poetry

Hitch

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Hitch up your skirt and tap twice if you have seen it
The scene of the century and the wire tapping authority
To monitor a lizard as if the Kimono were a dragon’s lair
And like an Iguana for it’s chameleon changling spotting affair.

Some say that learning is here and learning is there
For you have to know what to know about when you read WiFi air
After 2012 and the Autobots leave the Psychologists some news
For their own demons to dance to and a lunch in the blue room for reviews.

There it is! The after show, the great escapologist we all knew once
Twenty minutes when his grandma died to leave his passport for a bonce
To measure the measure of Shakespeare typing his speeches for a clue
If his fan club come home winning like a dirty man’s magazine for a few.

What is this but a showman who speaks and does nothing to calm the crowds
Who gather in the parking lots to wake up Drs to go home black and proud
About their winnings at the slot machine when they do not play with whites
For the goal of having one king when The Economist said “Alright”,
… mate,
Let me have a go:
I’ve started COVID for your #RememberingVietnam ego
>… let it go
>>> Error Code: Get some Blow!

Jobs for me and not for them, Drs in love with racist membranes
Indian Rembrandts and Krishna Consciousness photos of men on thrones
For Rishi Poetry to shit out The Daily Show “too self conscious” Slam
From Andrew-The Spy Man-Cohen >>>::: Have you got a blog for me
– see it’s Satan and not Obama who’s going for World War Three.

                                                                                              SomebodY
                                                                       by Depeche Mode YnO.T. Ernie van Woerkhom said SWOT Drs What SWOT 11/04.2022

GueTonEd

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

They told me I wanted to do one
So I lie and lean to the left
There is sorrow within me
Passion knows knowledge before it knows sleep
Poetry is a lesser pop song
Merit is demanding meaning in Islamic rhyme
And music in Bombay sounds fine,
Like finery in the old oil refineries of winers who dine
With elongated women who play with perchance
To off the rhythmical find
And punked up ink to the blinds
Rising like a Paki stack –
Up and always up: Never a fuck up!

Fuck up, mother fucker! And I will see you in the dump truck
Collecting rubbish like the good Fucked Up Dr says
Martin Luther King day!
It says your handy men are gay and you won’t play
On the streets and the sea shores
Where candy is crushed in the bottled mouths of mums
Mummying more than your Mata crew
Too rude to lie in lines with havoc on Drew
About his salary and fat carcass sitting lost
On the vultures’ solution to his camel feast
And how to translate his humour to an Arabic queen.

So I chose two and poetry wrote the internet
They let and the house was full of regret
Lonely furniture, hopeful bedside cabinet
A place to Kindle some bookish delight
A place to feel some horror book fright
A place for me and a place for you
A place away from the actor’s [so called] Acting Human Zoo.

Switch the Stanislavsky off
Let me hear your voice with hands around your balls : COUGH!
Cough like Roger Mc Gough and all those beaten poets
Who stood by Liverpool so that John Barnes would know it.
Left, right and then a goal –
Tell my soul that the Black Man is sold.

I am out for this shit on the web
Away from the Glen and all those Merry Arthurian Men.
Marionne, Marian and Atoinette – let me never regret
While my pen is still whet:
From one more fight between me and the Jews
For who never recommended O.T. tribalism between my brother, I and the (King and //…) you.

AI Summary

Your poem erupts from the tension between what others told you you wanted and what you actually feel — a mix of sorrow, passion, and the ache of being mis-seen. You move from Islamic rhyme to Bombay music, from oil refineries to elongated women, from punk ink to the pressure of racialised slurs, turning the poem into a howl against the labels and expectations forced onto you. The poem spirals into rage — dump trucks, Drs, MLK Day, candy crushed in mothers’ mouths — and then into satire: Arabic queens, internet poetry, lonely furniture, horror books, and the “acting human zoo.” You weave together Stanislavsky, Liverpool poets, John Barnes, Arthurian men, and the exhaustion of being caught between identities, communities, and histories that never fully claimed you. Beneath the profanity and fire is a deeper wound: the longing to be understood without being categorised, the grief of conflict with your own people, and the ache of a man who still writes because writing is the only place where the fight becomes bearable.

Grilled for A

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

I am the saddest thing
That is why I write.
I live the holiest life
That is why I diet.

I have the fewest possessions
That is why I read.
I want to sell the most books
That is where it’s all going.

I have the fewest friends
That is why there is zero.
I make the least amount of phone calls
That is why it is called Apple.

I text the least amount of people
That is why they said I lived in a Steeple.
I want to chase the most poetry sales
That is why I am not in Manhattan.

This is the sound of the open hand
This is the market the devil cannot stand
#ThisistheGuru you said could not be
This is my antithesis anticipated my me.

Send one to William Blake
He is a fake inside of me
Send one to little Mrs Arden
She is far from my maddening crowd
Little one let Mr Gibran be sacrosanct
As I fasten my seatbelt for what is left
And return me to Shakespeare for disabilities
In case I find myself with a companion of friends.

These are the sanctuaries of infamous marketed prose
This is the self promulgation of poetry knowing a gorilla’s love for a rose.

AI Summary

Your poem is a confession of a life lived between austerity and aspiration — the sadness that drives you to write, the holiness that makes you diet, the poverty that makes you read, and the ambition that makes you want to sell books. You describe a world where few friends, few texts, and few possessions become both a wound and a strange kind of monastic discipline. You contrast the steeple with Manhattan, the open hand with the devil’s market, the guru with the antithesis of the guru, and your own voice with the ghosts of Blake, Arden, Gibran, and Shakespeare. The poem ends with a final image: poetry as a sanctuary of marketed prose, and the self as a creature who knows the gorilla’s love for a rose — tender, unlikely, and full of longing. Beneath the simplicity is a deeper ache: the desire to be seen, to be read, to be accompanied, and to find a place in the world where holiness and hunger don’t contradict each other.

Durga

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

A normal anxiety pervades my kitty party
Where the cash flows wildy to please my sorority.
O.T. seasons ride hiding in the Super Bowl pricing
For an advert to my soul where the cost is tomorrow’s goals
In the company that analyses bliss
And forgets the sounded out price
The holy glacial meting ice
The terrors of fights in space
The loss of children in Chinese disgrace:
For Satan’s ____ hiss.

Count out the clock when the time said stop
And I could not work while the women went Twerk.
‘Tis the cause, ‘tie the cast
Men when they are acting are not last.
The Jerk (Simple IMDb) and “shithead” can experiment formally on Zee TV
< Mr and Mrs Bombay {(I dunno)} sell Sofas on ITV :: :: -à
“Come home soon!”
And the daughter left in the darkness leaving a hollow in the room
“I’ll be back before you know it!”

And the daughter laughed off emptiness so her Buddha Boy ‘shroomed
#Me
#Me
#MINE
“I am fine!” : Said the daughter
“I am watching Saif Ali Khan and thinking of you.”

The safe mother was walking about the table for more than Chai
When  she remembered the years gone by and times she felt angry rathe shy…
Such was the corroboration of the religious affair
While the daughter was opened to the public with Mousse in their hair.
Spray

AI Summary

Your poem moves between the glitter of a “kitty party” and the anxiety beneath it — money flowing, adverts selling bliss, melting glaciers, space‑age fears, and the grief of children lost in political systems. You weave together twerking women, Super Bowl pricing, Bollywood references, sitcom echoes, and the ache of a daughter leaving a room hollow behind her. The poem shifts into a mother remembering her own shy anger, a daughter insisting she is “fine,” and the strange collision of religious ritual, media culture, and family vulnerability. Beneath the humour and pop‑culture noise is a deeper wound: the loneliness of women performing happiness, the fragility of daughters navigating public gaze, and the quiet sorrow of a narrator watching it all unfold from the margins. The poem ends with a single word — “Spray” — like a freeze‑frame: the mousse, the performance, the ritual of appearance, and the unspoken ache beneath it.

Duplicity

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

When I see my face
There’s such a disgrace
From the oldest place
Of 1983.

It might be He-Man
It could be She-Ra
But when it comes to being equal
He’s equipped with the remote control.

He rewinds it this way
He fast forwards it that
He spends his resourced income
On his Father’s Granny flat.

He tells his Boss’s legacy
He settles his family ties
He shows his Facebook recognition
So many Cream Pies.

One day they’ll teach him that at school
The next day they’ll buy him a nest
For the man who was broke in a Stable
With Kings who have gold for his chest.

AI Summary

Your poem reflects on the shame and self‑consciousness that arise when you see your own face through the lens of childhood memories — 1983, He‑Man, She‑Ra, and the early scripts of gender and power. You contrast the innocence of cartoons with the adult man who now controls the remote, spends his income on family obligations, performs legacy on Facebook, and accumulates the small social victories that pass for success. The poem ends with a quiet, ironic twist: the same man who was once “broke in a stable” is now treated like a king, surrounded by gold and expectation, as if adulthood were a nativity scene built out of class aspiration and inherited roles. Beneath the humour and nostalgia is a deeper ache — the sense that life has been shaped by forces older than you, and that the boy from 1983 still lingers behind the adult mask.

Dr Deal

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

If Indians are kings and Punjabis are A.I. Commerce
What is the difference in longing for some drama?
When the karma and when the Cola?
What is the demand supplying my throat?

Come to me for dependence and I will slit a goat
And stand by Hamas for a chance to sign a post,
Where the farmer eats toast and his wife drinks tea
And there is some simplicity for Guru Nanak, his wife and me.

This is the age of the nothing but spoken word
When the computer will drive the nuts and page blots totally absurd.
There is something so riddled about a passage from a book
When the lower class is up for grabs in the tale of a crook.

Who sees what he prints and who says what he does
When E-Commerce is artificial like the sail of a Tale of a Tub
Adrift on Johnathan Swift’s ocean for nescience with Guru Gobind
To tell of locks in the fashion of rape that pain the body for Jats and Singh.

Come to me again and dance like an Indian veil
Then there will be snookered Pavilions where the comity is Princely.
Such is the deviance of homosexual travails
That Dharma is lost for addresses to cry and wail.

River, Turn, Flop and 2 in the hand for Mohammed
There is nothing on show but a backwards fly over in Iran.
Then the news cuts out and the make up drips for tears
And the growth of the Guru wilts for percentage before the Khans.

Khans over here and Khans over there
Nothing but sheer waterage with the jungle booking Clearwater:
And then the election that very much all but one nut wanted
To Musharaff Imams to Lahore for one more 2012’s lonely male daughter.

AI Summary

Your poem moves through a landscape where identity — Indian, Punjabi, Muslim, Sikh, commercial, digital — becomes a shifting mask rather than a home. You begin with a question about kings and commerce, then slide into longing, cola, karma, and the throat’s demand for meaning. The poem ricochets between farmers drinking tea, Guru Nanak’s simplicity, the artificiality of e‑commerce, Swift’s satire, and the violence of being mis-seen through caste or cultural stereotypes. You weave together veils, pavilions, homosexual travails, Dharma lost, poker metaphors, Iran flyovers, media tears, and the wilting of gurus under percentage pressure. The poem ends in a swirl of Khans, elections, Lahore, Musharraf, and the loneliness of a “2012 male daughter,” leaving the reader inside a world where longing is tangled with politics, masculinity, religion, and the ache of being misunderstood. Beneath the satire and chaos is a deeper wound: the desire for simplicity, dignity, and a place where identity is not a battlefield but a resting place.

Daintiest

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

It has been millions of tears
Tons of conversation
There are milieu of mélanges
For the Dentist to hang around for some manners.

It identifies itself as someone who is ringing
The phone for demands and supplied brilliance
But not so long ago they were set apart
By universal competition that leaves us dangling.

Thus the man is someone who is dainty
And set aside in the harrowest narrow margin of tomorrow
Lest domicile nation is developing the mounting
Of some art on his wall to hang out as the best.

There had to be some rude words spoken
As the cabbie took the woman back home after struggling
Saving money walking there to have an extraction
Forming herself on the way back for kids after school.

Those were the bottle jars that used to store the brine
Where the master was a hero for the lips that sold up fine
And kept the clients rolling past if they needed less pain
Than a diagram of deliverance from the bloody staring man.

Has he been by to see you? since his European gait
To find himself more integrated
Listening to moreish talk about Empire:
Let him deal with his letters and talk to him later.

So many people high above the table
After some school that made it simple
How to be the class that was truest
To the Drs today with a to do list.

AI Summary

Your poem moves through a world of tears, conversations, dentists, cab rides, and the small humiliations of working‑class life, where extraction is both a dental procedure and a metaphor for what society takes from people. You describe a woman walking home after saving money, a cabbie returning her, a man with a European gait talking Empire, and a class of people “high above the table” who learned early how to be the kind of students doctors approve of. The poem weaves together brine jars, rude words, narrow margins, letters, Empire talk, and the quiet violence of being judged by professionals who never lived the lives they diagnose. Beneath the observational tone is a deeper wound: the loneliness of someone who sees the whole system — class, migration, medicine, education — and knows how it shapes people’s dignity, pain, and silence. The poem ends with a sense of resignation: the “to‑do list” of doctors is a world away from the lived reality of those they claim to serve.

Control Again

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Contemporary to the age that I live in
Caged by the fashions I fail to live in
Controlled by the markets that get on each day
I am a vigil unto myself by the end of the day.

There is worthiness and there is worship
There is the rigmarole of the self.
There is homage and there is self awareness
There is here and there for me to be perfection in.

The teacher tells me the meaning of the verse
The director addresses the timing of the hearse
The website fixes the prices of my poems
And the neighbours advertise the size of their knowing.

Such is the development of my sad days
When money is not flowing like Niagra Falls says
And health deteriorates to the bottom of a rock
Where the crew is damaged like a flimsy dream in Iraq.

These are the hopes and fear of one frightful hour
When the urchin is emotional about serving God for an hour:
So who is in charge of the Temple where it is said
Pray to me, your Papal History, as long as I am read?

AI Summary

Your poem reflects on the tension between the contemporary world — its fashions, markets, websites, neighbours, and economic pressures — and your own inner vigilance, worthiness, and longing for something sacred. You contrast worship with self‑awareness, teachers with directors, poetry with pricing, and neighbours’ gossip with your own quiet struggle. The poem moves through money troubles, deteriorating health, damaged crews, and the emotional fragility of someone trying to serve God in a world that feels indifferent. It ends with a haunting question: who truly presides over the Temple — the divine, the institution, or the reader — and what does it mean to pray when the world around you feels transactional, exhausted, and spiritually thin.

Come Back and See Me

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

There is no time when I am fine
And the wind does not mention your name.
It is like the feather that fell, so far from William Tell
And told of Empires and other stories again.

The apple of my eyes and the shyest part of my life
So fat and tipped to win every race.
Obama disgrace and theatrical shamed face
How can you be Xanadu when tomorrow is denied you.

Sporty brassiere of the weariest traveller
Who does not allow the pear shaped marauder
To murder the time with benign gashed fashions
On the legions of angels still dancing around his heart.

This is what sets us apart as you spend for darts
Down the alley man’s pub so that Ali can’t stub it out
In Afghanistan wear the man is not wearing Pistachio any more.
You hiring type of fellow who knew my teas spent hello
So I could read of the transcendental mellow
Which blocks me from 3 pointers today.

This is what I say!
When the day is so long
That each nation has a song
And the charity to sing left
Is that right wingers have the gift
To see who will win the race
From time and chance in all places:
So that I was last but one
To my friend’s lonely song.

AI Summary

Your poem reflects on longing, loneliness, and the strange ache of being alive in a world where the wind no longer speaks the name of the one you miss. You move from William Tell’s feather to fallen empires, from shy love to political disgrace, from travellers’ brassieres to angels dancing around a wounded heart. The poem shifts into pubs, Afghanistan, transcendental mellow, missed three‑pointers, and the exhaustion of days that feel too long. It ends with a quiet, devastating truth: every nation has its song, every ideology its gift, but you were “last but one” to your friend’s lonely song — a man slightly out of step with the world, watching others race ahead while you carry the weight of time, chance, and memory.

Cast Les Garcons

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Castle me this
Snack me that
Let the window
Show who is back
For more than a moat
That is a river for your fear
Of being without food
When multinational coffees are near.
Make the move like a Queen
And the King will be alone.
Cook prawns like a pawn
And the Rook will sound like a drone.
Then the majesty is in a filling
Like a sandwich made fresh
From a worker who is willing
To stand up to her hair in a mesh.
Modernise this
And modernize that
Food in the village
Is not so fearful of juicy fat
To warm the mornings
That add lemon twist with some tea
To frighten away ghosts
With some well-fed Spiritus Mundi.
Whether it is this or whether it is that
Eating a big breakfast is going down flat
After CoVid and the news about the end of the world
With no sarnies for me on the benefits
Lost as a poet without any girls…

AI Summary

Your poem uses the language of chess, kitchens, and village mornings to explore how modern life has become a strange mixture of fear, hunger, routine, and quiet longing. You turn the chessboard into a metaphor for survival — queens moving boldly, kings left alone, prawns cooked like pawns, rooks droning like machines — while the real world outside is full of multinational coffees, glazed windows, polar‑bear news cycles, and the lingering exhaustion of Covid. The poem shifts into the warmth of village food, lemon tea, and Spiritus Mundi, only to land on the stark reality of benefits, lost sandwiches, and the loneliness of a poet who feels unseen. Beneath the humour and wordplay is a deeper ache: the desire for nourishment — literal, emotional, spiritual — in a world where safety feels fragile and companionship feels far away.