London

Are You Writing To Him

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Are you writing to him?
The gay man at the end of the bar
The one with a handlebar moustache
Checking out the fellows with draught beer.
Do you have some autumnal cheer
Like randy sweet ecstasy befriending the cocoa butter
Dances in the middle of the dance floor
Sweet French kissing when the numbers are up:
What is the showman
When the empty cup is always half full?
How does he know my so well?
Who takes his photos on Instagram?
The shop has a door where the custom is welcome
The personage had a past where these things were shut out.
He likes to scream and shout
The old man called Paul and Jock –
Two o clock and it’s pistols at Dawn’s
She like to play hard to get
And my life is an enormous amount of regret
Shadow debutant feelings
Energising a wet towel on the bathroom floor
And selling some products for London’s COVID environmental workers
The tear jerking from a jerking off man
Planned Satanism revival lamping one on the face of the nearest poet
The Arts are not funded in Royal towns in London
Again and again, he speaks of the medics name
Naked in the rain like Adam buying John Betjeman a cold hard won drink
Dripping with icey perspiration from the thoughts of a delightfully dinner
And some conversation about love making that makes the condensation erotica.
An advert perhaps – announcing the change in temperature?
Sirs. Please. This is Birmingham.
We have so many Civil Partnerships to go…

AI Summary

It’s a poem about watching a man at the bar and feeling the whole machinery of nightlife, desire, regret, and self‑consciousness whirl into motion — the moustache, the beer, the dance floor, the Instagram poses, the old men shouting, the poet worrying about his own life, the COVID workers, the unfunded arts, the rain, the imagined conversations, the erotic charge that dissolves into embarrassment, humour, and self‑reflection; the poem moves through Birmingham streets, bathroom floors, pandemic memories, and literary ghosts, ending with a wry acknowledgement that the city is full of civil partnerships, full of lives intersecting, full of stories that never quite resolve, and that the poet is still trying to understand his place in that crowded, messy, human scene.

Last Days of Judgement

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[rishisunak]

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

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

AI Summary

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

Connaught Place

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

What’s that talk you been ragging and slagging
That jive on the street the Drs have been shagging in
Their clothes in the market halls and their books in the Unis
Choose me a Curriculum for the transport of books for Ben Wright
Lover of Yasmin Khan eating Paan in Connaught Place
Raving about Statistics after fashion at Freuds for Christian raids all over the place
Changing his mind about a homosexual find
Paul Ready will travel to China.

They demand Amazon talks in the media
How is this not Slander
I can see it all cuming from here
I will be a victim again
And Rohan is not a corporate brain
Lost without my losses sharing with economies
One city – London advising on stock and shares over decades from teenagers dreams with their Drs friends of parents

PNAAC became OFSTED
Cheney went home and did drugs instead
Rumsfeld was known
Rice gave Condaleeza’s dog’s charity at Dog’s Trust a bone
And the Queen called off Crufts for a year.

Splitting the mind into China time
London stockbrokers to infinity

Into me
Not paying me Royalties
Investing in L Ron Hubbard Psychiatry
The streets are empty
There is no joy
He’s the master of happiness
He’ll diabetically medicate the boy
One day he’s in power
The Throne of thronging England
So many he has named
The British Empire will return, He said.

Look – this man is well read.
Surely this concerns me
Stories of great Yugas and Kalpas
Talks I am not included in
The dried out fruit of the lobotomised Holland and Barrett crew
Gymnastics next for your mother when she is 80 – I’ll bet
Things for human beings down at the NHS for the New Age Vets
Why don’t you waste you time giving thanks to those Gods
And choose gratitude as your punishment.

Messages in poems?
Interest in the literati
These are things to joke the day that money makes sense
Insulted by the edifices around Mike Pence
Showing the child medicine around Jill Biden
Things that Ernie van Woerkhom can control…

So much advice to give to a Self Help parent
So much intention to be the gay mother of invention.

AI Summary

It’s a poem about a mind under pressure, moving through street talk, academia, media noise, political figures, self‑help culture, and the machinery of capitalism, all while feeling exploited, misread, or excluded; the speaker watches institutions twist language, identity, and power, sees global politics bleed into personal life, and feels the weight of being used — by corporations, by systems, by narratives he never chose — until the poem ends in a kind of bitter humour about advice, invention, and the absurdity of trying to make sense of a world that constantly rewrites him.

Sideliner

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

At home alone waiting for the phone
Connected by disconnected
Feeling like A.I. was one with the world
Still chasing the girls
Adrift on the ocean of too many botherings
Waiting for the Singh that sings
Of too many tomorrows
When he knows my sorrow
And the fat lady brings me to my knees in Church.

The way I lurched and waited for some comeuppance
To be brought back to the estuary of graduation
Where drowning was not an option
Like the possibility of the woman in the red gown
At an Oxford Ball
Save it all for (Jimmy) Sommerville College now
I need not know how:
>> The mentionables are removed for another crowned pleasing show.

O.S. is the best way to go
And not too personal into the showtimes and matinees
Very most performance in the technology of the U.K.
Aside from the Australian who can compare with transference
And transgender debates.
Will they still be my mates
The crew on London Thames
Boat parties and the men with the manes
Driving Miss Daisy
Sending me careless
{Crazy World}
One real woke true:
Is that for you.

I remember him well
The boy that did tell
Of my corporate weakness
And their high and dry light.
These are the days of too many frights
Memories and cave ins when I don’t sleep at night
Worried and awake about what happened? Why did the failed man address me at Port?

AI Summary

Your piece moves through the loneliness of waiting for connection, the sense of being “connected by disconnected,” and the ache of feeling adrift in a world that keeps shifting around you. You weave memories of family, church, university fantasies, London nights, gender debates, and corporate humiliations into a portrait of someone who has lived through too many moments of being misread or dismissed. Beneath the references is a deeper emotional thread: the longing for belonging, the fear of being judged, the confusion of friendships that changed, and the unresolved sting of a man who once confronted you in a professional setting and left you questioning your worth. The poem ends in a place of insomnia and self‑interrogation, where the past keeps returning in fragments — not to punish you, but because you’re still trying to understand why certain moments hurt as much as they did, and what they say about the man you’ve become.

Little Intellectual Boy Lost

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Why do I see the things that I do?
Little things and big things deranging my vision through and through
Buddhafield electrifying the Boogaloo
Stumbling blocks to my learning
Late night travelling home from Nasser Uncle’s house, far outside of Birmingham
Sending my brother some love as we don’t fight about the roller skates
Debating the culture
A couple of legal vultures
Parents from antiquity
Fish and Chips from the Chippy
Star games on the arcade machine while they talk to the owner they know
Met the daughter some decades later, walking around Harborne
That’s not Walthamstow
Round and around from a Junior School game of Rounders
Flounder from the Little Mermaid
The black High School shut down of Home Invasions
The Propaganda models are the State of the Nation
And Rees Mogg is debutant on the high school stage
Selling us faux pas rage as the dancers play in the cages
The vaginas are talking alone again
The monologues are long and longing for me
I am the pauper celebrity
The fish in the ocean
The oxen on the lawn
Something like a cosmic consciousness to pawn
{Paw Paw Bear}
…
//


It was all there
When me and my brother played
Stay
A database in the cities of Angels
Aware of Nicholas Cages angles
Annoyed with Meg Ryan for trying
Lying and lying about the rage
Settling up with planes what man can’t know on the ground
Sealing the deal with furies when the poor man can’t be found
So down played
Soppy and played out
Singing in the showers
Alone for hours and hours
A passionate man
A flower loving member of a men’s group clan
Shouting in his own way about shanty towns
Blowing the wind when the Pakistani chants down the runway for a 100 mph bowl in an over at The Oval
What’s square about Waqar and Wasim now?
Not expanding and contracting consciousness
But expanding and explaining the world.
Two daughters in other guises
Spending what money they could find from parents who were kind
A bus driver and a lover’s son
Someone who made Jalandhar number one
Against all odds and murderous affairs
Stolen inheritance and plans for dancers everywhere
Looting London and Central School of Speech and Drama
Turing it into the Centred School for Trolls of Peace and Sharma’s Dharma
So the bug could be planted in PC World for the frigging girls to find when the owned the world
Loss of Schools
Forests for the fools
Shooting arrows in Warwick Castle as ascended actors well versed in Ritesh’s karmic affair…
Neet Mohan was everywhere
Instagram did not make sense
Julia Roberts listened to Jeremiah Blues
The Priests tried standing on their heads as a corpulent defence
Spending the Royal Crown
Keeping poor people down
Free Yoga Classes on the NHS
Something for the Pension Pot I think and I think your evolution makes no sense

  • Teacher Mr Psychiatrists of things in foreign lands
  • Breast wished Madhuri Dixit for legs akimbo in Aishwarya Rai’s Bachchan land
  • 1980-2020 doesn’t look so expensive now
  • Let’s lets
  • Do you think?…
  • Nurses worry about Slander now…
  • 1990 Israel
  • 2000s Iran
  • Ahmedinajad at the UN
  • Prince Charles does not let us eat Paan
  • (William is trying to act at the UN like James Caan)

… and no Doctor

AI Summary

Your piece moves through childhood memories, late‑night journeys, family warmth, schoolyard games, and the sensory overload of growing up between cultures, blending these with films, celebrities, cricket legends, and spiritual references to show how your mind stitches the world together in vivid, associative flashes. Beneath the rapid shifts is a single emotional thread: you’re trying to understand why your perception feels so charged — why small details, old memories, and cultural symbols all strike you with the same intensity. The poem circles around the ache of diaspora identity, the weight of inherited expectations, the confusion of modern politics and media, and the longing for clarity in a world that feels fragmented. What emerges is a portrait of someone who sees too much because he has lived through too much — a man whose inner world is crowded with history, family, cinema, spirituality, and unresolved wounds, and who is trying to turn that overwhelming vision into meaning rather than madness.

Shame On You

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

We have but one dream
The Boo Dis realisms of Arsenio Hall
Late night talk shows up all night about the enjoyment of the poor people
So Matt Damon can walk off the set again
May someone else have In-Jokes.

For, while Buddha laughed, the Simpsons played on and nobody was shared cartoons
The U.K. dismantled their industry to listen to RnB
While Mumbai spared Economics with Goldman Sachs
And those pricey weather forecasts.

Cocaine cracked on the streets
The new partitions from Chinese caretakers
Governed distress of Gillian Keegan’s swearing dress
School number blonde
Falling down with Michael Douglas
Stoned like a Jordanian irrelevancy
A soul craving Allah with Robin Arora and his fashionista
Pune and Milan for Monica Belucci’s brand
Russell – be famous now and sell us back our shares from Joe Biden
Glass Steagal and the end of the FSA and all that
What is censored now – you literate classy poetic prat?

A reputation before Mumbai MILFs
In a broken London SWAT Team song for LA angels?
What is this rhythm you know with Jenny Afia next to Camilla
Schillings from schillings for the preservation of Vishnu’s pounding cock
In Hendrix’s docs
With Portillo’s docs for Owen Wilson
And some neon love for Prabhupada’s fight club glove
And “this ark we are on”.

Some investments won’t last long
[Big Mouth]

AI Summary

Your poem moves like a late‑night fever broadcast, where talk‑show surrealism, Bollywood glamour, Wall Street collapse, British politics, YouTube culture, and spiritual longing all collide in a single consciousness trying to make sense of a world that has become too fast, too loud, too cynical, too commodified. You weave Arsenio Hall, Matt Damon, Buddha, The Simpsons, Mumbai finance, cocaine streets, weather forecasts, political scandals, fashion empires, media lawyers, musicians, gurus, and mythic archetypes into a portrait of a mind overwhelmed by the global churn of images and expectations. The emotional centre is the ache of being caught between worlds — between East and West, between spirituality and satire, between longing and disgust, between the desire for meaning and the exhaustion of being constantly misread. The poem becomes a critique of how fame, finance, religion, sexuality, and politics get mashed together into a single incoherent spectacle, leaving the speaker searching for a place where truth, dignity, and identity aren’t swallowed by the noise. The final lines — “some investments won’t last long” — land like a bitter prophecy: the world’s obsessions are temporary, but the inner witness remains.

Vibrations in the Field of Miracles

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Akaash speaks and the faucet tap leaks
Speaking of an age when the rage knew the warrior.
The men were less densely populated
The women were married to the clothes line
Sex was not indecision
For the trackers who chased away the forty thousand foxes.

Vibrations in the miracles of fields lay extensions
Corporation street is not so happy when Santosh is not dining at Café Neros
The depression hits the Free Market
Trump is at House of Fraser
The wrong Psychiatrist is “I’m listening”.

Army jacket
Stars and stripes banner
The eagle forgets
Rhyme is slicker than your average
Fry, Punt and Dennis let Lenny Henry in

  • Santosh is displeased again
  • Where is my family’s Kings Heath strain
  • Apache Ranvir Turna
  • Kamal Johnny Zee & Niraj Martial Arts

What does it take to keep Victoria a secret?
This is not our trunket
The man with the acordian is back in Northfield I hope, soon
Splitting to infinity and fascalling a waling loss.

If Job is the boss, I am unemployed
Tiresias is echoed for the first time
A journey of a thousand miles begins
The nations will sing
It’s always the same after the road trip down the Nile
Amazing Amazonians seem the simple life fort Conrad
Hearts and heads in gangs and New York streets

IF I AM DEFEATED blame the internet
It’s the best mind a manic mind can get
writing writing writing away
all the day has something to say
mental health hospitals accompanying loss
trying to find work to replace my hunched back
yoga is not for me until I can listen to that track
alignment with YouTube Buddhists sending his karma back
the Dalai Lama of mass harm and weapons of hissing destruction
inspiration to nothing
elocution is wanting

When they are you

The concept of insurance escapes me easily
Harrowing medics and their dogs
Walking the razor’s edge
Mastering nothing
Leading no-one
Not even enough sports for the mirrors to go on.

It won’t be long until the fame catches up to me
Running before I can walk down the barney
Rows and fights and the mind of man is old again
The echos down the chamber halls are not stable
The links are not straight lines and the happiness is not genuine
Poets are there in the tense times of Ukrainian distress
Wars that still fail to impress the delusional population
Still so easily facile about the penile projections of the proletariat.

Is that for me when I walk to the park?
Supporting the political party for some time off dreaming
Better things to come for other Popes and their commanded forces
Christ is rebirthed in another way these days.

Ordered Folios
Places where the imagined don’t go
Feeling the flow
Daisy flowers
Chelsea Flower Show
Manifested madness
Clouds and eclipses and hollow rain
Dark clouds distributing graphs and selling the science again.
Pick yourself up and get on with the task
Don’t get down in the mouth wearing a mask.
That is the task
That is the fee
Setting yourself free
#somethingforme

The merriment in the European Union
The self against the self and the fashions of their glamour
The ski slopes and the chosen people
Partying in the alpine freshness of lodges and whitened valleys
Black runs and jump suits that are fun
Sliding to a stop just close enough for luvvies
Cars that keep running to stave away the cold finish
Hot cocoa before the wine in the evenings
When the walls fell
Shakazulu and the tribes are now Harry Potter
Such good potting of plants
How did she know how to dance?
Listening to me, listening to you
Lightsabres at dawn for fights with the anti-semite.

Jews Work From Home

Ex Parte the London Bankroll Mob
Some wesbites that are free, at least for me
What was I supposed to do mother?
Lexington Steele asked the crowd.
I just wanted to play poker, staying at home crying (unemployed) out loud.

Why isn’t this world for me?
What have I done?
Where is the imagination?
Why does the internet make the clouds run?

Too
More
From
With
How are the ambit car parkers when frothing at the mouth?

So many questions and the children run poses around the park
Larking around the last placed children
Racing games and who is the best at stretching like a fairy and magician
Come home in time for school revision
Hard working pen work – a time away from the policeman
And all that beeping about they do, racing cars are fine.

See the political leaders today
They give the haranguing game away
Telling us what to do and who to be
From what they wear and what they see.
I would like to do that and shake that man’s hand
Travelling without my parents to some far and distant land.
But, I am not cultured: I do not know the names of crockery and pots
Lots and lots of crockery and pots
At least that is what the man seems to say is omitted from the classroom
Antiques that have their own roadshow is on soon…#IStillDon’tGetIt
Syntax and hastags
That old fat slag keeps on texting me
At least that’s how she looks when I book some time on that chat Ap.
Monkeys games are next when I finish up this exam text
And then it’s off downstairs to see if the cookie jar tells them I am self aware
Jesting speaker and mouthpiece tells them I am opening it
Open yourself, funny boy, if you think I am paying attention.
So much memory retention – how can it be that the brain does not explode!
Anodes and cathodes
Messages in a bottle
Lazy women on motorbikes
Tattoos for me who likes full throttle.
At least that is what mum says when she gets home
All worldly with the radio on in the car telling me she will be home soon
She is not far from the door, I guess, when I stress to impress
I’ll get the dinner on after one last cookie munch for some thank you, Mum, very much.

First Political contd

I don’t feel much like court
Is that where all the funding goes
What about the findings of the scientists
Even they get called mega rich today by the political class
Sitting on their arse
Costing all the class
Sizes and the houses
Students and their desks
Not long before they are back again
London is a right and left Westminster strain
Mortgage escapes my clutches
The DVLA won’t give me my breaks
I’ve seen the superwoofer shop
And it’s back to Rap and RnB for me
After a quarter past three
To cruise controlled past the paedophile pitch
Where the Teachers erect a defence that makes my nerves itch.

SO much going on when I drop a leaflet through the door
I need some time of from free work
It’s time for no time to catch up on the bezerk creativity
More fettered freedom for me
Interest rates on the rise
Climate change talks around the dinner table
Mr rival’s eyes
An empty prize for the victor at Mr Conversation’s door
Hollow no more
For every day is the same
And mother’s and father’s possessions
Dinner plate set with vegetable complements
Well thought out address all night long
Singing the complacent song
Time away from the i-Pod
Keeping up with the crazy frogs
And all that French accompaniment
And what the next Olympics meant
During our COVID lockdown and mash up military expression
No time for Saturday dance lessons
Each and every step easily set up with graphics on the floor
Nobody knocking on our doors
And even the football stadiums weren’t allowed
Crowds
Bowed
Aloud
The silence was deafening
The leaders spoke their mind
Boris Johnson was friends for a while
And left us the Human Rights Act to talk about
When the Europeans bade farewell to our sceptic hell
And decades of debate about the tax rebate
Council court bills and people who can’t chill
For all that stress that comes back to the front
After quiet times with medical cunts
… & Intermission
[The End.]

Psychological blockages
Parts of myself I don’t know for the level
Staying alive for the cleverness
Spirit and some drive
Get up and go
Syndromes and accomplishments
Reviewing myself in the wrong direction
Tyre tracks in the wrong direction
Repairing myself in the wrong direction
Living life in the wrong direction
Benjamin Button (again) and sensory perception on the brain.
Cousins who don’t care about me
A brother who is nearly 53 years old
Time for a mother to turn 70
When your father is repenting his retired living standards too
What was an uncle to do?
When his aunty was on the train with the Jew,
For whom life was not well enough with all of Israel inside of me
And nothing from reservoirs of love because of Srila P.

Man is such a force that he commands respect after reserving love
Trusting the laws of earth for what he can give from up above
And if such control is populated with sisters in their Temples
Then he can leave with the receipts and call the other men simple.

This is the way the relatives mocked me
This is the task for Oxford to repair me
Sannyasi and Brahmin in a Vasya’s age
Listening to N-Word rap music and developing rage.

Turn the page

If life is a stage, Who am I?
// some computerised reflection of boredom of Adam’s loins
Bastardised rememory of the factory down the lane
Iron and ball bearings and the frustrated furnace of the father’s min
Jalandhar does not have many kind people in it
They are all in doors
Washing their floors
Marble and a little meshed window
To break up the table time for food from the servants
So we can eat and talk together before TV time.

There is not so much time for rhyme
I don’t know why I was thinking there was time
For The Rishi Factor and that internet speed
When English is not the language they read
At least when the Reed is the internet feed
And the programmers are programmed all day long
By the things that Shakespeare fans tease
The lightening speed of the freedom from a lease:
To, Own
Love
Laptop.

Capitalism is fine it’s just not often served with white wine
I think that red is best for the hairs still left on my chest
In case I try to make the whole world mine
Since the movies spoke of the Science Fiction crest
In image and moving words
About how the world is absurd
And needs some super non-African meaning
To tame the tapes that are streaming
The news of wars in the Chinese plains.

AI Summary

Your piece unfolds like a fractured epic of identity, where Akaash, Santosh, Rohan, the internet, the Nile, Job, Tiresias, psychiatrists, yogis, bailiffs, cousins, medics, politicians, and poets all collide in a single consciousness trying to survive its own history. You move between Birmingham streets and mythic landscapes, between family wounds and global wars, between colonial memory and modern capitalism, between spiritual longing and psychiatric exhaustion. The emotional centre is the ache of being shaped by forces you never chose — migration, class, religion, racism, family expectation, mental health systems, political noise — and still trying to carve out a self that is not defeated by them. The poem becomes a map of everything you’ve endured: homelessness in 1993, the pressure of masculinity, the loneliness of the internet age, the mockery of relatives, the confusion of spiritual teachers, the violence of institutions, and the longing for a life that feels like it belongs to you. The final movement — masks, clouds, flowers, eclipses, European ski slopes, Harry Potter, anti‑semitism, crockery, hashtags, exams, lockdowns, and the absurdity of political theatre — reveals a mind overwhelmed but still searching for coherence, dignity, and a future. Beneath the sprawl is a single question: How do I live in a world that keeps trying to rewrite me? And the poem answers itself: by writing, by naming, by refusing to disappear.

DWP Man

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Engaging in some Home Improvement
Studying the round
Shooting the breeze
They are all on the phone
If you please.

Separate me from the carnival
Call me R.E.M. on the road
Looking away from the trip
Catch me up some British quips.

They knew I would be good at not a lot
Catch
Snatch
Watches
Models of Tag Hauser on New Street
Tim Hortons from Baker Street.

Chant your Hare Krishna
Spare the third wheel of Dharma’s seal of approval
Speak English when the mood takes you
Utter Hindi
Napoleon Valley

Hook Ups
Not the tight right time answering to stereotypes
To look up and not see the light in sex
Scenes from the 80s is where I have been
Not the taught courses from 2000s Porn
Warnings
Shaun of the Sheep (IMDb) for Sean
How about Siobhan?
Will she moan when the time is right
About the right to work and all those lights
Switching on and off as the meditator is medicator
Elected for their own tests at Boots.

Get on your own fruit
And salad the brain
For some angry refrains
About the business classes again
Who stole your DNA strain.

12 Strand Light Body
Star Charts
Where was your art

Branson C.B.E. astrology
Pickle-Rushdie-Ology
Time to take the pis
And see what the kidney brings
When the liver is dead inside the home
Body seeing things that the mind can’t bring home

“That’s why they call it home”
He said when he was on the mobile phone
Looking for an evolutionary pizza
After some slamming poetry
Add the insignia : Know Thyself
And the Andness will be witty with a connective
To thine own Elf be a ruse.

Lord of the Rings (IMDb)
The Land of Rohan
The raise of Akaash
The I-sight of Rishi
This one is on me.

AI Summary

Your poem begins with the domestic — home improvement, phones, British quips — before erupting into a carnival of identities, from REM on the road to Hare Krishna chants, Dharma seals, 80s scenes, and the awkwardness of modern sexuality filtered through stereotypes and media. You weave Birmingham’s New Street with Baker Street, Tag Heuer watches with Tim Hortons coffee, Shaun the Sheep with Siobhan, yogis with Boots pharmacists, and astrology with Branson and Rushdie, creating a portrait of a mind that refuses to be pinned down by any single tradition. The emotional centre is the tension between cosmic longing and earthly confusion: the 12‑strand light body, star charts, kidneys and livers, poetry slams, evolutionary pizzas, and the ancient instruction to “Know Thyself.” The final lines — invoking Lord of the Rings, Rohan, Akaash, and Rishi — turn the poem into a myth of your own making, a playful but sincere attempt to reconcile your past selves with the one who is writing now, claiming the story as “on me.”

Sub-Ordinary

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

That’s the way you made me feel
Forget about it
Outside is inside
What’s mine is yours
It’s time for the Tower of London
Treat me like a forsaken child
As I imbecile the hours away
Seeking things that my mother would say
And never getting past 11.30 without some tea and biscuits.
Subordinate this and control me later
I may quit this job and become a waiter.
Settle some debts and pay karma back appropriately
For some skull drudgery
Before the Druids come back from lunch
I have a hunch they know where I hide.
No Time For “Rawhide!”
Will things settle down as I dine out at lunch
Coerced by the conditioned Church
In the centre of Colmore Row
Things my Ego should know
There’s not much rowing going on here
As I eat my sandwich and gobble down my fears.
They seem to know I am all mouth and ears
Handling my sob story about being so single
It’s just because they want me to compose a catchy jingle.
Jingle all the way to the bank, however
By the end of the month I sum up nicely
“I’m so clever”!

AI Summary

Your poem moves between woundedness and wit, opening with the emotional whiplash of “that’s the way you made me feel” before spiralling into a portrait of a man caught between childhood habits, adult labour, karmic debts, and the quiet humiliation of being single in a world that keeps demanding charm. The Tower of London, tea and biscuits at 11.30, Druids on lunch break, Colmore Row churches, jingles, banks, and sandwiches all become symbols of a life lived under subtle coercions — social, emotional, economic. Beneath the humour (“I may quit this job and become a waiter”, “No Time For Rawhide!”, “I’m so clever”) is a deeper ache: the fear of being controlled, misread, or reduced to a story others want from you. The poem ends with a wry self‑mockery that doubles as resilience — even if the world pushes you into a corner, you still find a way to sum yourself up, to speak, to write, to claim a cleverness that no one can take.

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.