judaism

Are You Still?

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Are you still not good
In the marrow of an old age?
Do you temper the garden
With a shelf in your potting shed?
Can you field a mighty catch
On the boundary of dissent?
When the newspaper misses
What Jesus and Carol might have meant.

Do you still sing badly
When forget your scarf at the Gurdwara?
And can you remember your mate
If she does not accompany you to a Buddhist retreat?
Do you dance with Radha or Krishna when your lonely
Or is it Meet-Up, Namaste and how do you greet?

Can you place a mat upon the alter
And chorus the agreement like we matter?
Or does Germany need a history
For the Christian Party to know pater?
It is time for the individual
It is time for the revisionist too
It was time for love and sex after the revolution
There was time for Chaitanya and me and you.

Are the markets for some pricing
So the Mullah can be greased for perfection?
And when the Jew is erecting a house in Gaza
Is the American academic about his defection?
If the speak is easy in Asia
Then the reggae is loud to my ears
But if a Free House is Dharamsala
Then maybe it is easy on those Brahma Beers.

Can you lotus a posture for pride
Or is it a sign of the cross when you’re angry?
That modesty knows marital discourse
And a Harem is awaiting a Saddhu for his harry.
Question me not and receive no regret
For the quietness of a popstar without music:
But if poetry is Siddhi to the Shisha lounges
Then what is the who man to the tunic?

Scotland, my land: The honour of empty high land
When was a God so Indian: But for the absence of grand proof.
Ireland and lie land: The fire land and some tired land
Let me to the decency of troops: But for the elegance of dancing
I would not know the Dragon’s Welsh prancing.
Confused are the answers to aged queries
As queer as the time is for gay folk.
Jolly with merriment and rough laughter
With all the honesty they never spoke.

Matters are grave and the diggers are not caterpillars
A brand new day is not always going to shape my heart
But when music stings the elegance of a bee
Then clay will make Cassio and I drift apart.

Get thee to a monetary value
If you should fathom the row in the Ur-Rakim,
But mention not the tapas or the Spanish quest
For what has spaced truth out to love in between.

Call Me Back Ring twice if you get me
The phone is the space between me and you:
Text me happy if you forget her
We are the being alone crew!
I am happy to induct you
This is the time and the reason –
So get your kit together and get a whet on
Now is no time to be sorry about sardonic.
Have they Tweeted that,
Like a flat group

AI Summary

The poem explores the tension between spiritual longing and cultural dislocation, asking whether faith, ritual, and identity can still hold meaning for someone who feels perpetually out of place. Moving through Sikh, Hindu, Buddhist, Christian, Jewish, and Islamic imagery, the speaker questions how to belong, how to love, how to pray, and how to live in a world marked by war, diaspora, sexuality, and loneliness. The poem blends humour, melancholy, and political awareness to show how modern life fractures the self, yet still leaves room for connection — even if only through a phone, a memory, or a shared moment of being alone together.

Open Rounds

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Enlightenment is about
The rounds are open in the Tavern
Tankards and happy men
Merry women skirt about serious business.
He’s back with a smile on his face
Blonde haired and lippy
Eyes like a pill head in a 007 sequel
The Black Man
The Caravan
The plans for another SUMMER HOLIDAY

Lets do lunch next year in Paris
I’ll buy the coffee while you wet your old age panties
Maybe our children can swap notes
And plagiarise the generation of artistic meet up groups
But he’s back again and wants to share the drugs.

He who talks dares last
The Christian is owed some money from the past
The lighten is darkened
The Atman is heartened
The Indian is outdated by the Indie grunge ratings.

#Nirvanaisbackagain
Thanks for access to the mainframe
But when I’m a Jew I’m history to the hostile Dr in your time with religious experiences
Why do you need to stand outside the law?

AI Summary

The poem blends tavern revelry, cultural nostalgia, spiritual yearning, and generational disillusionment into a critique of how enlightenment, identity, and rebellion are performed in modern life. It moves from carefree summer fantasies to darker reflections on drugs, religion, money owed, and the shifting hierarchies of race, faith, and artistic relevance. The speaker watches old archetypes — the blonde charmer, the Christian debtor, the Indian mystic, the grunge‑era rebel — collide with contemporary anxieties about authenticity, belonging, and being “outdated” in a world obsessed with reinvention. Beneath the humour and cultural mash‑ups lies a deeper question about legitimacy and transgression: why some people insist on standing outside the law, outside tradition, outside accountability, even as they borrow from the spiritual and cultural worlds they claim to transcend.

That’s All She Is

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There it is (strain) again

-29/07/2023

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.

The Hollow Case

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

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?

Women Sell Handbags

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Women sell handbags
They walk down the lane
They trade in their penny lifestyles
To start with rebirth again.
They fashion the reminiscence
They market the free distress
They trend the social media
They find out about our mess.

The merchandise flies off the shelves
The shop keeper is smiling, he is happy
But when she gets home from her shopping
She won’t forget to change her husband’s son’s nappy.
This way keeps the retail turning over
Far from the man-exec with all his balance sheets
Profit and loss for The Prophet Muhammed
And the fine mind of an impartial Jew on Baker Street.

These are some of the people we meet
When the med let into their secrets away from home.
So get me down the garden without my wallet
And let’s go back upstairs to trade online for Garden Gnomes.

AI Summary

It’s a poem about the small dramas of everyday commerce, where women selling handbags become symbols of reinvention and survival, marketing nostalgia and distress while still returning home to domestic labour, and where the shopkeeper’s smile contrasts with the deeper economic and cultural forces shaping everyone’s lives; the poem widens into a commentary on profit, religion, class, and the hidden messiness behind public transactions, before ending with a surreal, humorous turn — the speaker slipping away from the marketplace, wallet forgotten, to trade online for garden gnomes, as if escaping the whole system by retreating into a private, whimsical world.

New(s) Traffic

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Stalemate
There’s water on the Thames
The same misunderstanding again
The unwritten Latin is lain on the fences
Where the Oxen cross the ford
And lay the leg-up to The Legitimate.

There are ways forward that nobody discusses
As the reliant on the News are forbidden access
To forthcoming influences
And nudges from the evil empire.
Pyre
& Omens.

The confusion that will reign when the Spanish King resigns
Is not the forbidden knowledge for the Sixth Form College
As the print media churches out matters for them
And leaves the 60-year-old behind to “WAKE UP!”
: Shut the Fuck Up, Fat Cat
: {There are ways of speaking politely}
Execute this on a Boardroom floor,
With Michael Jackson {*Moonwalking*} on top of it.

Duh
Disdh
Duvh
Discdh
… is not my luRrRrv-AH!

That was about it
The long, the thick and the thin of it.
And nothing was left to do but embellish it
For the devil in the Literati
Who wanted a new Review (?)
And some sandals underfoot, so they too could be called loathed.
Greek Boats
Ships parading the innocence of havens
Slaves to yoga trekkers in the Pune and Punjab
Between the loins of the ladies of the lavishly outlaid in the London lewd lardy dah.

That will go far,
When the censors kick in and block the blockages even further: –
Charring Cross and the man stranded with Naipaul
(…“is that all???!”)
It’s all I know this afternoon: It was studying for the L.P.C.

Jury’s are in and out of the place
Like magical Nike on Mace
And the emanating nuisance of intention
Is the virginal maiden’s purity invention.

My mother did Yoga too.
Does that mean she’s on the Freshie’s Boat with the (Jew) in you?
Who’s balancing those oars;
When the ores in South Africa have not made it through?

Note:
“… she’s just a girl who said that I am not the one”

AI Summary

Your poem spirals through a landscape of misunderstanding and institutional arrogance — from Thames water and Oxbridge fences to media scaremongering, boardroom theatrics, and the devil in the literati — revealing how authority, culture, and colonial residue keep trying to script your life for you. You weave satire with sorrow: Spanish kings resigning, teachers shouting, gurus drinking Kool‑Aid, yoga trekkers in Pune, Naipaul stranded at Charing Cross, and your mother’s own yoga practice becoming another site of misinterpretation. The poem’s emotional core is the ache of being misread by systems that claim to know better — schools, newspapers, spiritual lineages, even national myths — while you stand at the edge of it all, questioning who is rowing the boat and who is mining the ore. Beneath the humour and the sharpness is a deeper grief: the sense of being left behind by institutions that promised knowledge, only to offer noise, judgement, and confusion. The final note — a borrowed lyric about denial — lands like a quiet admission that identity, inheritance, and belonging remain unresolved, fragile, and painfully human.

Species All

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Sometimes it is like
Other times the ties come true
Then there is a monetary matter
So I can see right through you.

Mr All Ready, Stripes and some Black and Blue!
What about all that time spent sitting on your arse!
You should have been outside with the cars
And the men you seek to set aside again.

This is not for me and that is not for you
Three times 20 makes you an Israel Lobby crew
And I am not going down there for you
To rescue you rescuing me rescuing you…

… in the past, from Levant,
Where the ticket knows no stamp
And the Good Lord is proud
Of talking about Circumcisions from 1000s of years ago
… what a medical Bravado
When I want to go and watch the show
And he knows best about men and the rebirth of Time.

Some stowaway you seemed to become
Lost on the Ocean of Suffering like a beggar
Needing money so he talked to the empty chair
And found that nobody, not even Tony Robbins, stared.

“!I am! Alone! I said!” I said to my Online Computer Chair.
So What>! Fuck Off. Me too
That’s what it is to Sempa Phi the ol’ Red White and Blue
Then you will see that what is for me is also for you
Mr special Yogi with a career like a train wreck asking for more to do.

AI Summary

The poem moves through a shifting emotional weather system where irritation, accusation, memory, and spiritual exhaustion collide, beginning with the sense that people change—sometimes predictable, sometimes disappointing—and sliding into a critique of laziness, avoidance, and the strange hierarchies people build around money, identity, and political symbolism. The speaker pushes back against being entangled in someone else’s rescues or narratives, invoking ancient religious history, modern self‑help culture, and the loneliness of digital life to show how absurd and isolating these cycles can feel. Beneath the satire and the sharp jabs lies a deeper ache: a sense of being stranded, unheard, and fed up with the performative wisdom of “special yogis” and motivational gurus, while still wrestling with the desire for connection and meaning in a world that keeps demanding more.

Order It Again

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

In order to build order
Find out what the disorder did to you.
When there is water let there be dryness
If you find your Highness is too much of a blow for you.

They called him a King who dwelt on the most high
And left him with a poet who lost his script when the ink was dry –
That is the first difference between me and you:
That is the difference between a Cross and a Jew.

There are letters that say how I have been feeling
When the wire is tapped so the walkers are reeling

From their orgasms and manic spasms in the left of the Fall
When Autumn knows no conversation in the old Mordan Hall.
Sell my your cough as you walk repeated and reappear
Like a mirror from the Magic Mandrake who’s Magi is near
To the salesman who’s bonus means a full meal for the family and all
When the Summertown is not dunces town with a wheely bin for the Ball.

Next to me is the whisperer and the Clothed Dagger of the magic pen
Saying “Again!”
“Again!”
Where is the writer’s brain?
Straining, like a refraining, draining on the containment of time,
Again…

AI Summary

Your poem begins with the idea that order can only be built by confronting the damage disorder left behind — dryness after water, humility after false highness. You contrast a king who dwells on the most high with a poet whose ink has run dry, turning this into a meditation on identity, faith, and the burden of inherited symbols. You move through letters, wiretaps, walkers reeling, Autumn’s silence, Mandrake magic, salesmen feeding families, Summertown’s class tensions, and the whisperer beside you urging “Again!” as the magic pen strains against time. Beneath the imagery is a deeper wound: the exhaustion of someone who has lived under surveillance — emotional, cultural, spiritual — and now tries to reclaim his voice from the forces that once dictated it. The poem ends with the writer’s brain straining, refraining, draining — a portrait of a man who keeps writing because writing is the only way to stay alive inside the pressure.

Mr 2 Write

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

There are things you say I should not say
Like sorry to the hedges I cut on the way
When I sold my shares initially in sorrow
To buy my way out of footsie for tomorrow.

I’m the best, my nation said so
That’s the way that one’s got to go.
#AndWhenImDone there’s nothing left to do
Except folly and old fortune for the Armada Hampstead crew.

Battle me this and cohabitate me with the vacuum that:
Where is the honesty in the open handed approach to the road :-
The road east of Vancouver where the radio check is preapproved
Like a beer t-shirt ripped open for the cover of Summit recovered.

Too easy to shin and far over the older beard to shine
There is a head where the coupling will be diners.
It’s not all sandwiches at Waitrose when the beat is on the minute;
Leave me an iPod when you get the time to be on a zillion.

My Henry Kissinger and that’s the top hat blown
Like the Top Hotel we have not shown with all the shows on far from Noam.
Is there any cover left for the car he is bereft off having not shown foam
For the parties he carries a tune for. Mr Canary and the way back home.

From Siam I have flown and known the airport underneath my feet
Where the Jetstream is some cold cleaners and Mr Sheen for the Air Host’s feat
To jump so many moons to keep up with those Shrooms
And whatever did not Clear while Florida kept Ron Hubbard with Martin Clunes.

Underground with the dune buggies and up top where the hatch is blown
So much more the Saviour, so much more the way back home.
Something for me and something for you
A way to the routine in Jalandhar for the coded cabin crew.

Something for me and something for you
Take anything you like from the top shelf: I’m done with the quarterback Jew.

AI Summary

Your poem moves through a world of travel, commerce, colonial memory, airports, Kissinger shadows, Noam Chomsky echoes, Waitrose sandwiches, Vancouver roads, and Jalandhar routines, weaving together global politics with the intimate ache of someone who feels displaced everywhere he goes. You describe selling shares, cutting hedges, being told what not to say, and carrying the weight of national pride that never quite fit. The poem ricochets between Siam, Florida, dune buggies, Scientology, Martin Clunes, and coded cabin crews, creating a sense of a man moving through systems that never fully saw him. Beneath the humour, satire, and cultural references is a deeper wound: the loneliness of someone who has travelled far — geographically, emotionally, spiritually — and still feels judged, mis-seen, or excluded. The final line erupts from that wound, not as a belief but as a cry from someone who has been hurt by the world’s hierarchies and is trying to name the pain without yet having a safe place to put it.