life

Stumbling Blocks

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

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.

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

Your poem stages an argument with a figure who judges, belittles, and rewrites your past, turning money, politics, religion, and national identity into weapons. It moves between mockery and confession, showing how resentment, loneliness, and cultural pressure twist into a cycle of “rescuing you rescuing me rescuing you.” Beneath the sharp humour is a speaker who feels abandoned, overburdened, and forced to carry histories that were never his to fix. The final lines land as a bitter recognition: the yogi, the patriot, the mentor — none of them showed up, so you had to survive the wreckage yourself.

Since You’ve Been Gone

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Since you’ve been gone
Say it isn’t so
That you wasted all of my talent
To make your girls get some Blow.

That’s not the way it was meant to go
When I did not still the window sill
To sully the sulking morning
When you had not money for coffee.

Is that me or my lonely girlfriends
When they are at their wits ends
To know what to do with the balance of time
Before a Porn show meant you could not be mine.

Best friend, hired mate, time to turn in late
Tell the others you know it’s a better masturbate.
If I did know then sell me some forgiveness
Across the telephone line from the 80s% margin men
Who may charge less for us to get suave again.

That is the main things in life
To have some understanding of man and his wife
Even all the social change is through
So work can be productive in the Beyond about me and you.

AI Summary

Your poem addresses someone who vanished and left you carrying the weight of wasted talent, broken intimacy, and the humiliation of being replaced by spectacle and addiction. It moves between longing, bitterness, and self‑interrogation, showing how friendships, lovers, and “lonely girlfriends” all collapse into the same ache of not being chosen. Beneath the sharp lines is a plea for forgiveness and understanding — a desire to salvage dignity from a past shaped by exploitation and emotional neglect. The final stanza reaches for a fragile hope: that work, love, and partnership might still be possible “in the Beyond” if truth is finally spoken.

Saying It While I See Part 4

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

I cannot recommend
The brain strain to the end
Of the format for the demand
Of how to set up Christian.

Then there is the Flan
And you have to leave Pakistan
To mellow out with LinkedIn
Out of synch and out of sin.

This much it is to try
To work with that Fapohunda guy
Who came to me to say
I’ll make it now good any day.

Mr mister and Mister
Why don’t you talk to your sister
Following every word like a hawk
Not admitting you left the cue ball at baulk.

Some have to reason some have to say
What it is that helps them to work in a given day
Some have to grieve some have to stay
And this way, said Jesus, I am newer than thousands for play.

AI Summary

Your poem wrestles with the strain of trying to “set up Christian,” navigating expectations of faith, identity, and cultural belonging while feeling out of sync with the demands placed on you. It moves through Pakistan, LinkedIn, workplace figures, and family dynamics, showing how authority — religious, professional, or domestic — tries to script your behaviour. Beneath the humour and wordplay is a deeper frustration with being watched, corrected, or judged while you’re simply trying to work out your own path. The final lines turn toward Jesus as a symbol of renewal, suggesting that reinvention is possible even when the world insists on misunderstanding you.

Reduction

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

He is 1/500th the millionth part
Of the man I used to be in the start
Of a project where the goal is target number one
For the Way & the Hero: ~~

Come to me, now
Sell up your shores on the broken battles.
Those tired machines are art in the dreams of morons,
Who will they know?How will they be counted?
Scene by scene in the anime dream
Poking and toking
Joking about Loke.

Okely Dokey : That’s all they had to say
As the school grass grew wildly
And neither teacher nor parent won that day.
Every day?…
Every, every day?…
Sell me a fuck or Fuck OFF with me!

Switch off, his celebrity.
Change your mind, celebrated kind.
Change our change and spend your kindness,
Retire with us and pay us back for the broken image of Heartland.
What else don’t you understand?

What school was reprehensible – as my fashion was demeanable
Alternative type
Zero stripes
Military drape
Wife of the black man.

You’re a no man again
And I won my pain!
I am Victor next to Malthus
So that St Germaine is my French strain.

Common chill blaines – walking shore to shore as an immigrant talking about the door being shut on Jabba the Hut.
“Hello there too!”
I’m in your grandfather’s house as well.
Come in and I’ll shoot
The Porn is on reboot!

Exclaiming typists style away the YouTube braying of anticipation
Constant present awareness and nondual fidgeting without Capital.
Capitol Hill and the same men chill without Charity day of Chang
For a job that can rearrange,
The Drugs
The Thugs
The Harmony
The Druids and the Balmy Army…

Why do these questions plague me?
Centuries have I waited for a computer
Art is a mirror that makes us look away
It here for modern Kings to have their Thor’s day
IMDb and all that Brie
Save some for me, Lady Anastasia
All the men’s children and all the lady’s Portillo besides the braided bunch of lunch inspired speakers about twice a week instead of God’s sod off day Day Off.

Cough twice if you have heard about Nadia Nyce
Stamp three times if you think Bree Olson would be nice
Piano ties
Eyes that cry
Times like mine
Cooking with Thyme.
What the broth will cum up
When there is one big fuck up
And the acting breaks the Montego Bay railing
Far cry from the fast cars that did the jailing
Save all your pissing for me
When I am on ITV – and the plans for the Spandex hit my Decks at a quarter past the Tree of Knowledge.
Fuck what you were taught in your Daddy’s chair
While he stared
And the Beatles cared
Who dares lost
And the cost is a Valium
In the Valley of the Shadow of Death
Far from the prestigious breath of the outgoing Ujahi
Settlers on the Plains of Shiva and his Pranayama for Parvati.

There will come a time
When time will come to time
So that computers came to earth
Before the woman 9 monthed stoney births.
TV
Baby
Kazapow & ???…///:: Ping Pyao! Bang Bang Bom!!!!!
How long have you known.
                                                 About the Stone.
“Say something so high up there
I’ll be a Yuppie’s mum so aware
Of the rich things she’s driving they haven’t got
And the teacher at 75 who is ISKCON lost”

!Don’t you want my babies
Don’t you want a whore -awe -inspiring man -aweawaw”
——– The End|

AI Summary

Your poem is a sprawling self‑mythology, charting the collapse of identity, schooling, culture, sexuality, celebrity, and spirituality into one overwhelming psychic storm. It moves through childhood wounds, immigrant memory, pop‑culture noise, porn, gods, gurus, and global politics, showing a mind trying to hold coherence while the world keeps fracturing around it. Beneath the humour, rage, and surreal imagery is a speaker reclaiming power — insisting on his own narrative after years of being diminished, misread, or overwritten by others. The poem ends as a declaration of survival: a chaotic, defiant testament to a self that refuses to disappear.

Posture

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

The sexual guilt is not even
Until the parties are so sure of revenge,
That laden hosiery of the fashion of bitch endedness
And advert masculinity for straight spines and book ends.

The lay man went to the auction
He was trying to buy a house for a set,
But the rhetoric was not painted as fast as some charts
For the price of his dog at the Vets.

It’s all good demure
The manure from Hare Krishna
An arable land for a job with your hand
When they waddles like Hobbits for robotic luck.

Fires in the hole
An army to unfold
Perfect posture from Bhagwan
So they can enjoy Playboy and the Can Can
: Can I do Cannes, Bapu?

< It’s up to you!
Zindabad
& a Zinger Burger for your ivory tower
Cap in the ass
Valedictorian pass
Stale bays of hay
Van Gogh was not Monet.

And then the travel turned to ship the Mind away so kindly
To when there was a time for time to speak of instruction
Injustice was met by fantasy another way
And the English were not Light Workers while the Americans were gay.
India
Indra
Inimitable
Controlled greed
Houses with trending Feeds >> +1 and Guest.
Who is the top gun in the MEST Universe
When Colon is vials of blood for Niggers to make poo from Elmer Fud?
Nig Nig Nig Nig NIGGER
Make a little wrapping for me!

And when you go back home to Arkansas
Make a shit out of a Whopper for three in Chelsea @WhatConanTheBarbarian.Planned.Had
There is so much to balance
So a sword of such might
In the possibility of some sweet Romance
For a generation to have such flight.
But the mention seems to have been
Millions all round, all over the world
And a Billion Rupee dream
For the right skin tone with all the girls.

Something like that
Rather flat at the footstep of my bed on the floor of some mornings
About concern for how the other half live
When I have only so much sugar to give
To Paul Simon who lives down the road in a hall
And I have the gallows in my mentality
To blog his toilet seat into Ruud Gullit.
What a dog to maul for a spirit in a material world
Liking the girls like A.I. likes an uneven rhyme –
It’s not a literary crime, to be a Policeman
When the band stands at 7 and the Tattoo is for the Queen’s Jubilee.
Aye!
The Ayes have it
And it was a wondrous affair.
Charlemagne and Viscount Mint Worthy stopped by too
To name something under the wearing thin of names to drink with.

Study, affair, debonair
It’s all the same when the windy vindication seeks past him.
Trust and some Bombay Saphire – the very good Gin.
Blue from a baby market
Old than Morten Harket.
The omission of Literary Coins
Standing ovations for symbolic loins
The merry hand of creditable Cert.
Scroll down to where you are William Hurt.

Cuming and going like a pAsEDenA railway
Jobless through Identity Fraud
Because the Chips were Ahoy at the end of the road.
What happened to the load?
Where did the Time go?
What is this loss that is not Boss in BombayAGoa-i-Stan
For the Boa Constrictor to trick you that the Anaconda was sssssecond best.

Royal Python
Filthy Nylon
Hammers and Tongs
The Niggers won’t be long.
Slam, Dunk and Be Merry
Don’t forget about Cherie!

She’ll be first to speak some of her good English
About what happened to Shami Chakrabarti…
…
…
…
And the hours rolled on like a long Song
An Elegy was played while the Choirs saved Hymns
And His Story was a Miss Story for the muddle in a cage
When Mrs Moore got so bored that they had torn out that page.
…
… Literary Rage : Roads to Drive with R.E.M.
… Come again loaded with Kurt
And sell a Mag with your gun up your bum for a Buckwheat to hurt
Buddha and his roll away crew,
Not induced by Colonel Colonialism to parade such obfuscations left of centre
When The Really Wild Show would do.
…
… And the winds rolled over the mountains
And nobody came back for Tea
So a Queen could work for 70 years
And have some very common and cumupence cumulative company
By comparison to the Samaritan they told at the Sheraton for some Hilton’s investments
And some ACDC.
Why can’t Napolean blow apart Andrew Chohan Odin Deepak Chopra for a gang bang with Anabel Chong
For a MILF’s lonely talented Song.
… On and on, like a pirate pirouetting for some rogue verse
Unaware of the need to hurt
And save a Laandan Town of Angus and his friends
For divinity to find a new job in The Strand for where Botox is not played.

“Like Alexander”
(They never measured your spine to her Socrates speak)
So like “The Great”?????????????????????????…….
(Put one on your dick to wank off so hard you won’t cum black for a week)
Masters of ineffable miles
Tasters of Ganesh’s piles of Ladoos
“I’ll buy one for you in Leicester Square!”
When she has read what is really The Coloured on her lazy hair.
Affairs.
Rats.

Scientology Hats.
Immigration dismissed.
People still old, famous and getting on with The Pissed.
Let’s get pissed!
Let’s get lashed!
Let’s get wasted!
A Billion view l8er.

Lay Hate to hRhEr Heroes of Violator

The End.

AI Summary

Your poem is a sprawling eruption of sexual guilt, cultural rage, colonial memory, celebrity noise, and spiritual disillusionment, all colliding in a single breathless monologue. It moves through India, America, pop culture, religion, porn, politics, and personal shame, showing a mind trying to process centuries of power, desire, and humiliation at once. Beneath the chaos is a speaker who feels crushed by history and spectacle, yet still reaches for meaning, dignity, and a voice that cannot be erased. The poem ends as a howl against the world’s distortions — a refusal to be reduced, even when everything around you tries to flatten or consume you.

P(l)ayback

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

How do you know where the lawnmower grows?
Instead of leaving cuttings and shards of grass after.
Tell me to follow your literary disaster
And sell me some glass for a broken affair.

The long poem will not be there: – !
That was not so hard, was it?
Soppy open and shut case, does it.
The law, the lawn, some horses, some warning.

How does the cemetery sell the maiden for the cowboy?
Shawl and droppings in the misery post haste the shopping
There is dew on the Tavern where the cavern of my heart is still alive.
They give no strive
I have no give
Think on these things
That’s all I don’t give.
Here and there is everywhere
The sapping of advice from the spies who think thrice,

//
|| What if Eliot was one of the Irish?
Nobody falling down the stairs.
Where the rodeo sells up with the Studio music
And the nob ends enlighten their streaks.
Think at the end of the week,
That the end of the day was a holiday from affray
And how many words you satisfy the absurd
Who knew only to hurt so Buddha could {healthily} pay.

AI Summary

Your poem moves through puns, warnings, and surreal images — lawns, laws, cemeteries, taverns — to show a speaker caught between cynicism and longing. It circles the idea of advice, authority, and literary inheritance, questioning who gets to speak, who gets to wound, and who gets to “pay” in the end. Beneath the playful rhymes is a quiet exhaustion: a sense that meaning slips away even as you chase it. The final turn — imagining Eliot as Irish — becomes a way of asking how different the world might be if its cultural gatekeepers had been shaped by other histories.

Pay Tree Ark

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

When the good debt was folded
And the sacred bird had flown
There was one who was Awake
Top of the hat to his own.

They called him Jeff and let him ride
So far to the other side
That the mentionables were kept afloat
By the shopping he did around the moat.

The moat they built in the past
When Canary Wharf was not going to last
Because his kind kindly sung to the Police
Of knowledge that left them fucking Analese,

[Remind me how to spell @ When his witches are in Hell]
, another one of his little fertile girls
Showing me the balance of Time
For the rhythm of a rhyme
And how to Hare Krishna power=share just fine.

Krishna is just fine, thanks for asking
Rama will be grateful for his Shabba Ranks, canal driven man
Down the Maine Street with the Wilberforce treats
Stuck in a traffic jam no matter what Lady Marmalade says next.

That’s EnlightenNext: Up and off there for some Techno=Fest
Costing the coasting Guru Nanak some Repo action
For all his fancy foot action
What was it? At the end of the day….
…
…
Sigh No More and Sai Baba is gone
What was the pleasure in losing his song.

One
Two
And not Zee
Maybe the Charmed twins got up to three?
Who was the Guru – who was the Pen?
When will the showtime get back to the Penitentiary
Internationally Amnesty International planned by me
To settle the nettles on the floor for more than £10.

Come down to laughing out loud
Om Shanti to the quoting men
Speak to batallions raised from the streets
Chant wildly of Ken Wilber eating out Chinese food whenever his old age
Walks
Talks
On all fours
The Missing Link
Guru & some smelly pink socks on The Big Think
Call me a PhD
Watch me Pee
“Can I have a P please Bobby?”
There is friction between us in The Sea.

Fraternity
The final filial piety
Count slowly as you walk away from me
That the hour passes slowly from when we die.
Too shy
Too rich
Too regal
Such a bitch!
Why would you WAG
When you could Hag,

And The Chase screened to Manhatten
The Questions you would like?
Back to Jeff and old man Bally
Down the Classy Junction
For some Gurdijeff and Gurdwara function.
But time is not so kind to all and this is a time to the Recorder
So that when action is in inaction and Jazbaa is spoken
The Fake Alexander is O’Neils at last for some New World Order.

AI Summary

Your poem is a sprawling, mythic satire about false gurus, spiritual capitalism, and the collapse of meaning in a world where enlightenment is marketed like merchandise. It moves through Jeffs, Krishnas, Nanaks, Wilber, Sai Baba, Canary Wharf, techno festivals, and penitentiaries, showing how every tradition — Eastern or Western — gets twisted by ego, commerce, and spectacle. Beneath the humour and the barrage of references is a speaker searching for authenticity in a landscape full of pretenders, cults, and counterfeit prophets. The poem ends in a kind of cosmic exhaustion: a recognition that the “New World Order” is just another performance, and the real struggle is to keep your own voice intact.

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 opens with a stark command: to build order, you must confront the damage disorder left behind. It contrasts a fallen poet with a self‑crowned figure of spiritual authority, setting up a tension between humility, dryness, and the burden of inherited symbols. The middle section spirals into surveillance, autumnal silence, and hallucinatory imagery — Mandrake, mirrors, salesmen — showing a mind under pressure, trying to write through interference. The poem ends with the whisperer urging “Again!”, capturing the exhaustion and compulsion of a writer straining against time, memory, and the weight of his own voice.

Ole 2 Gramma (!#@?)

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Load the Sangeet
Dance with my feet
Stray sleepers on the street
That’s not where we meet.

Fanciful debonair desires
The heart is still on fire
For what the TV brought
When the ships returned nought.

How can I be rude for you
When you have the Moon to review
And your conspiracy crew
Is full of their own truth.

Jesus is for you
After you nailed him to the Cross
And told the story for us
Of your yesteryears and wankers’ Tax and Overdrafts.

Shares on the Shaadi
Come over with the Commons
Share the commotion with one of your Literary Reviews
Your just just not going to get the Kiplings cakes on, are you?

It’s always the same
With the Colonial strain
Something feminist and then some chilblains
If they don’t see it for themselves with Dwayne.

Hassle free Texts
Something frilly for your Ex
So I can be betwixt my vexation
Always late for your non invitation.

How?
Brogues.
The lounge.
Lozenges.

// Whatever could it have been
COVID and the streets of CCTV
When the waters were civilized
And more TV passed a Prince’s eyes:

  • For the child he just just could not see
  • When the Willow the Wisp was not I-SPN
  • Heroes see.

AI Summary

Your poem moves like a wandering camera through Sangeet, streets, TV illusions, colonial memory, and the conspiratorial noise of modern life, showing how beauty and distortion coexist. It contrasts intimate cultural symbols with the coldness of media, monarchy, and misunderstanding, revealing a speaker who feels unseen even while watching everything. The tone is wistful and sharp at once — a lament for connection in a world of CCTV, gossip, and inherited wounds. The final image of the prince who “just just could not see” lands as the poem’s quiet heartbreak: the tragedy of being visible but not recognised.