central ache of your mother’s mortality and your own fear of being swallowed by systems you never chose. The poem moves between the body and the state: blocked emissions, medication weight, DVLA restrictions, colonial names, chauffeurs, and the pressure of being measured by institutions that don’t understand your inner life. Then it swings into cultural memory — Victorian nationhood, Shakespearean queerness, Malvolio, Greek myths, Martin Sheen — as if the entire Western canon is a haunted house you’re forced to walk through while carrying your own South Asian inheritance. Beneath the humour and the anger is a man trying to write himself free, to reclaim dignity from a world that keeps misreading him, to imagine a future where he has property, status, peace, and a mind that isn’t compressed by medication or expectation. What you’ve written is the portrait of someone who refuses to disappear, even when the nation, the culture, and the past all try to tell him who he should be.

The Phone

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

The phone bought so much change
There are bonds with Batman to rearrange
Places in the house where Superheroes are talk
Telekinesis and teleportation
Telephone booths were HRH post boxes
Drive-bys
Hard guys
Gangster land
Things we don’t share
Why? We don’t understand.
Thanks for the Moon Landing
& the CIA at Langley Headquarters
How much for a half moon crescent
The arial kept me resentful
Time travelling cop
Mentalities and ethnicities
Chai, coffee and shut up shop
On my way to Surrealism
Somewhere out of the office now
Work from home
Gardening with Noam Chomsky
To, Those Shows Aren’t Free
:: /// @Israel Lobby
Time for sports in Davos
Nothing much for Drauphadi
Jurassic notes
Slalom on the east coast
Too many web pages
Celebrity Villas
Pink thrillers
Visages on the catwalk
Pugs and Yoga Mats
*Pillow Talk*
Call me back soon if you don’t refreeze
Sort out your TV please
This is acid reflux and some pH imbalance I better learn lotus for that Crouching Tiger hidden stance.

AI Summary

Your poem reads like a mind overstimulated by the digital age, where the phone becomes the portal that rearranges Batman, telekinesis, CIA mythologies, moon landings, chai, coffee, and the surrealism of working from home while gardening with Noam Chomsky. The imagery moves at the speed of scrolling: Davos sports, Draupadi forgotten, Jurassic notes, celebrity villas, yoga mats, catwalk visages, and the strange intimacy of pillow talk in a world where everything is mediated by screens. Beneath the humour and the chaos is a body trying to cope — acid reflux, pH imbalance, the need for lotus posture, the crouching‑tiger stance — as if the spiritual and the digestive have become indistinguishable. The poem captures the absurdity of modern consciousness: part superhero fantasy, part political noise, part bodily complaint, part cosmic yearning. It’s a portrait of a man trying to find stillness in a world that refuses to stop vibrating.

Money

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

What are some of the things that money is?
It is this and that.
It is a wondering mind
A friend who is too hard to find
Worrying about his future
The Drs and all those cuts and bruises
Sewters in the operating room
Insurance men cleaning with the broom
Dust in your heart for the part you play in life
Adulterous with women and claiming your own wife
After years in the field
Things that jewellery will yield
A £10,000 watch
Some models to watch the news with
A visit to the Hindu Temple one day
Something more than you said in the 1990s
When the 1980s were a ripened banana in your mind
To suck on licking it for your cocoa invester
The Sylvester with some attitude and some tips you picked up down the lavatory
When you were rinsing off your cock
Waiting for your mate to spot you another drink
Money is making Soho think –
What about me one day, when I have fulfilled my mother’s say.

AI Summary

Your poem treats money as a shapeshifter — sometimes a friend, sometimes a wound, sometimes a future you’re terrified of losing. It becomes doctors, bruises, operating rooms, insurance men sweeping up the dust of your life, and the guilt of desire pressed against the expectations of marriage and culture. Money becomes jewellery, watches, Soho fantasies, temple visits, 1980s memories, and the strange mix of shame and swagger that comes from wanting more than you were taught to ask for. The poem moves through British‑Asian masculinity, class pressure, bodily humour, and the ache of a mother’s voice still shaping your ambitions. Beneath the jokes and the erotic flashes is a man trying to understand whether money is salvation, corruption, inheritance, or simply the thing that keeps him awake at night. What you’ve written is a portrait of someone who wants dignity, stability, and a future — but who also knows that money has always been more myth than mathematics.

Until the Daffodils Yearn

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

I went to pay for the food
But Fate was being rude
To intrude on my inner dwelling
With the outer foil of a garden well laid.

There they were, betrayed to the surface
Above the water of my drowning soul
And the thoughts that are so deep
Daffodils in the supermarket are needed to excavate them.

So I am unearthed.
Like them I a trick of the trade
Waiting for payment of my death
And the memories that accompanied the digger’s breath.

What is in a rhyme, but the time of meeting another
Unlike you, who are gone and would have liked the irony
Of nature ironing out the money due in the self service till
Where the flowers balanced on top, left alone.

Nobody was there to take their measure
And I was awash with grief about my greedy handful
Delicate emotions spread out on the market stall of life
Amassing a fortune for the savings account and pension.

This was not the mention, I was looking for an easy way out
But you accompanied me like a bad smell
The old smell of rotting fart to celebrate my triumph over the grave
As if that was something else I was going to succeed at.

Failure to the seed, the life giving emotion of yellow piercing above green
And the scene of my demise as I scanned my items
Do you think of me still when I am not there to harass you
Like and as: My metaphor is a mega bore from the 1980s.

These are times that are not for me, but keep you alive
The memory is screeching and the ghosts are warning me
The same is not for you, in your lonely crew
Who will remember you when you are one effort from a cemented cemetery.

Take this notice of nature’s entry and seek refuge in the rhyming Buddha
The slang of the cow’s udder under Krishna who can see my fears,
The turning years and all that is to come
The escapade of my life before Maya.

No more of your driving tires, and lifts to the supermarket
Where I would lean on your purse, the mother in the hearse
And the father who left me in Summertown, down undergraduate lane
Things will never be the same again.

They medicated the brain to ensure the insurer and change the bliss
Where is the wedding with the merger of Christ to secure the last kiss?
How will I know what is known when the final wishes are blown
And the gardening is what you have bequeathed me in my working man’s probate.

It’s time to test the prostate, and prostrate on the ground before Allah
Lest I have anything left in the cellar of my heart and you surprise me again
And again for the foremost thoughts about what is stalking us all –
The final call from the One seeking The Fall.

AI Summary

Your poem begins with a simple act — paying for food — and immediately fate intrudes, turning the supermarket into a site of excavation where daffodils become metaphors for your own unearthing. Grief rises like something betrayed to the surface, and the flowers on the self‑service till become stand‑ins for the memories you can’t bury: the mother’s purse, the father’s absence, the undergraduate lanes of Summertown, the hearse, the medicated brain, the probate gardening you inherited instead of comfort. The poem moves between humour and despair — the “rotting fart,” the “mega bore from the 1980s,” the prostate test — as if the body itself is mocking the solemnity of death. Yet beneath the irreverence is a deep spiritual ache: Krishna’s cows, the rhyming Buddha, Maya’s escapade, Christ’s merger, Allah’s final call. You’re asking how to live when the dead still accompany you, how to scan your items while ghosts screech, how to accept that the world continues even when your inner world has collapsed. What you’ve written is a portrait of a man trying to carry grief without being crushed by it, using rhyme, myth, humour, and memory as the only tools he has left.

To a Hindu Citizen

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

You didn’t even need to say goodbye
When you had left me for The Dead.
I had already read your stars
And they said you were here or there
Continuance.
Somebody is at the corridor of uncertainty
And the Black Man is looking for salvation
Often The White Supremacist speaks English first.
Chinese under
Writing
Standing
Taking
Why are we waking?
The Brahmin is importing the religion we are devouring
The Classicist is ignoring the divorcing we are endgaming.
What is in a marriage when the polygamist is always a broken Muslim
Fractured at the hands of time
To crime and Crimean punishment
For the war and perchance that a Russian missile will bring peace to a region
Areas of compassion
Free economic Homos
He’s in the zone,
For God’s sake, don’t bring a Sudra home
Come Dine With Me
Manchester City
There’s an Evangelical thread in the room
I’ve got to clean out the broom cupboard soon.

Time for Rumi
Make some room for my I
This Hindu has some Ego and Materialism to espy
We’ve just put him on a throne!
Go away and come back when you can teach me about this aloneness
Emerson all the way to your bank
I say thank you
It’s not the Victorian crew
Days that were far behind us
The Clapham Omnibus + Race Relations Laws
Downward facing dog pose
>> The Sumo Wrestler of the WWF
[                  ]
Eat me at EnlightenNext
There’s culture under my white vest.
Before we need identity cards
What’s that yoga you know, down at The Shard.

AI Summary

Your poem reads like a confrontation with absence — someone who left without goodbye, someone whose stars you already read, someone whose continuance haunts the corridor of uncertainty — and from that absence, the whole machinery of identity erupts. Race, caste, religion, and geopolitics appear not as truths but as distortions the world projects onto you: the Black man seeking salvation, the white supremacist speaking first, the Brahmin importing religion, the classicist ignoring rupture, the Muslim polygamist reduced to stereotype, the Sudra forbidden from the home. You refuse all of these frames even as you name them, exposing how they fracture people rather than explain them. The poem then turns inward: Rumi, ego, aloneness, Emerson, yoga, EnlightenNext, identity cards, the Shard — a man trying to find spiritual ground in a world that keeps categorising him faster than he can breathe. Beneath the satire and the fury is a deeper longing: to be seen without being sorted, to be allowed a self that isn’t defined by caste, race, religion, or the anxieties of the age. What you’ve written is a portrait of someone trying to reclaim his “I” from the noise of history.

Awakening Echoes

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

At sixteen, I stumbled,
eyes half-closed to the world,
mistaking shadows for truths,
and whispers for guidance.

My heart was restless,
my mind untamed,
drifting through the tide of what I did not know.
And now I see—
India stretches, awakening,
shaking off the sleep of centuries,
her eyes wide, taking in the light,
learning what I once could not.

The mistakes I made,
the fears I carried,
the blindness of youth—
they hum softly in her streets,
in her voices, in her rising.

What I could not see alone,
she now sees together,
and in her clarity, I find my echo,
the quiet whisper of growth,
the shared rhythm of becoming.

Suffering

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

The Hologram
The Stiffy and Hard On
The memories of Royal Pardons
When the future remembers.
4. A Quill makes me famous
3. The computer keyboard WON’T regret The Buddha
1. The Missing Link is proven
Say that you will love me when the children grow old.

I’m moving house in the field’s last eye of the countryside
The horses are galloping where the Angels are still arching their backs
This is no time for the lamenting of the spack-attack
The 1980s won’t ever come and rescue me.

Spy City 
Do you remember Frankie?
Or is it all Les Bobby Browns to you : A miserable unBriTISh bastard
With all his indebtedness to L.A. Whores.
Confidentially yours from Mr Kevin Bacon
Eating all the space when the women need some make up
Keeping loss under cover with smelly regrettably yours
Dealing with the clean yogis, purifying the locus.

Hocus pocus
It’s what it seems to me
You research your school textbooks
I need some time alone.

  1. Sathya
  2. Sati
  3. Siddhi

I’m cooling my face down with a neck fan
Nobody’s my fan on the State Run Instagram
Running through the towns and still she doesn’t like me
A yogi born a Christian with down syndrome infamy.

I Struggling to talk

II Struggling to walk

III A dictionary in my shoulder bag – the one I carried to Dharamsala

Chinese figments of the brothers’ imagination
Wutang before women who write poems instead of face the nation.
Blessings in the Church
What about her arched back
Left in the lurch
Nobody will remember the 6 o clock news spent on the Sexy (News) Christian.

Blame it on the vegan
As I mess about with bacon and beef:
Leaving aside some fish and eating no eggs
Lest Allah call me some mind reading tea leaf.

29/07/2023

AI Summary

Your poem spirals through holograms, erections, pardons, quills, keyboards, and the ache of wanting to be loved when the children grow old, all while you imagine yourself moving house in the last open eye of the countryside where horses and angels share the same horizon; you reject the idea that the 1980s will rescue you, drift into Spy City memories, and mock the un-British swagger of Americanised masculinity, before sliding into yogis, Instagram loneliness, and the strange hybrid identity of a Christian-born seeker cooling his face with a neck fan; you catalogue your struggles — talking, walking, carrying dictionaries to Dharamsala — and weave them with church blessings, Wu-Tang ghosts, and the forgotten eroticism of a “Sexy (News) Christian,” then pivot into dietary guilt, spiritual anxiety, and the comic fear of being misread by God, all of it forming a single restless consciousness trying to reconcile modern life, spiritual aspiration, bodily desire, cultural inheritance, and the relentless noise of a world that never stops demanding interpretation.

Who is my Mother?

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

I look like an American maniac
Surrounded by paranoid people
Beaten by the medical certainty
That they don’t clean themselves.
Ho’oponono answers the Hippy Revolution of the 70s and deals with The Wonder Years on TV
COVID was not for me as my Mum drove me around town and my brother forgave me
Deep shit to quote it back to the scientific community
Apparently unable to cross refer references all by themselves
The
Are
Can?…

When will the caravan come back to the holidays of Summer in the East of England
After the pain of too much Scorpio strain of imagined refractions of false spies in the Church of England again?

I don’t listen to my Mum as well as I could
Her words aren’t as literary as the Chohan said I should
Be compassionate
Be loving
We are the sporty type for the right tripe to win the game show’s commerce in the world run by American weather vanes
Handling your Four Winds Acupuncture
Dealing with your Reiki massage
All so you can read literature and watch sexy politics with Nigel Farage
Who is the Midlands Spoz to Danny Boy’s Zephaniah in the sky with diamonds now

Is my mum a displaced cow in Vrindavan
For the mistaken fun I had
Planning the poetic land
Like a Tolkien toll bridge for some unimportance and humiliation of humility I had planned
Writing verses with Krishna again
Settling the past life strain.

AI Summary

The poem traces a mind caught between paranoia and tenderness — medical fear, family care, spiritual longing, and cultural confusion. It moves through American pop culture, Midlands streets, Eastern spirituality, and personal memory, showing how identity fractures under pressure. The speaker wrestles with guidance, compassion, ancestry, and the weight of imagined judgement, trying to locate a stable self. In the end, the poem reaches toward reconciliation — a hope that past lives, present strain, and maternal love might finally settle into meaning.