hinduism

Unemployed Man

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Unemployed man
Terrified Middle Eastern caravan
Travelling the international routes
With my mind
With my mind
Gaining military support
Looking at DWP reports
Checking our nigger Sociology
Setting Barack Hussein free.

What’s an Obama to the Unibomber
And a reraise from Phil Ivey
Possible poison to the Christians I see
And the malevolence growing from the jealous young ones in the pews.
They don’t like the rhythm in you
They don’t like you’re fitting in
They don’t like your connection with the Jew
The one with the blonde hair who tried to care…

Something for the racists to walk about and stare at
One man crowds in Weoley Castle from me shouting at Abishek all aloud
So easy to predict like a Sambrook trail of shit on our streets
So young and so fashionable with Russell Brand’s karma
The Beatles will harm her again.
The Beatles will kill Bruce Lee again
And Mr Paul Paki will never set these streets free.

For who was he when my father was driving?
Who was he when my father was cooking alone?
How did the police discriminate against him then and upon what grounds
As their radios played crap music and Oasia rolled on along the charts with Blur.

#itsallfittingin for the size of the Indian yogi tin
As they lecture on the parts of lyrics fair
For the words I would not learn.
Don’t ask me how Beethoven moves
You called British, that’s what that language proves.

Don’t ask me to celebrate Operatic performances,
They’re in London, far away from my mother.
Keep them for the thespians in London who don’t spend their money on their own culture in London
As my rhymes don’t please them
Better than Shakespeare in the 1600s – who’s been rewriting that and keep them out of the stocks, wickets and crowds?

How do they spend their money when Gordon Brown is allowed..
{Free reign over any pussy he likes!}
London is full of dykes and not the fit sort on American Porn
Madonna won’t tell the truth about the Spirit that helped her spawn
Music better than the tripe she shovelled to invading niggers in her older years.

Dancing on ice is what she needs to fear!
Slip ups and staged catastrophes
“One thing for me” and the Queen nearly resigned at 93…
Saving Private Charles is now Matt Damon to me
With Ben Affleck hiding tall dark and manufactured.
What time is the 6 o clock shadow Mr Ordinary Man
And where did you stash that cash in the walls for Mr Amitabh Bachchan?

So party on dudes and cause some rucus if you dare.
The streets of England and fair Birmingham City –
Come on you Blues!
Come on you Blues!
BLOOOO ARMEEEEEEE!
BLOOOOO ARMEEEEEE!

  • They are George Clooney and Ryan Reynolds aware.

AI Summary

The poem traces a mind wrestling with belonging — unemployment, family history, neighbourhood tension, and the pressure of being watched. It moves through politics, music, sport, and street life, showing how identity gets tangled with fear, pride, and cultural misunderstanding. The speaker confronts prejudice, memory, and the weight of inherited narratives while trying to protect the people he loves. In the end, the poem becomes a cry for recognition — a desire to be seen clearly in a world full of noise, judgement, and confusion.

The Hollow Case

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Transcendental idealism
Dissociation of Spirit
Dislocation of man
Modern reachings
I am dreams
Am I the dream?
I am the dreamer
This is Vanity Fair’s passing.

Clouds that don’t know about me
Falling through empty cities
Colluding with grandeur for my heir
Asking of nothingness for a heritage
Turn the page
Find me without sages
Lost in a sacred trance
Cosmic shambles and Kailash’s dance.

Dream
Therapy
Concluding that all is error and fix.

I am the river of life
A monster vomiting a stomach crunch
Buy me lunch
Pay for my coffee
It’s all within me
It’s all about me
Rush to the hurrying
Hari is upon you
If I don’t see Shiva
Will you free me from the (hollow caused) Jew?

AI Summary

The poem moves through transcendental dislocation — a self questioning whether it is the dream, the dreamer, or something dissolving between worlds. Clouds, cities, sages, and cosmic dances form a landscape where identity feels unstable, sacred, and strangely estranged. The speaker wrestles with therapy, error, hunger, divinity, and the need to be freed from inner hollowness rather than any external group. In the end, the poem reaches toward spiritual release — a plea for clarity, compassion, and liberation from the illusions that bind the self.

Waiting

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We waited
We Waited
Oh why are we waiting
He was only the greatest
There was not enough room in the shoe for more than one
Why did they wait with us?
Hangers on
Goal Hangers
Manchester Munchkins
Sitting on the fence as always
And then there was the childhoos romance
The one without a ballroom dance
The doctor in Bath
The fat lady singing at the NHS
The nigger lady of the land who would not undress
Guinevere set free at last
Free at last
Thank Martin Luther King Jr she is free at last.

And King Arthur was never again seen on the simple shores of England
As the land was cleansed of naturalists and the nationals who rinsed the Lingam
And set the land dry.

AI Summary

The poem mourns a childhood world of heroes, legends, and imagined greatness, now tangled with waiting, loss, and cultural confusion. It blends Arthurian myth, civil‑rights echoes, NHS corridors, and English streets to show how innocence and identity get reshaped by time. The speaker confronts prejudice, memory, and the collapse of old stories, searching for meaning in a land that feels altered and emptied. In the end, it becomes a reflection on myth and belonging — how the stories we inherit shape what we hope to be, even as they fade.

Pride

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What awards has Nobel given?
What estates has he blessed?
Where is the evening out of his grace?
What is a school tomorrow for his pride?
When is the State alive for what could be planned?
How long is the dictionary lane to the organised meeting?
What is the roughage of the shit of a Psychological Degree;
When all it still is is property, Flag and the Celebrity Centre of Scientology?
What has the medic done in England?
What is a GP to the boy scouts and girl guides handing out cookies in America?

#MyBookieWookie ^ LSD
Time controllers again and no awards
Verification
Leader by attribution
No other nation
Tibet cannot be Rwanda
They list the causes
They control the donations
Now he sighs when all is branded
Now he complains when his Indian sex orgies have been commanded
What is the complaint that Arjuna knew to give Krishna
Once a nervous breakdown, always unreliable.

For why do you war, Russell, and shit on the talk show couch?
What are these laws you speak over & why does Jimmy Kimmel and Matt Damon make you say “ouch”?
Who did what to whom when Rishiboy graced the world,
With a flash of Depakote for Epilepsy on the BBC?
When Aishwarya wore leather for Wossy?
And his fat ugly wife bought shares on Images on the computer?
When is a King so inert?
When his Princeship is codes in a predicted poet?
When is his child so revert?
When blondes are their prediction from a poet?

Slow down there tiger and lets lets,
For Akaash Rani that you won’t let go…
I know all the biographies of demonic English writers
When will you share with us this Krishna,
For God’s sake, surely, that is what we’re having a go at?!

With

(Yo Mama)
The Pharcyde on Cassette in the 1990s
So tell them Noam as you hide your plans
To dominate the world as Plato from victory land
That Israel is Is it Real for the worst of human kind
And shit on a Church that Bill Clinton still wants to teach Russell Brand to find.
Give us the tape from Hulk Hogan, sir, of your cock being sucked
For the losers in Haridwar that Will Smith taped to touch
Then, maybe then, you’ll see the Rish out in public land
As the worst horror of politics so old, white and demented for anger to understand.

What were your local elections and how do you follow the teacher
For Abishek using Aishwarya too many times in print
Run the hurdles in your private schools on English land for a stint
Turn around that fashion in the world of time
Pity the failure you see in Rohan and Ritesh that is not karma…
Give Peter McDonald one more try
For an essence of Indian law courts with Jenny Afia and a Jewish creampie.
Once

#FreeTibet is not my organisation
I wrote #TibetForever because we were 1990s Scientology

AI Summary

It’s a poem about the collapse of trust in institutions — Nobel prizes, states, universities, psychology, medicine, celebrity culture, political leaders, religious figures — all of them swirling together in a chaotic, accusatory, grief‑stricken monologue where the speaker feels betrayed by systems, misread by strangers, and overwhelmed by the noise of global narratives; the poem leaps from Rwanda to Tibet, from Bollywood to Scientology, from BBC scandals to American talk shows, from Indian family names to English schoolyards, from Krishna and Arjuna to Russell Brand and Noam Chomsky, all while circling the same wound: the sense that identity, sexuality, reputation, and meaning have been hijacked by forces far larger than the individual; beneath the fury and satire is a deep exhaustion — a longing for clarity, dignity, and a place where the poet’s voice is not swallowed by politics, gossip, or cultural projection, but allowed to speak from its own centre.

Healing

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The energy is not calling me
I am not there
Tomorrow is so corporate
The shops are so self aware.
The office blocks have Maya in them
The oceans are so pertinent with religious history
They have been sailed by navigators and Navigant Consultancy
When I am unemployed and arrived at so self aware.

What is meant by repetition?
How is woman to shake the disease?
The emerging markets of South America know nothing of Peruvian coffee
Traded in Aldi for the competition scarcity and poverty trader’s delight.

These are thus fights and I am astrologically bereft
The man in the café is joking with my reputation
The Queen knows me better than myself
All is so obvious to them.

(Stealing Old English again)
Robin Hood strains in my navigated market place
I can see the futility of travelling alone
Talks
Walks
Speaking in a café
Welling up at the wishing well – looking for some pride and happiness
The search for human values shall not be in vain
In spite of the United States nuclear missile declarations and the gains that have been costed.

I’m off to Costa tomorrow for some latte and millionaire shortbread
Thinking of my winnings banned from the horses stables at Amazon CEO’s backyard animal farm with Amal
The amazing woman who stole my economy
And her friend Karma who does like my ride now.

Is this the eternal questions?
Poet’s riddled as Kings denied their cross.
Tomorrow is the boss for the lilies in the field of the man
Who stationed his wagon for the American plans.
Delhi can’t delegate again
The dead need waking up again
The ego is about to blow
The Drs never got sent down below
The writer is despondent
The family is poor that supports him
Paul Ready is quota
The nurses need milk floats
And Ferris Bueller is shaking it crazy for the war between thee BMA, the DTI and EQUITY.

“He who comes to Equity must come with clean hands”
So shake your dick off well in the urinals for the lands of by elections at Kingstanding
And whatever judgements are merriment to the sick and puke in the school toilets
When they and their transferred parents are too young for such legalities.

These economics are free
This ALCS is for me
The servant is quarter the height of the negro with attitude who nearly punched me today
And there is more reason to increase the poor prat’s pay
Selling coffee
Serving bread
Counting the computation of the cost of a pint of milk
Politicians lose the word of God to raise the wages of sin
Slick like an average RnB dancer without some good place to go
The negro
The negro
What is the heart of darkness of the negro?
Compassion for the BBC again and again and wasted energy about which they cannot be you and see the I in the me and not sell medication for to not be The Complain.

Complan.

AI Summary

It’s a poem about feeling drained of energy, alienated from the corporate world, and overwhelmed by the repetition of economic struggle, social judgement, and spiritual confusion; the speaker moves through cafés, supermarkets, global markets, Robin Hood fantasies, nuclear anxieties, and family poverty, all while feeling watched, mocked, or misunderstood by strangers, institutions, and even fate itself; the poem spirals through humour, bitterness, political noise, and personal despair, naming the absurdity of modern economics, the weight of unemployment, the ache of being misinterpreted, and the pressure of carrying identity in a world that keeps misusing it, before dissolving into a frantic, exhausted meditation on dignity, compassion, and the desperate need for a place where the “I” can breathe without being turned into a symbol.

Fur Casts

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Fur Cast
The last is first
First caste
The Brahmin knows the worst.
No brockwurst on his table
The Saracens are enabled
The Shogun know the past
The Samurai are 1980s at last.
Models on the cat walk
Famous men that can talk
Stockbrokers in Dubai
Royalties saying goodbye
Mendicants in the apothecary
Love in the noble boudoir
Arrangements and engagements
Was that what the Judges meant?
Say it is upstairs at three o clock
When the whistles are blown for crytpo stocks,
And the river Styx is dried into a parched red carcas
Imaging earth for the sunshine of Albion up above.
Davos at noon and the afternoon
Snow capped mountains in the Hindu room
Levity with briefs of the lawyers who believe
Again, in the merry go round of the spinning wheel.
Political correctness gone wild.

AI Summary

It’s a poem about the collapse and collision of hierarchies — caste, class, royalty, warriors, models, mendicants, crypto traders, Davos elites — all spinning together in a surreal carousel where ancient identities meet modern absurdities; the speaker watches Brahmins, Saracens, Shoguns, Samurai, Dubai brokers, boudoir lovers, and apothecary mendicants drift through the same global marketplace, while judges, lawyers, and political correctness whirl around like a malfunctioning wheel of fortune; beneath the humour and spectacle is a sense of exhaustion with the world’s endless reinventions of power, and a quiet recognition that the spinning never stops, no matter how many times history changes its costumes.

Wired

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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.

Danny the Spy

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There was a friend called Danny
Things caught up with me
Times were tight and money was not easy
The women flowed and the flowers grew
The young children walked
Wailing in the desert for the educational classroom.


Such was the predicament
The consternation
The memory havoc in the rush hour of Windermere
Lakes of disaster and a failing standard
Gold standard
Centre lane down the bowling alley
Middle Way with Mr Blair
And all that jazz with Toni Morrison
And those niggers following her from Luke Skywalker
Chasing England’s first black female llama Evaristo
Building Empires
Selling rush days their due
Calling out the ennui from the business classes
Casting votes on the Obama scene
Dreaming of the N-Word in extempore revision
Some decent delicious decisions
Feminists of the past and a caste system worth remembering…

Then one day, the spies came knocking
And Dharamsala was not coming.
The Tibetan Llama had not gone to Washington
And Reigate was where the Cameron kudos stood
When the child had come to my classroom
And the KPMG Exec had balanced his books
At the Handsworth Mandir with some checking on the Soho Road
London had come to set them apart
For the pure at heart
Desiring more than cynical cycles of suffering
Dreams from Lhasa of good hunting.

AI Summary

It’s a poem about a life caught between personal memory and global turbulence, beginning with a friend named Danny and widening into a panorama of tight finances, wandering children, literary giants, racial tensions, political figures, and the long shadow of empire; the speaker moves through Windermere, Blair, Morrison, Evaristo, Obama, and the N‑word with a mix of critique and exhaustion, then shifts into a world of spies, Tibet, classrooms, temples, and corporate audits, where London and Lhasa, Handsworth and Washington, Dharamsala and Reigate all blur together; beneath the swirl is a longing for purity, clarity, and meaning — a desire to escape cycles of suffering and find a place where dreams, identity, and history stop colliding long enough for the speaker to breathe.

Chinese Poet Star

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Separating the wood from the boys
Metal Gnosis and erotic string theory
Fellows of the Dao at St Hugh’s crowds
A Chinese Centre {for Harold and Kumar}.
With love,
From the Bhakti boys
Something from Queen (IMDb)
How about the scene with those sex toys.
Did you think they came to see you?
The Bollywood crew
What about those Delhi bellies?
Have they seen the Buddha too?
2 Live Crew
Something for the Casino man in you
Come and see our central vase
Find your way out of your celebrity maze
Thy will be blonde
Amazon wonga
There’s no room my Inn
Things the saviours see in their diners.
Mick Jaggers gone Peaky Blinders
Chinatown and the Pagoda down the road
Lessons from monarchs
Leave without saying anything about Toad
Wind in the Hollows
Why didn’t you say so sooner
Abigail Crooner
There’s so much we can agree on
Solid ground
Milk drinks to be found
Coffee made us proud
Manifested from the Sacred Ground
1990-Web Ology
B.P.S. for Mum is not for me
CV developers in every city
New Age knowledge to climb over
High states to climb down
Get over the state of being brown
Yoga is all over town
Penniless crew
Travelling is not so important for the Brahmana in you
Driving Licence test
{Facebook would be best}

AI Summary

It’s a playful, chaotic, culturally overloaded poem where the speaker moves through Daoist fellows, Bhakti boys, Bollywood crews, Chinatown pagodas, Peaky Blinders, monarchs, yoga studios, CV factories, and New Age knowledge, all while poking fun at celebrity culture, racial anxieties, spiritual branding, and the pressure to reinvent oneself; the poem blends humour, satire, and self‑reflection as it jumps from sacred ground to sex toys, from Amazon money to Wind in the Willows, from coffee pride to caste jokes, ending with a wry acknowledgement of how identity, ambition, and spirituality get tangled in a world where everyone is hustling for meaning — even the Brahmana trying to pass a driving test.

Last Days of Judgement

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These are the last days of judgement
There is terror stored up in the stories of the body
The smouldering wreck of a lifetime spent serving God has reached it’s end
The Bible bashers are here again!

It must be something in the brain Brahma has to sort out
:: Like gout in the walls and some other stuff for the cement driven doer
Open to all sorts of the panache in the times of working parental control over the internet
Except rebellion against Drs.

Nurses will follow like the Pied Piper towards hell
And somehow VHS will live on for those who have lived long
Leaders from abroad
The broads from Of Guys and Dolls
Those Audrey Hepburn imposters
Leaving the leader asking for more.

Man needs a woman like a barbecued hamburger on a sunny day in a good bun.
Why do you argue like cats and dogs about the racial superiority of Hinduism.
Longer and older than a Vedic Saved lie that a Chinaman can explain to a King,
This lingam is not for sale.

Jeff Bezzos knows why I am king of the whales
The mystery of the Blue Whale always kept me going
Why don’t you English embrace Creationism?
Why don’t you let individuality be tested by those hard knocks you shelter with big knockers and bad rhymes?

They don’t want to remembered as English time, when they are dead.
That is going to be something for us to deliver you from the Royal Family.
No Church of England as William spends the future
Science Fiction in the Welsh dales with my karma from Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible.

That is why I phoned America = come and watch the English bulldog bully his friends
Trashing Hare Krishna and the Naam
Celebrating Turbans and the Sikh rail road.

What did you build when your families insulted Krishna??
Why should we let you drink the Holy Ganga water?
Bottled up in a jar and now available online
We’ll never satisfy your corporate Tudor Street.
All those people men in Birmingham don’t meet in London.
Is this fact?
Is this not a poem Now?
Who walked past me and looked in the window at McDonalds in Northfield today?
How much does that racist have to say?

Worry about your own homes!
Social Services in deed
Another letter
More international feeds
Katherine on Instagram
A row from ‘Amal’ in time
Letters in response probably from George Clooney
Is this something his Area 51 could find.

[rishisunak]

What a piece of work is a question
#What novel reason is this
To tray 300 with Oxbridge muscle retention
And review wars spoilings geographically.
What is the best insult a politician has made of the poor
TV, dear sir,
I couldn’t ask for anything more.
Then La Morte D’Arthur is for European India
And they’ll control you with service in the docks for her in doors.

When are you married, naughty man
The dear Professor wants the Dr’s friend to know.
For all that Colonial gibberish he asked about
So that he could not go down below.
[Slammed]

AI Summary

It’s a poem about the feeling of living in an age of judgement, where religious pressure, cultural conflict, political spectacle, and personal fear all collide inside the speaker’s mind; the poem moves through Brahma, nurses, VHS tapes, Hollywood, creation myths, English identity, caste anxieties, and global misunderstandings, all while the speaker wrestles with being misinterpreted, racialised, or spiritually scrutinised; the tone swings between satire, anger, exhaustion, and dark humour as the speaker questions nationalism, faith, family, and the intrusion of institutions into private life, ending in a swirl of mythic references, personal vulnerability, and the sense that history, religion, and identity keep looping back in ways that feel both oppressive and absurd.