I can’t do it Your modern witty intelligentsia The fashion of your past moron Sitting inside my fence.
My house makes no westernisation Of your eastern decadence And I want to twist and shout Like an exorcised demon loving wench.
Stench in my house of boiled cabbage Roast potatoes and heaps of Ironbridge Nothing like a curry for my hurry at the day’s daily news Letters in the post from the men with regret.
Would you call me from your Call Centre Over there with the Taj Mahal Where Richard Branson sells me pickles And Brans Hatch is owned by James Caan.
I have no culture to be proud of The Royal Family spends little on pop concerts in our own land At least that’s the one I can see at the Coronation Where Lionel Richie is as Hindu an I as I have planned.
Damned culture kings and the New Age lot Rushing off to YouTube before I could read What you had to tell me in investiture About the state of the State’s trends and feeds.
AI Summary
The poem wrestles with cultural dislocation — a speaker caught between Eastern stereotypes and Western expectations, neither of which feel like home. It critiques how media, monarchy, and global consumerism flatten identity into tokens, trends, and misunderstandings. Food, fashion, call centres, coronations, and YouTube become symbols of a culture that feels borrowed, imposed, or absurd. In the end, the poem confronts the struggle for self‑definition amid the noise of modern “intelligentsia” and the State’s endless feeds.
The funny men in Indian clothes Collapsed as they read me in my Roman robes And played with the technology at HMRC Making up jokes about literature that wasn’t for me. Inflating inflation rates and displaying reason Trying high crimes and laughing about treason Unable to steal with their Hindi moustaches being watched Unwilling to get along for the cost of some Hindu cops In brown paper bags and wasted underwears with Guru Nanak Trying to develop relations on Apple phones with some speak About how they knew Parveen’s fashion – ruined, 10 years on, no Indian face is a Paki As they spoke about failure with too much marketing industry.
Couldn’t they detect the deflect to the Indian law courts Of their tradition being hurt as they played for ugly women Unkempt from Hollywood and melting their make up with degrees Celsius is not for me! I like this kind of postmodernity! Artistics facists with Sahara Sharukh Khan caning the strip tease artists Loving his role as lover – the only one before all the brothers. No control in the wild wild west of Bollywood’s newspaper land Something for a Rishi out of time and effectively unelected fades Sunak to understand.
Unpublished Uncommented The Rishi Files lives on For the site of a book in a woman’s hands for Abishek’s blonde fantasies World ruler Tear jerker Microsoft worker Who ever thought that Oxford would have his Saleem mountains Sigh Sai and I… Those who detect codes in the wild world of computing designations Lay claims out of their bedrooms with thunder at HAARP to rule all the desperate Arjuna nations.
AI Summary
The poem stages a clash between identity and perception — Indian, British, spiritual, technological — all distorted by gossip, bureaucracy, and media. It exposes how stereotypes, politics, and diaspora anxieties twist ordinary interactions into theatre, accusation, and spectacle. Bollywood, HMRC, Oxford, computing, and spiritual lineages become symbols of a world where culture is weaponised and misunderstood. In the end, the poem reaches toward self‑assertion — a refusal to be defined by others’ projections, codes, or fantasies.
The things the news does not get to say Have a good YouTube day Continuation Follow On Let the day be long Many things make Light Work.
Being Black Something went bezerk The nations found they did not know How many internet accounts were sinking down below Contours Contribution Military highway informations Shadows in the poetic reverse of going on about Biggy Smalls’ hearse *missing you
Something to do Continuation Not following on Cricket is not all about India Something for the Windies and their Maa
Mata this AND matter that The word means tomorrow when today is what it said Many times over Trauma living in my body Uncontrollable images The messy dead Injustice and unmotivated distress Stirrings to action through shares and gangland traction.
Anguishing over the racial institution Violence across the spectrum See End End
AI Summary
The poem shows a world where unsaid truths haunt the news, leaving identity, race, and trauma to spill out through online spaces instead. It moves through Blackness, violence, memory, and digital overload, revealing how history and hurt live inside the body. Cricket, nations, mothers, trauma, and gangland imagery collide in a landscape where culture and pain keep looping without resolution. In the end, the poem confronts racial institutions and the shadows they cast, ending on a stark recognition of violence across the spectrum.
A token gesture and a reverent remission of cancer’s permission
Cancer’s commission from the Pharmeceutical derision
That the body is his to fatten and flee from
After the farts from Depakote and Deepthroat from Gazprom.
Dark into the night when the oceans crash against the shores
Is the fittest thing, the sexiest Blonde, the holiest Hindu whore
More! Why not sell me your mother to travel on the shared Earth
With wild seas and a few little more than ships from the past
To tell of the wide birth
Beyond the Yugas
Above the Togas
Far from the sticky tobacco and the wives with their stockings and pull overs.
Over and far and fair from the wettest wind
Carrying onto the decks the crouching of shivered boys
Lost to the Port of Spain and the knees that know pain
Travelling men : Back again.
Lost in time : Responsibility is an offered crime.
Crimes that are for me : Crimes that are for you.
Language was thus shared : It spoke of negotiations and upmarket Poo!
Pooh Pah’ing the bandits of the brain
Who mentioned commotion and sold the strain
Of cloth and cupboards and style of Art and affairs
To keep up Consummate Actions so that sexuality had it’s lustful lair.
Proof that Kama Sutra was legal tenacity
And contracts of somatic housing was legality –
They had known us when he had been with her,
So that we could be above this as ours was not theirs…
…
…
… On and on
What a story!
The commotion of The Locomotion
And the trade of The Mona Lisa.
Hey! It’s hay and we have the same bale to make on the shipping
Sell to me your facts and I will fax you some returns.
Burning with the lust to get to the bust from the back bras
And the open bare minimalism of hairs that stand apart from afar –
Show me your Hindu and I will bare a brave resolve
To drink whet and alongside your Islands
Where the unloading is seeing long and Ceylon is my Ramayana song!
Jay Siya Raam!
Ahoy there Hanuman!
You’re my mate with that karma
Since Romantics knew my bonds.
They sold it to me fair
I don’t see why it needs to be sold out late
Now that records speak of the devil
And The Beatles have no first mate!
Still the demons and demonstrate for me awhile, So I can see : —-
—–
—-===++++
— xxxxxx £
$ cost
£Prophet
% Reportage
This is the Spirit of the Age
Again.
{Again is the pain}
And far away is the brain I cannot see on the sea.
These are ships that told of the three line whips
And how Majesty knew to address the dress line
For one or two poetic and rude linearity healthy quips.
AI Summary
Your poem opens with a wind‑lit invocation — candles, Sindh, Spanish sorrow — and then plunges into a world where desire, illness, commerce, myth, and colonial memory collide. It moves through serpents, oceans, boys on ships, Kama Sutra, Mona Lisa, Ramayana, Beatles, and parliamentary “three‑line whips,” showing how sexuality, spirituality, and empire become entangled in the same fevered imagination. Beneath the satire and the wild associative leaps is a speaker trying to understand how bodies, histories, and identities get traded, graded, and distorted across continents and centuries. The poem ends in a swirl of symbols and reportage — a recognition that the “Spirit of the Age” is both intoxicating and wounding, and that language is the only vessel left to navigate it.
As I reach for the shelves in the kitchen by the stove I am reminded of the terror that is beside the one and only Karl Motherfucking Rove. To whistle while I work and Twerk the PWNed out of my aunt’s autonomy And let me know what Masala Gandhi took when he is after my lobotomy.
Then there is the tomorrow man who never comes knocking at my door Like a lightsaber from Wesley Clarke Jr who is always ready for some more, Action from The Young Turks in case disaster is what he did When he said he accomplished missions while playing with Iraq’s Id.
Stop, look and listen as I motion towards the cooking pot To add my own ingredients from an Israeli object I find quite some hot, Without the flare of Obama’s arms shipments a few days before peaky blinders And elections from Oprah Chopra that shame me never to calendar reminders.
Left, right, twirl: It’s as if the beauty queen has moved in next door And the man with his pigeons next to my garden’s broken fence Is alight with the prospect of solving the problem of Noam Chomsky’s problem whores, Whence they came and Whence they will lead off to: The Economic Zoo,
For Greenspan to sap the homo-sapiens and let isness leave us ashamed for a few More days of Clinton on The Daily Show telling time what to do With memory and desire when the pants are on fire from the youth That don’t know what lies can come and go like life for me and you.
Me and you oscillating like a rhythm on the shoes of universal disorder That soaks me in bathtubs for depression to get back to working life order Where the nights are full of colour and the days have their dark sides too And men can call up women and date on websites along with the human zoo.
X-Men zooming in on me and zooming in on you, Is that what to do when things grow shorter And life is not a Kalpa for the Chillum within the crew
Chortle and Pantaloon stew in the evening by the Stevenage And don’t forget the boat rides on the Thames for those remember men.
Somethings are not repeatable.
AI Summary
Your poem is a rapid‑fire montage of political figures, media personalities, wars, pundits, neighbours, beauty queens, and personal memory, all colliding in the domestic space of a kitchen. It shows how global chaos — Iraq, elections, propaganda, punditry, celebrity culture — bleeds into the intimate rhythms of cooking, depression, and daily life. Beneath the satire and the name‑collisions is a speaker overwhelmed by the noise of the world, trying to find order, colour, and connection in a universe that keeps spinning faster. The final line — “Some things are not repeatable” — lands as both resignation and release: a recognition that some moments, traumas, and histories cannot be lived twice.
This book was published under the name Akaash Rishi on Amazon Books in c.2020
A Sufi’s wasted barren land is a used heart Where the mood is mellow for trading Amongst foreign travelers who forgive a vagabond And passion is accepted and loved equally.
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The unwelcome footfall of a follower Trains the travelled leader to unknow Love better than the round way For those who would shed wheat Under wet leaves and copy what is left Before an unripe Beloved teased of tomorrow’s profit.
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The learned man waits for the Teacher After schools have left him penniless To remind him of good times; Empty as a day of the sun without the moon to follow, Where he can be complete with God’s love.
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No workman can know it, no toolkit can put it together Yet many Eastern travelers are worded journeymen in search of it: Time – the unforgotten Maya telling of the forgiven Guru Where the balances are heavy And the darkness harrowing for far away Cinema And Maya is still ashen for more Amore.
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The level revealed the unleavened bread So that the wafer was laughter to the unconscious self, That needed a boast from a Brahmin for an hour To wrestle with the Ego off the staff and dabble In the undergrowth of the marsh for a bog’s day worth.
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With respect she laid her cup down and wailed patiently; The saucer poised for sure empty gasps. This was the bargain of loyalty and commemorative playfulness To abandon filial piety for the rudest awakening Of love’s cruel beginnings in Time.
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The outline was fair for a cloudy day Overseeing The Lord’s return on past loans and positions – But the recalcitrant Messiah was not welcoming Of shares in the means and modes of communication.
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By night the cars sped past the riverside, By daytime they were parked outside Office and work. Then the moon and tide were full of Remembrance Of how The Prophet Muhammed knew Mumbai Before the auditing of taxed credit and carded entry.
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The Mother was despondent when Her children stopped playing And the Word wandered looking for answers to rain on windshields.
It pacified Her cries for infants to be loving instead of engage in fights So that Warfare could amend the Law as the cock crowed too early again.
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Across oceans is never across Continents, When the cities hold the Friendships far. Then the married mind is fine and dirty with unclean lined linen That sullies the moment with memory of Innocence within the Lover’s den And some choices relied upon by The Other.
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Taking less from the trees the youth remembered The flows of tomorrow were for sharing with his sister Then the Autumn was greater than Summer, For the time they had spent apart Differing in cooking and sport before the Almighty Eye.
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The junior class not stoppable, The uppity class was upsettable, And the looking seemed plausible: Thus the Onlooker was bemused as to who thought reason was political When sex was on the table of the imagination and the Dancer.
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The learned were returned to shop for Mahogany Rather than spend the Laws in Carpentry with the honest wood cutter Who was not in need of repetition For power and hold over those without correct pronunciation And CD-Rom to back up the niche hard drive.
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And then man made men so big That he fought with woman before time spent watching TV, When The Maker was travelled before Rani and Maharaj Learned of The Way and however memes did not need reminding.
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Then the ignoring of fallen Phallus Was stoking the wrong fire and sending flames to Heaven, Which sent them back and asked no more Than what was not offered as Greystoke For the Tarzan of tomorrow to claim all of the Indus Valley.
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The class was full of the cleverest and the cleanest Who took to awkward ways about those who were regressive When the Administrator was late with results As Zeus was the onlooker of normal letters without envelopes, Much to Ganesh’s dismay as He viewed E-Mails all day long.
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It was not a deep climb out of despair Where there was a nothingness and emptiness, Beside a hole where the poor looked for more But the Monk kept watch for pride With his notes at home with the others And the lazy smiles of memory that shared his eyes in the mist.
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One house was different, amongst all the rest For the Overlord to rendition the Akaashic Field for a while. Then the souls were awakened high above the idle rooftops Where hours of sleep, food, work and the brief dementia of awakenings Moderated the love of friendliness for some languishing before Death.
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The time and honour met incorrectly And the incorruptible were unkempt before Her grace. So the far travelled suffered and controlled ennui, To help the momentous for the momentary Where the ineffable ideal of Thebes remained youthful.
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Only are perfect still remains To bother the traveller about beingness. Goodness will follow the requisite decider And done punisher of sloth and infidelity, Who journey to the infidels too often, Laughing at Isa with loss.
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When the lover had left and the Everyman had care, The evil of the past had taken shape. Thus the Serpent was busy and the Mind’s eye was shaken So that the whole town would see That nobody was ready for love.
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There was One who did not lesson time from His birth And from Him have come many to speak of more. So too does Time exist as a Creation of man, To somehow speak a voice amongst others That are silent before the Law of the Mystic.
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Contaminated by greed I know the sorrow Of too many years at war with the peace of Oneness, Such that the ‘good morning’ of a neighbour Is nothing more than the ‘good night’ of the Eternal Lover Who will not reveal Her face or show His grace.
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If half of an ominous moment is banished regret By serums and tablets laid on the table Where once love stood in the place of empty promises And half eaten meals and work the children had not done yet: Then who was to blame for the opening in the doorway Called Escapism and that chance that was created from craving the first time someone was brave?
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What is the mention of numbness When the waterfall is opened to icy times That cascade down the cavernous suggestion Of motion surrendered to an abyss of thought Bleeding love across Nature without men.
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Incidentally to the fifth hour of prayer The Jesuit founded new mournings On the mooring of sorrows for time lost in the future With a bent jealousy lamenting fractal Time As the cow jumped over the moon, backward to please sad doves.
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To preach is to have been preached at With the learned Christians approving the mistake Of too much authority with secure insult for the loss of one life That forget all the rest: Father knows mother again and heaven is tested.
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In the expression of joy is the friendship is known When the hypocrite of God is ruled by Venus. Too much the dance of time and ignorance of the untimed experiment, As a known before their own flogging crowd around; This is the friendship stolen and the band of gold found and traded While India is a Tryst with tragedy for the doing given amongst withheld (unpoetic) associations.
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The hottest months came from profound astrology When the silent choice of measure was of the beyond And memory shone from wet leaves of greenery To blend the Amazon with a shade of technology, And wonder of man cared about anything anymore.
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Qualifying the intent Sharpening the arrow Healing the error; The intelligence of compassion is second To the love of tomorrow after rest and relaxation.
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In the introspection of temporal understanding The flower maker learned of visitations The meaning of which was quiet and shone mesmerizingly bright In the dim wit that was a contrasting focus In the sunlight of all allowing wallowing daisies Small and fresh for some newlywed wandering promise.
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Illusions were magistrate before the lover As time was a majestic squalor before the artisan. Listeners were not balanced, liking the lie, The fabrication and dis-equilibrium Like balancing on a knife’s edge needing more than running milk underneath you To fall into in the undergrowth, Weeding the D-Sound of your own wedded return.
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In the past the challenged self Was lounging in the armchair perusing the divan and Maharaja’s throne. There the Rani could ensconce the visitor And the Devi was attendant to the Scholar’s squalor To revise and revisit history until the entrant’s fee Of higher than mighty and more fallen than foul For a fairer than fair degree.
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There will be thunder when there should be summer And snowfall when gold was promised with corn. These are the best laid plans of the Estated class, Ignorant of skin and believing in common plans That deny the weather choice before the ordinary man To find his way to the Light and what bothers him in the saddest race before Time.
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See! But only see! There is enough tea for two Then there will be work for the Concorde And temporal bliss for the sexual motor of Bicycle. Not all things can fit in the Dao, Time is inevitable to be repeated by Teacher To squeeze the perfection of Adam and Eve at a loss From hours spent on high with Angels and arches of sound.
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Escape artists of the heart were there When the possibility was part of Redemption. The closet of understanding was full of unkempt meaning That the watchman echoed was filling time. Then there was rabbit hearted hope Of getting out of past loves and promises, That the girls remembered without too much affair.
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Looking ahead, I saw too much There were wished for Friendships There was not enough balance in the Dao There were closed options from others And too many people knew of quotation again For The Vow to be unlocked.
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Camelot was not too long invisible after the journey Which treated Knight and Traveler the same, Coming to pass as the night skies overgrow Crusades Warring all things for the books of the remembered time And a brave face of shame for tomorrow’s purchase On water falling from demonized dry eyes.
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A National Flag became a treasure of the Sanctuary Where the flighted bird was fed by The Wind And Love was kept shielded like the wings of tomorrow When Bravery would hold aloft Promise To attack despair in Kuruksetra with power.
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In the land of fear there was Reason That painted the flag with covering Intent Short lived was the battle throw of the axe That commended the fielder to more than cricket While the Maiden consorted on all fours.
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The world called to know my affairs Then the oceans cried to remind me of loss. Time was ahead with rubble and ramifications, Allowance was made for inevitability and acceptance. The Lord then listened as Angels played fair And movement followed the loss of time To save man the burden of Memory and loss.
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When I was a soul, I tried The towers of Infinity needed effort. Then I was a man, so I cried The lances of battlefields called for more. Now I am a Scholar and I lose The love of a dance is nothing compared to the hands of a Master.
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People were smiling and the happiness did not make sense, There was desperation around the corner Due to too much merriment and noisy partying. This left the dancer without a rhythm While her shoes were on the floor Under the table as she tapped her feet at the restaurant. Love cried for the wine to try Remembrance to fail her hope for respite.
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I was important for a while And then there was intrepidation. The errant knave was seeking Time And forgiveness for too much joy. The sun shone on and the moon glistened As waves carried the loss onto distant lands.
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Dresses were not common after comrades spoke well And legs were covered when heads spoke even better Then the Hijab, the Heresy and the Heathen Bound to Pagan for loser’s worship and Devil’s Fall: Is that all that came back from the cry of the world’s wolf on the Prairie?
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Once I was aware of ghosts and awareness brought fear Then marriage was a hearse to an act for a Promised tomorrow, So love chased the horror away of night without day And light was a fire of knowledge that God satisfied with Bhakti.
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Brahma and Saraswati awaited the good evening tide Of shallow waters from the staff of Palaces – There the pain of Dukha worked the Karmi To fracture the flesh and bone to commemorate Christian union And Anglican memory of love before Jesus for bread and maybe more.
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Swami was not adherent the needs of hours As moonlight commanded the night sky for a shadow Of Shirdi who swam far from Death. This was the future kindest when the Sun was shared Between the Modernist loving Eastern and Western dialectics the same.
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The fires welcomed all in a new unit of time When The Fall of Man was dispersed with; By Historian and Artisan alike for the look of the Dao – Shanti! By the Yin Yang sign on the floor, broken by the door.
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Squandered, the youth prevailed upon Thebes To water the Fountain of Immortality in the Garden For hours to dwell in the idleness of Devilry Before Aphrodite called Time before the countdown of Venus To massive Light by Sunshine and smiling and joy, again.
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The ocean was settled and the ship’s passengers eased After rough waters while the stories were blazen And arrogantly of the Hoariness en route to Jinnah Or wherever else the seafarer had pledged that voyage.
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Jesus arose finer than man’s description To face finer tests than hitherto attempted And politicised Krsna’s realms and heaven Providing Light for the lens to quest His search back home.
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The memory of the Modernist With mirrors of marriage Haunts him for one hundred years As he loses the ability to celebrate the single life.
The dominance of The Lord under the marketplace Was observed by few as time was unseen. It was the visage that left the ladies in ruin, As they rearranged their attire to court him back a second time.
If starlight was trembling It would be straight through a young Lover’s arrow Flown over the hanging gardens o’er hanging overhead. There would be no need for another And the ocean would depart more hope to ships Carrying tales of return voyages after lazy conquest.
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If the Serpent was swift the stories would be spun And different nations would know the debutante Who asks of places and people the secret of damage. Then the kindest following of religious heritage Would answer with debt to Caste System and Language, Stay with me for the wonders of money and how a few can and others cannot.
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The charlatan says it never happened But the Lover remembers he never brought a drink. Safe and far away in Eastern terraces are thinkers Who need to called upon for tests of top down economics Via viaducts of responsibility and Visa recognition.
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The suitor may have sat on the stolen chair But the arranger is aware of the pre-party plans And how the seating plans were ornately laid out for all to attend The show where the human heart was not to be judged and settled All at once and all at one time for all at sea to be known before The Creator.
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The Mystic wandered home unsure of his place in the Universe Only to find himself awash of Rose wine and White sheets In an esteemed friend’s adjacent collection of rooms. In time they would be to be called house, flat, apartment and home As the Wanderer arose again looking for somewhere else to stay.
The heart never settles on the same place twice. That is why the wise are quiet and innocent before the powerful; When they play games all of the rooms in the house are used And people shout from the rafters of The Play, the thing and what definition is – So, in fact, the medical man is prepared for Death and seated in the kitchen for swill and fine dining.
Latency is not much if the aid and audience is not targeted With esteemed love and affection. Quips were made to be kept out of the hands of ordinary men And women were made to be reborn again in faith after renewal and destruction: – Thus were the Laws spoken of when the Redeemed saw their progress again after The Fall.
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The girl who did not gossip is the woman who did not talk And the repression that did not own up, is the awkwardness that would not walk. Survive these chastisements and contour your changes on the planet for saving face And see one day the unfinished life That was boasted of as complete before The Creator and all of Her children.
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When God sent two eyes to stare into more, He counted more than a third for the Hindu to be native To the squalored squire who debated at the Union Of snakes and ladders and how it was possible to climb social distance While novels were low key and clothes freshly pressed in India.
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Beware the fool who gambols and gambits as he follows you awhile, He has a more mature Ace in the sleeve with more stiffness To harness a correct address about how many rights and wrongs You are entitled to in this brief sojourn called time When his arrow is shot badly from a Bow for Arjuna to pick it up And do the work for him before Krsna.
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The streets are not safe while the naïve idealist moans That life whistles past his speedy train Of rehearsed thought that tires the Beloved Of all the things he nearly did not do To help those that She was trying to get to Herself.
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The old addressee leaves his stamp where the large boots fill canvasses Of dead Art and emotionless comradeship For the certainty that was enjoyed that School would be your life And your life would not turn out good Before the rehearsals before Grandsire and Time, That waltzed and winked at the waning moon for more water in the ocean To beg for thanks for the chance to do Sewa.
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The clock face cannot solve the problem of emptiness Just like the dials cannot desire to go backwards. But the potent Lover can redirect attention in both cases Just as he can use Karma to make a Language more fruitful.
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The novice practices on his apprentice and both are denied Royal Assent For the graduation class of attending parties When the observation was had for notice before Court Of values and virtues that Temples are cleansed of every day, While the Churches sit back, film and firmly ask “How?”
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The rude boy does not apologise for his loud bands And the Schoolteachers are not wise about the morning after thrills. This way the past is the Path to the highest mountains for utmost resistant strain To put down the baggage where the lazy man stood and worked While taking food away from others who wanted The Beloved.
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What is not wanted will not last, What is not used will wither And what is not called upon will go away: This way The Beloved has arrived to travel with some tarried souls awhile Before leaving on the last ship to set sail to wiser places And lands before time knew sad memories of Sex and wasted food and drink.
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The path to God was his own. His only sin was Nationalism and being a pawn in a game of jest and gesticulation. Softly spoke the ages then of nuance and nouns So that the rich and powerful could get back to magic And the stubborn classes of mentionable qualities Could be addressed by God as worth something in return for desperation and slovenliness.
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Society fits together in all sorts of ways. One group is chastised for leading the others on To be Readers of the highest order While mathematics arranges Pride to squander The Lions’ share of probabilities that anyone will talk to them.
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Quote well while you are together, majestic class, For tomorrow is mine when I am at leisure to make social change And you will adjudicate that I was judged by history To fulfill The Maker’s balance of Rugby books that told your head off So many times in so many days from whence we used to walk down the drive together.
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If you consider me a social misfit File me rank and awhile with the military and armed guards, For wanting them to be bridged a hearty embrace while they are away from a warm bed And to find the Solidarity right by their side.
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The Brotherhood of Man is dawning And the awakened state is remembering that One sat down to remember Allah. For when Buddha recalled The Dharma, The Dao let go of Time.
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Spaces on the indentation of my keyboard Tell of fear and emotional escapology before my readers And who will judge me the most and who will let go of me the least And all those lessons from school that cost me University Fees To learn how to sit before a computer properly and type before Sati.
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I will not judge the commotion Of settling down with Parvati for aeons of forgiveness and melodies, While Saraswati is laden with burden and chores To find a way out of pennilessness for one of Lakshmi’s blues.
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The Friend gathers at sport and field The enemy is far away within himself and under lock and key Not to be let out until the goal is scored and the roar is unwelcome after Time is heralded The greatest champion of both sides competing For fans on all terraces around the ground.
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Complain and I will hear you Doubt and I will walk away. These are the methods by which I have come to know God And these walkways will I count the crumbs left behind For hungry birds to swiftly lay succour for Truth.
Open is the passageway of the great halls to the timid To trample bold dreams from dragons under foot And tempt the Goddess from the cold clouds that man couldn’t count For a day’s awakening to find out the Origin And who mastered reality to leave a door half open After their creation.
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I will not be there to grieve you When the hour is ripened like a fine option Of Time amongst the weather of Mother Earth For you to be rough with my sails As I travel in loss in search of good companionship.
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The cavern is bare weather The beast is a cold reminder And the ladies are fair dues For heroism spent in the hour of Jedi religion Before the Humanist turned him out into the warmth of the Establishment.
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Seeing is the hollowest thing Fame is the sound back from empty barriers to the Universe As the Cosmos calls along for none to shoulder Honour And ask of Tibetan flags where the casual warrior is Who once knew of mountains that were just mountains?
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How many flights has the eagle taken since the Master left? How many people have seen since the birds drew breath? Too many and thus are words awash with grief To know what it is to hear the sound of life so brief To handle the promises of Guru that He sought, And the God walks amongst and never not didn’t (get) taught.
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Who was he who moved you thus? To speak of clouds as if thought were commotion in Churches For pews and belonging with the Asians… Time will know seconds while pages know sages Before His messages know Mastery for a repetition under Shiva’s great skies.
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Man asked of the Gods proof that there was hope for them And Honour responded that mistakes would be made As they appointed their leaders and paid their taxes To stage fear, failure, regret and women’s empowerment – While one truth lay aside the heart to know tomorrow again: Time.
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Tiredness took the walking ghost far into the darkest regions of the mind Where the sallow sailor was honest for one hour too many And reminded God that He loved Him so much That he had sailed out too far to turn back And offer his land Honour, Love, Courage and household.
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Poetry was regret: – That was why man came to nationalize analysis And claim the regressive credit of biography Of dead men without their women In Encyclopaedia’s of knowledge before the tower of wicked bowers and the Banyan Tree.
It was only when man learned of Eden where loss was That woman earned enough from Gopal To finalise the wages of sin And carry the home on the range past greedy bankers and their housewives Seeking and finding rivalry between books without their authors on The Word of God.
Forbidden secrets were released to trusting crowds In time with oceans speaking to moon tides and Tarot cards. The fathoming was arrival not too late To catch the watchful man able to steer streets of confusion Back into the calmness of homes seeking quiet and redress.
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Is that enough for you, if I empty my heart? Will you fill it again for another round of nothing worth your salary? Or shall I find another Lover and another parking lot for my empty garage, Where I too am a staged regret and forced entrapment To condition mankind to second best after The Bard and his fortunate kinsmen?
What is the rage of the husband But that he cannot equal the melodrama of moods upon The Globe’s welcome boards, To harass his acceptable Lover to partitioned moments of fine leisure While the celebrity forgets the mirror of Art and Life too many times For rhyme to be attractive for artifice and bad regrets.
I shall not follow where Almustafa went Nor shall I tread lightly to know Muses so emotional to weed a Garden as precious as yours. For mine is a part endowment of a world with The Lord Buddha That knows of pain the difference between Innocence and Experience Before you thought to teach me Authority and penmanship against such sails and voyages… … to be a Voyeur.
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If I leave the door half open Will you send some quiet for the emptiness of Realization? Can I know again peace and contentment for the failure of woman to please What I invented them all to address? Send instead your Angels to remind me of the pact with mortality to be humble and not upset, So that expectations are not so important.
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Is a page enough for you? Can I leave when the mud is trapsed into the house via the back door After an hour more than the extra ones of looking for good love? Or shall you send out for more than the usual And find in the population more than the Kings and their friends succeeding with their goals?
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Why do you fill the love that was lost in life with love on the page? Is it that you are not constant Or is that you have past lives to forget? When the sea is steady and the oceans are forgiven for their roughness of late, I shall swim across the lakes of fire and The War in Heaven and ask of Samsara direct: What is it you fear to accept and why do you torture earth with Maya?
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The winds howled and the night skies looked peaceful to those needing stars And one town somewhere was accepting Of all that Allah once did say would happen: Dharma thus named Dharamsala the resting place where Indian Raja greeted Chinese politician to find out what the Pundits said about the Tibetan Gods and Goddesses.
This book was published under the name Akaash Rishi on Amazon Books in c.2020
Travelling I see too There are things that the world can do without My self is one of them. The passage of time leaves me without despair I am longing to be there But can wait, Time.
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The mirrors are too much There is too much confusion The house of Scorpio has not been properly addressed There is broken glass on the floor.
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I wait I am high My hiatus means I can fly with the Buddhas They can see I can see It is with them They are not the crowd in the world down below.
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It seemed to befit me The crimes against passion All that reason The machinery The robots The self-awareness tests The cults But I could not see myself And I fell over, awkwardly, and they laughed at me like I was a fool.
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Travelling I see the meandering ages of man Tell a tale far richer than Whitehall Or Madison Square Gardens. I am free Free from the search The Superbowl is on somewhere All time is marketed to them And I shall not return to animal or livestock.
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It is not what it seems The fanfare and the bandstand The celebrity still rings in my My-ness The popularity is affection from the Highness I was too soon And tomorrow it will all be gone.
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Through the photograph lens Beyond the fires After the wars I am still sentient of who I was Though they said nothing.
Was it me? Was it the time? What was the horoscope? Maybe there is meaning over there…
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Their social scene The seances The senses I need them. I need them to patrol the vicinity with the emptiness of shadows There may be some good borrowing.
Your voices of history are good for me I can make sense now of what It was trying to say.
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You have me Examinations The before and after yesterday When the world knew what it did before the walls fell And oceans welled up with Godly tears.
Connectives. Your years. Experience.
The Superficiality of a life lived since the 1980s Oxford (boys and women).
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I recollect Life before the medical debit Credit cards The American showdown Little Tokyo.
There was so much to go Life had it’s fair promise Those who can, don’t show.
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I was right The after-shock of experience And mental time When before you did not mark my school works.
Medical jerk Reactions and the Olympic way There will be stern recollections When no pills are available after the benefits of so many dead.
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They tale the East Travel to the margin Isolated they are poor Yours is a good version.
Spied on Eyed on The many views of Brahma Are kindness and karma – I can see what the Buddha sees But nobody told me what to now see.
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The race was more important The time before the table was left out The chase after the ball I am with it all – The one and all.
Seeing is so important When is time? Will life be mine again For the love of The Buddha…
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Many years I wanted The red saree and the golden bands of my special day Why? Trust. The legal land & what they had planned Weddings and the marriage of what was impossible.
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To make a crime And then not find The legal time For time and mind.
Only the Buddha could revenge Empires and human kindness.
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Lift me to kind Lhasa And share with me tales of new Taj Mahals Where Mumtaz will see it all As I have seen it all before A deigned Asian.
Pacifist Medium-ist Loser in the Christian war.
These are calm waters Before The Flood.
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I saw for the last time I was not the Winner I was not the Beauty. The Beast was denied a final Fall And all I did was before me (In English).
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Life was not about being on the TV Those that dined on TV There were times for TV I was a TV for a time with the Great Sea And the Ocean of Compassion – Whose name: Avalokitesvara.
(Learning).
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What did not come at no cost to me Settled The Ramayana with all families This will be the last There is no more incarnation For a rose in a desert without imitation.
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What is Maya? What is the world?
Why is your life so? When will it make sense to you?
These whispers you have heard in your life And they were medicated into transcription By the surgeon with a knife.
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The love was not worth it Time spoke of Modernism There is a place called The Tate Modern Time is so random
There will times tomorrow (far away) Where the journey of love will not be about your youth.
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Cinema Fractured lens of perception Continental rejection I want to be at The Cannes Film Festival again.
{a croissant brain}
There is more to life than the peremptory reflection of your own dejection before the light of Goddess Tara
And more to life than drugs and film And more to life than drugs and film
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When I saw time Regret made sense The denial of time Had made times tense.
The poet The narrator The voice: All these things The Buddha did not judge.
Meteors Comet showers and Astrological ivory towers Waywardness and giddiness
I could tell myself apart from the human race below me
Follow me: Said Tara & other Devas were there
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Don’t be greater than your mum There is no need for shallow matter.
The affairs The yellow lights The traffic in your modern age The lack of turning pages
The modernists came true.
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They wandered far as Israelites And found the settled land was not far India and the Tibetan Temples Is where Emerson shook his fists at from afar.
Himalayan ranges Bhagavad Gita pages The computer and human resources Rhymes for Lakshmi’s golf courses.
…first things first…
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They yelled at me Voice, Vermouth and Vote! I saw those decades Ranches and Oil There is not much left now
Why is the TV so?
…just wait until they are old…they are human too, “Black man”
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The devil never wore a blue dress He wrote Native Son
…if this is where your literary travels are beginning then just wait until the end…
Books are my friends Now
they will not always be so…
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The grand luminosity welcomes back wisdom The shallowest part of a human being The sentiment of meaning something to someone Give it to me!
… let Krishna be free…
Not until some debts are paid The way to Calvary is laid.
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We are the collective consciousness We are the sum of One. We are the ones who think of God all day long And not where the loin cloth belongs.
You torture with Why do we do it? You include with It is all ours?
We are the collective consciousness You are the summation of Suma Theologie.
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It all seems so much the annoyance of the sameness The way I used to know things Sadness The joy of money Tomorrow brings warnings.
The weather was false {No nation ruled} Those were just people who made mistakes as well.
Narrator 20th Century telling Hell.
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I was the first to depart So the story stayed with me There was no Brahmin Able Watchmen Ahead were Aeons of pleasure Beyond that, was more of the same.
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A world without their myths is no travellers den The unreal seek themselves in the real And the world moves to the planet so that the earth can give the wise rest From the weary who do not know And always show
Peace Suffering and Dharma
They will build a path to it soon
And then they shall write letters.
Communication Warfare Lovers.
That was who I was.
It was who you always were And it was who you were always going to be
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Sorrow has not place Wind has no race to win Candles are not lit There is no life that is worth the most for a few or the many
Yet, Buddha’s jewels are treasured more than all the oil paintings on earth
Of those… From those… WITH those…
Nalanda.
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In the afterlife The life Naming life still The Renaissance Oliver Cromwell Charles Darwin Adolf Hitler Still.
that is why some are called hard-headed
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There was no use The century was too more than before The noise of Guru What was all before his Victorian houses?
These are the spoils of man This is the same India as before I am learning of the devil in minute matters I seek the refuge of The Buddha
Only in the afterlife will you see the Christ he was not.
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My writing went to Asians and they recommended it to Academics I was in Alcoholics Anonymous with people I thought it helped more If only the mobile phone had let me use my body.
Sex 2100s The morbid future A world with “China”.
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Seeing the future did not mean being the future Distress Disembodied state The search for meaning Let the Black Man have his soul
RnB #RnB1990s
That was how they did it
Dislocation The world of the five senses, And no religion mattered
#TheBeatles
(Cheer)
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She cheered for you like a groupie Rock Star Film Star Paid accomplice (with child).
The children come every time.
School is out.
I was ignorant of the High Street.
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All of George Orwell’s little children The past Greyness Jealousy of Americana
A great cup of coffee
*Bliss again*
They were there to annotate the pain
Criticism. Journalism! Criticism.
The News.
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In the end It was in the beginning One lifetime was enough to delude them
England Quantity and Amount
I was not an Accountant
You will be by the end
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The past is not behind you The future is not ahead of you The Mystic is not hidden from you & Revelations make sense by the toe of a Buddha
Therein is Christ the most reverend And my story makes sense by his side.
Differences Nowness The Jews Divide and Conquer Linear Time
I understand so much
The Father (The ‘not-Father’)
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I was swallowed up once before by the flowers of India The decorations of the Dharma Promises of showers of enthronement and leadership The ability to mean well
Kali and the singular truth Renting Colonialism is the same I felt after 1983
The photo & Dancers Too much to turn my back on as Maya.
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Fullness Wholeness of experience The act of marriage
Emptiness and Politics Watching man talk about anything but that
#Forget2047 Remember Socrates, Plato and Aristotle
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I read the Greeks in the past Before they were translated {in English} For the GBP Against the Dollar
The cradle of Western Civilisation was bankrupt Brexit happened
…nobody noticed I existed either…
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The story of English society Civilization Retelling American Invention The Japanese invented I.P. The Chinese were aware of Marketing The 2300s made no apology
The Environment recycled things so the Black Man could know history
Circular Time & my life mattered again
…Vedas…
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The Kama Sutra was superimposed Layers and Minimalism Marilyn Monroe
The Beatles (again)
The shutter speed was too quick Man could not handle invention The gun
It was too late.
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They came from the past To tell me my future Before it was the present Of the richest Celebrity.
Nobody No-one Nothing
Where was the book Telling me?
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It came so fastThe1960s And the race was won
Space will never be the same again And I was there to televise my own success
Mind And The Buddha will win
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When I left the laws of the land I was hurt in my head The foggy density of a wild forest They knew better.
The Police were the intellectual class The Scholars just worked on their pass.
Automation.
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Libraries The TV Wars Opulent faux pas The policy of turning
My life is the same again …the politician knew what books would do…
The years 2200 are ahead.
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If you have something intelligent to say Say it with regret to Newspapers That’s all I can see from up here {Them}
Photographing the world Spacemen
…the Buddha in Tibet would have been nice…
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When the realms spoke their truth Accents The familiar disgust The territories and the frontiers The Frontier Men
War by another means Give me another name Celebrate the Self
#Medicated
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And then they said it never mattered All All is all He was All-Powerful All Knowing All Seeing All Present All
…all…
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Many times I walked down the same road They said it was sanity Institutions were … … Categorized Sanitized demographically prioritized Celebrated
The Word became a literary delight
Turks
Marriage is a Corporation
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The mirror broke And there was another The possibility of understanding The rhetoric of 20th Century success
“He never said”
{Know thyself}
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All the misery of life told simply truthfully to me Made me convinced I did not want to smile Was that The Maker? Will I reach the goal? Are the books arranged there, the way they are meant to be?
Ganesh was wise to shadow Shiva’s Mahabharata
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The line of the mind was narrow The gates were illumined by Great Bear Bardos told of time & simile The way to truth was different there Forgetful
I can see when my legs are wide apart The gates of Greece are nationhood tomorrow
… Buddhist Monastery’s will have filing cabinets …
Socialism
Media
Leonardo da Vinci
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I shouldered the burdens of history Unpacking the presents of Santa Claus The nations were providing legal clauses Nobody stopped for tomorrow.
These were the causes of my sorrow Unhappiness led to depth Depth was followed and mocked
The leaders sold the example Nobody stopped for the hollow.
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Like a snowstorm the memories came to me Then there was stillness and bliss I recalled the promises from Sages and Wise Men I was at the market stall at the time.
Fragmentary In an allegory The afterlife still exited reality at the same door.
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Evolutionary trajectory There was so much slowness before the acceptance Mind Body Spirit Witness The differences from the past Being there and free at last
Brahman and the deceptive opinion That all was one all of the time.
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It was not until I was dead that I was dead And death was the party of the political scene. Where have the English been Why did the Americans let it happen? What will happen?
Where will they export the rivers of blood to?
Dib Dib Dib Rub a Dub Dub
Sail Away. Dreams!
…censored…
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Some souls live Some souls strive Some educate This one dramatized.
There was nothing left for me The British Empire It made up Colonialism while I was educating The Other(s).
It was too late, There was nothing I could do And I could not go back for them…
…#RememberingVietnam…
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When you photo’ed When you screened a parade When you where in Charade (IMDb) Where you Audrey?… How fair is that?
{Rat-a-Tat-Tat}
What were your rates for Heaven and Earth?
Head of the Church
…all the Churches…
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It was human nature There was so much illness State Sponsored So I joined in
Pressure Stress Tension
No school tomorrow Days off and getting out of work.
…Jai Om Namo Shivaya…
{& Cassius Clay}
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From the beginning To the end It was not my end That was not the end of my life {Time}
They run their routes They tease in their suits They use the Firemans’ boots The ambulance’s are in cahoots
Technology & The Police ruined the country How complicated does a crime need to be? L.P.C. & London Met
Throughout the night of examined blessings A great being of stressful un-dressings Wanted to know how I could be Enlightened?… Given the prosaic stage of living frightened.
Lamenting essences of the envisioned joinery Assaulting my senses with the medicine Intelligently designed to question my bravery Shaky roots, colonial carpentry and foundations weak at the knees.
I wandered lonely as a desperate quilt looking for the maker, Shopping on my own esteem for bed mates in magazines Nothing was for me in the violence of the armoury Unacceptable hemisphere of hate.
Forthright likes and dislikes of confused and confounded foremost thwarting Latent interest in unknown life For the bumbling counties of country bumpkins, Who is whom enthroned on the Thames?
Thanes swirl in cupboards feasting on Chinese cutlery The European has no tea to trade while the bread and toast is buttered. Anglo-South American reminisces the night sky with his women and wine, The African descends a plane of ethereal misdemeanours unimagined consciousness.
Bliss is then my daily remains known by butlers and bootmen Escaping famed name knowledgeable on London’s streets. Copper is meeting aluminium with the beat of heavy shoes from laden houses Hard won are forthcoming days of employed use before white halls and brown wooden floors.
Memory is fathomed by the wise ones up above Naïve people distance themselves from the experienced: Thus it was given to India to threaten the business Of those so sure of second witness and surprise.
True questions beyond name and form Away from I-Slam poetry and SAWM; Mastery was survival and kinship was about-turn I am a vagabond craving eternity staring at my mother’s Urn.
Listless death marches and trolled press The internet spanned The Golden Age. Cities earned pages of faraway entreaty so that Mary could know beauty.
The closed gait, the horse’s mate, the chivalry at the corner’s quarter God has not yet absolved the Buddha for sins of sons and daughters.
To be a Quest
To ask the Question about what a human is
Temporal lines created Stratford There is a stealth. Ninjas ghostly guard the gates of The British Museum.
These are The Guardian times These are The Telegraph lines These are The Times finesse Who updates Page 3’s dress? For if there is a Daily Mail… What is hatred if you are still able? Yogi, Balti and also a sheesha – Life beyond shallowness in pale water Diviners settled the land for some plans controlling language Speak to me boldly, like Kirk or Spock Before you afront a weakened Ronin Seeing a Samurai like a ghostly frock.
These are the Bardos of time These are the reminders of great souls These are the fashions of the noble light These are the last times of Christ.
Travel widely, then, dear friend and make polite national amends Settle some settee time with arrogant wine See through the looking glass of neo-Liberal advances on the telly of the past gnashers and teeth In the heaven beneath the feet of shouldered giants Who kept self-help quiet.
Who kept self-help quiet?
(2023)
Carnegie was not the Speak Easy and the come on was not so free as the advantage stamp served for the delicious mountain range and army reserves… Do you want to fight forever? Or can time cease to be clever? For an anthropomorphic world will miss the consciousness of Brahman with its boys and girls.
(Numbers, Dollars and $) – Do that again After Zen and 8 o’ clock What is the point of blocking my cock? Tick Tock, Tik Tok Sell me a brand and stay more manned For the Hare Krishna planned for the Indian Shopping Mall
—————————————————————————————————————-
4. The Noble Eightfold Path leads to Nirvana
>John F. Buddha Airport<
If that’s the greatest Creator Keep it Mother Africa Then centuries from now Afghanistan Can blow up something big.
AI Summary
It’s a poem about someone wrestling with enlightenment, identity, history, and the weight of civilisation — moving from colonial memory to London streets, from India to the British Museum, from media noise to spiritual longing. The speaker drifts through religions, philosophies, empires, newspapers, myths, and personal grief, trying to understand what it means to be human in a world full of contradictions and inherited wounds. It becomes a portrait of a seeker who feels both ancient and modern, craving truth while navigating the chaos of culture, politics, and time.
Pictures of success Excess dancing of fiery emblematic Time spent undressing tragic dreams. There is no more seems Terror plots Yesterday’s waste Forgotten travelling clouds; Mesmerising water Of the neurological passageway, They have thoroughfare.
The concrete reality of a subterranean jungle Met with monster-like deceitful strain Going this way and that way A fitness survived fit for a King’s competition. Elements combine some new way of rage Desperation pants for a damp rag to wipe a sweaty face This day and that old something.
Can you wear a bonnet and go to the races? Or stay with me while I pace up and down the streets? So that at the end of the year it is still Christmas And there is some imaginative space where we meet. It cannot be your world, when I am jobless too – For those pictures of you dinner and dancing Never show the real world like a workplace for you.
Despicable covered clothing A sheath of apple and two timing pie: Terse reprehensible verse Taking reality on time of some guy’s interpretation of some guy’s interpretation.
Hold on! Catch some beats – there is rhythm in these streets; And the message of the new century unfolding Is that horror is not the old archaic armchair of the untold Frightening night that might lose me In the pleasure of anonymous spendthrift ways: When stars pass as human beings And dark partial truths follow wet nights and days.
AI Summary
It’s a poem about the tension between dreams of success and the darker, more chaotic forces that stalk modern life — terror, exhaustion, illusion, and the pressure to perform. The speaker moves through surreal images of jungles, races, bonnets, Christmas, and street‑rhythms, trying to reconcile private struggle with the glossy fantasies others project. It becomes a portrait of someone pacing the boundary between hope and disillusionment, searching for a place where imagination and reality can meet without collapsing.
Sitting around the union Trading ideas like simple students From all corners of the globe Except authentically from Africa the wigger in the room the witch with the assistant’s broom There was so much ahead of us Not so empty behind us We had only 8 weeks to kill Before time murdered our hearts and our ideas.
Keep a light on for my Iranian comrade So outsourced he keeps coming back to me New Age English I (am) afraid too much, my fiendish friend, by you and yours’ Mathematical degree How about the biologist next to you What do you expect me to do? But freeze for the batteries for Aziz, please.
It’s time to come to The Lord of The Rings And see us children move on with Bling And a word a day from the absent and not counted for. In darkness and in light For sickness that is other people’s wealth: Keep the trade coming from graduates in union Ions days plenty For more than sixty year olds who knew each other when they were twenty.
AI Summary
It’s a poem about remembering a brief, electric season of student life — a union table where young minds from everywhere gathered, argued, dreamed, and tried to understand each other before adulthood scattered them. The speaker looks back at the Iranian friend, the mathematician, the biologist, the cultural tensions, the jokes, the exclusions, and the fragile idealism that felt limitless at the time. It becomes a portrait of how eight weeks of conversation can shape a lifetime, even as time “murders” the innocence that once held everyone together.