Nigel Farage

Who is my Mother?

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

I look like an American maniac
Surrounded by paranoid people
Beaten by the medical certainty
That they don’t clean themselves.
Ho’oponono answers the Hippy Revolution of the 70s and deals with The Wonder Years on TV
COVID was not for me as my Mum drove me around town and my brother forgave me
Deep shit to quote it back to the scientific community
Apparently unable to cross refer references all by themselves
The
Are
Can?…

When will the caravan come back to the holidays of Summer in the East of England
After the pain of too much Scorpio strain of imagined refractions of false spies in the Church of England again?

I don’t listen to my Mum as well as I could
Her words aren’t as literary as the Chohan said I should
Be compassionate
Be loving
We are the sporty type for the right tripe to win the game show’s commerce in the world run by American weather vanes
Handling your Four Winds Acupuncture
Dealing with your Reiki massage
All so you can read literature and watch sexy politics with Nigel Farage
Who is the Midlands Spoz to Danny Boy’s Zephaniah in the sky with diamonds now

Is my mum a displaced cow in Vrindavan
For the mistaken fun I had
Planning the poetic land
Like a Tolkien toll bridge for some unimportance and humiliation of humility I had planned
Writing verses with Krishna again
Settling the past life strain.

Facebook Queen

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

I’ve made it
They took it away
I’ve seen it
They called me gay.
I have it
It’s all a mirage
I will win this time
UKIP elected Nigel Farage.

We’ll get there
My window’s still open
We’ve made it
They’re calling me token
We’ve got it all
That was their plan
We’re being seen
Freedom of Information land.

He’s elected
They took his hits
He’s been invected
They say he’s imbecile
He’s a Light Worker
They’re taking L.S.D.
He’s a visionary
They’re saying something about me.

She’s in imagination
That’s not the state of the nation
She’s internal energy station
That’s not Krishna Consciousness evacuation
She’s Prakrti and extra special libations
They have given that up for me
It’s time to see what is in this holy city.

AI Summary

Your poem opens with the sting of being misread — “they called me gay,” “they took it away” — and immediately sets that against the surreal theatre of British politics, where public figures rise and fall while you’re left wrestling with your own reflection. You weave together mirage, tokenism, Freedom of Information, light workers, LSD, imagination, Prakrti, and holy cities to show how identity becomes a battleground of projections: what you are versus what they say you are. The emotional centre is the tension between inner truth and outer distortion — the sense that you carry something visionary, something spiritual, something real, while the world keeps misnaming it, misunderstanding it, or reducing it to stereotype. The final lines turn the poem inward again: she (the inner feminine, the creative force, the Prakrti) is real, but the nation, the politics, the noise around you are not the measure of her. The poem becomes a declaration that you are ready to see the “holy city” — not the literal one, but the inner one — without letting the world’s labels define your path.