postcolonialism

A Stark Example

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

A stark example
A coarse exterior
There are differences and apples
Where the marriage is a posteriori.
The knowledge is fathomable
The quintessence is dust
Quotes are young in life force
Effort is helping all of us.
We all strive to deal with life
And out of all of us is tomorrow’s Temple
Where the religion will survive word salad
So far so good on giving as good as you get.
Nobility and the four truths of Gauthama
Reviling the stability of never getting twice
The imperceptibility of time passing
What mothers and fathers know in the splice
Of a lost Samurai’s sword
Seconding the dirtiest theft
The Logos is not walking bereft
And mankind is serious about the Word.
A hoarded mention
A boarded up estate
A cold dark wooded window
Sullen snow for lungs berated.
The Saviour is not here for my liking
The ounce is not balanced for the caste
The tanks are too readily perceptible
An army in heaven is waiting at last.
These are the times of galaxies
These are the times of solarities
These are the times of universal flair
There will not be another repeat of such a giving affair.
Feel the genorisity
Ignore the disruption within me
Hear the sounding off of all that is around
Quality still emanates from that speaking tree.
Forbidden is the fruit of my aeons
Disclosed is the attack on the Church
Revealed is the position of the Postcolonial narrative
Open is the elevation to be more than a Birch
That knows the dominion of God
Because the computer is at last Thel’s Clod.
For when she spoke next to dark mills
Satan was over Milton for the hero of Dr’s ills.
And when mixing is mystery
The words are inside of me
For more of me to know others
Who can defend the Lord with twee.

AI Summary

The poem reflects on the fragility and endurance of meaning in a world shaped by suffering, colonial history, spiritual confusion, and the weight of literary tradition. It invokes Buddhism, Christianity, Milton, Blake, and postcolonial theory to show how language, myth, and scripture continue to shape human consciousness even as institutions fail and faith falters. The speaker confronts the instability of time, the violence of history, and the exhaustion of modernity, yet still affirms the power of the Word — the Logos — as the last remaining structure capable of holding truth. Beneath the cosmic imagery and philosophical references lies a deeper longing: to understand whether language can still redeem, protect, or illuminate the human experience.

Last Days of Judgement

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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.

Why do you hate?

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

If you hate so bad your cock will hurt
For the worth of a Christian in an imagined bubble
While the Muslim awaits his silence about masturbation
With Christine Holz in White Teeth and some nigger cousins
Next to the helpful white couple down memory lane
With Barbara at The Conservatives at pain again
To remember the stress of being other people’s Mom
While the coon plays in your house with that word.
The anti-racists history in this country is absurd
The madness will fall
Debbie Clancey will tell all
And that was all the people I knew
When Gary Sambrook beat his cock black and blue
So get some Roger Ellory in you
And find out what a Scientologist can do
For the death of Travolta
And all that revolting stuff
He lied about when Kelly Preston lost America those tits.

Bit by bit their Empire will fall
And Madhuri will climb like a plant up against the wall
Incensed about Israel and how she was oppressed
To not market sports bras while she was undressed.

Rage, bother and hot sweaty yoga nights
Let the Knights sleep tight with Jesus I guess
Back to his Vedic House to be unimpressed
As you exorcise the demons from your past
Transcendence from Johnny Depp at last

AI Summary

Your piece is a raw outpouring of anger, shame, and cultural dislocation, moving through religion, sexuality, race, family memory, and the collapse of moral authority. You describe a world where faith traditions are twisted, where anti‑racist history feels hollow, where political figures and celebrities become symbols of hypocrisy, and where personal wounds from childhood and community still echo painfully. The emotional centre is the sense of being trapped between identities — Christian, Muslim, Hindu, British, Indian — and feeling judged, mocked, or misunderstood by all of them. You weave together pop culture, spiritual references, political resentment, and the ache of being misread, creating a portrait of a man trying to exorcise old demons and find a place where dignity, transcendence, and self‑respect are possible. The poem ends with a longing for release — from the past, from inherited shame, from cultural noise — and a hope for some kind of spiritual or emotional transcendence.

Extraordinary Shadows

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The things the news does not get to say
Have a good YouTube day
Continuation
Follow On
Let the day be long
Many things make Light Work.

Being Black
Something went bezerk
The nations found they did not know
How many internet accounts were sinking down below
Contours
Contribution
Military highway informations
Shadows in the poetic reverse of going on about Biggy Smalls’ hearse
*missing you

Something to do
Continuation
Not following on
Cricket is not all about India
Something for the Windies and their Maa

Mata this AND matter that
The word means tomorrow when today is what it said
Many times over
Trauma living in my body
Uncontrollable images
The messy dead
Injustice and unmotivated distress
Stirrings to action through shares and gangland traction.

Anguishing over the racial institution
Violence across the spectrum
See End End

AI Summary

Your poem opens with the silence of the news — the things unsaid, the gaps, the omissions — and immediately turns to YouTube, continuation, and “Light Work,” as if the real story is happening outside official channels. You move into the ache of Blackness, the sense of something “bezerk,” the sinking of online identities, the shadows of Biggie’s hearse, and the grief that keeps looping through culture. The emotional centre is the body: trauma stored in muscles, uncontrollable images, the messy dead, injustice that refuses to resolve. The poem widens into cricket, the Windies, Maa, Mata, matter, tomorrow, and the way language itself becomes unstable under pressure. The final lines land in the rawest place — racial institutions, violence across the spectrum, anguish that has no clean ending — a recognition that some wounds don’t close, they just keep speaking through you.

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.

Guru Mania

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The teacher’s strike in school
Maybe because they think they are God
At least that is what the newspapers say
After they have travelled to Colonial-ville.

The mania for Guru is on the loose
And they drink the Kool-Aid juice
Of change without fairness and time for their clothes:
When will the scholars admit them to Oxford for Rhodes.

There is shouting there is bashing
The banners need to be repeated.
But if they get to half past three and go back to school
They will have been defeated.

The mirror is not so real until they review the Guru feel
And all they have been taken for granted of being
While the right way of tuition was there for the seeing.

All criticism and no pay
That is the modern Government burden,
What can they do but face the New Age warden
Who grants the diminishing of students and success
For all that sexual gradation and immense emotionality and address.
The Saddhu and war
There is no mention of the Haridwar stores
Where the whore is closer to Babylon
Than the minority women in the back streets of London.
Streets of harlots, streets of shame
Lanes of winners, lanes of the Maine Street.
Things my Guru told me I would meet
When he re-friend my Friend from the great barrier
So I could see the end of the world and the illness and terror.

All this the school is exposed to
The students sit for their exams
And then the teachers fall off their hobby horses
Worried about who can and can’t eat ham.

Teacher, Guru, God-lover and denied route back home
Leave the fellows at Oxbridge alone
They might know where the road leads with the phone.

This is the merger of meaning and savoir faire
Where the guru is in a third way parting
With the self that is still so aware.

AI Summary

Your poem frames the teacher’s strike as a crisis of authority, where educators, gurus, governments, and colonial hangovers all blur into one contested figure of “the one who knows”. You move from satire — teachers thinking they are God, gurus drinking Kool‑Aid, scholars chasing Rhodes prestige — into a darker reflection on how schools absorb the world’s chaos: shouting, banners, exams, sexual politics, spiritual confusion, and the moral contradictions of modern Britain. The poem widens into a critique of cultural hypocrisy, from Haridwar to London backstreets, from Oxbridge fellows to New Age wardens, showing how every system of knowledge is entangled with power, shame, and exclusion. Beneath the humour and the sharpness is a deeper ache: the longing for a form of teaching — a guru, a guide, a path — that doesn’t exploit, diminish, or misread you. The final lines suggest a fragile reconciliation: meaning emerges only when the guru‑self and the aware‑self part ways just enough to see each other clearly.

Zaqat Went Splat

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Did you believe the world was this way?
The way the wildness inside of you did not say
That you need a woman like a woman needs a man
To satisfy the hotel room with coffee after an okay plan.

See, the outside world is such an egregious affair
I have my legs wilder than that in the outrageous air
Modelling Hollywood and L A Style as if I have savoir fare.

Three line whips, lots of chains of bondage
Alfonso Bhandari is there with your immature soul cage
Selling the shambles of brambled apples and some granny’s rage.

Voter! You are no daughter – with the hotel quartered
Entrance from a Hollywood master and his debutant blaster
For money and vermillion so that Iraqi can know first ladies
And squillions and zillions and bazillions after Tony Blair’s trillions.
Master Blaster – unable to hold the camera’s gaze
After raunchy Knights have held up erectile Counts
Far from the Paige’s and their confusion about the purple Ronnie
And how about some Blue Peter for yours truly and that fucking Konnie?!

Ropes and whistles and then there is some shouting matches
For the prettiest Oriental to sing me some blues
About Krishna’s curtains after he has been through the hue
Of cry and Laurel and Hardeep for that original truth:
To thine own self be avant-garde so that Spirit is doubled
#WhentheDevilknowsyourlonely and youthful mother is in trouble.

AI Summary

The poem confronts the chaos of desire, identity, and public spectacle, blending Hollywood excess, political theatre, spiritual longing, and personal vulnerability into a single, volatile stream. It moves between the wildness of the self and the distortions of the outside world, where fame, power, and cultural icons collide with private insecurities and the search for authenticity. The speaker critiques the commodification of intimacy, the absurdity of celebrity culture, and the emotional confusion of modern relationships, invoking mythic figures, media personalities, and political ghosts to expose how desire and identity are shaped by forces far larger than the individual. Beneath the satire and provocation lies a deeper ache: the longing to remain true to oneself in a world that constantly pulls the self apart, and the fear that loneliness, youth, and spiritual hunger might be exploited or misunderstood by those who claim authority

Why Do You Like Me?

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Why do you like me?
Unless you want something
Is it that I am handsome
Like your fairy King?

Is it the monstrous invention
In your little head?
That mentions my mother as invention
Before you go to bed.

It can’t be that we’re Partners
Those things are down at the Law Firm
And when things are soft I am lonely
Because all of your dates are so hard.
Could it be we are meant to be?
And you will come back soon to see me?
Is it that you long for the same things?
And not just politically writing out A to Zee.

Come down here literally my man
And spend some time with an English affair
It’s not so bad, you can even fake Red.
But if you’re up there in Americana
Then we have so many Codes for your Karma.
Cosmos boyo and landed Tolkien
How do you know where you bowl?
Where is the China you have been sold?

So trade in your Jackie for some Jackie Chan
Another time if you think this is Bruce Lee.
This days went out when the lights were Covent Garden
So I was hard on myself to get past the snooze at quarter past three.

AI Summary

The poem wrestles with uncertainty about why someone shows interest — whether it’s genuine affection, desire, cultural fascination, or simply convenience. The speaker questions beauty, partnership, politics, and the strange fantasies the other person seems to project onto him, while also acknowledging his own longing for closeness and recognition. The poem moves between humour and vulnerability, invoking Englishness, Americana, Bollywood, Tolkien, and martial‑arts icons to highlight the cultural dissonance between them. Beneath the teasing tone lies a deeper ache: the fear of being wanted only for surface reasons, the hope that the connection might be real, and the frustration of feeling exoticised, misunderstood, or kept at a distance by someone who drifts between worlds.

The Port of Sports

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Candles on the wind

Lighten the Godly passage to Sindh

Where the pains of Spanish ladies

Contour the refrain of deranged grading.

The garden of the grades

Where the blossom is fair in the shade

Of a Serpent’s seditious glare

To fathom a woman’s tressles and hair.

“This is where it will be for me!”

He says under the ignorant Sycamore Tree

With a word as strong as Oak

About his right to fuck hard after a toke.

A token gesture and a reverent remission of cancer’s permission

Cancer’s commission from the Pharmeceutical derision

That the body is his to fatten and flee from

After the farts from Depakote and Deepthroat from Gazprom.

Dark into the night when the oceans crash against the shores

Is the fittest thing, the sexiest Blonde, the holiest Hindu whore

More! Why not sell me your mother to travel on the shared Earth

With wild seas and a few little more than ships from the past

To tell of the wide birth

Beyond the Yugas

Above the Togas

Far from the sticky tobacco and the wives with their stockings and pull overs.

Over and far and fair from the wettest wind

Carrying onto the decks the crouching of shivered boys

Lost to the Port of Spain and the knees that know pain

Travelling men : Back again.

Lost in time : Responsibility is an offered crime.

Crimes that are for me : Crimes that are for you.

Language was thus shared : It spoke of negotiations and upmarket Poo!

Pooh Pah’ing the bandits of the brain

Who mentioned commotion and sold the strain

Of cloth and cupboards and style of Art and affairs

To keep up Consummate Actions so that sexuality had it’s lustful lair.

Proof that Kama Sutra was legal tenacity

And contracts of somatic housing was legality –

They had known us when he had been with her,

So that we could be above this as ours was not theirs…

…

…

… On and on

What a story!

The commotion of The Locomotion

And the trade of The Mona Lisa.

Hey! It’s hay and we have the same bale to make on the shipping

Sell to me your facts and I will fax you some returns.

Burning with the lust to get to the bust from the back bras

And the open bare minimalism of hairs that stand apart from afar –

Show me your Hindu and I will bare a brave resolve

To drink whet and alongside your Islands

Where the unloading is seeing long and Ceylon is my Ramayana song!

Jay Siya Raam!

Ahoy there Hanuman!

You’re my mate with that karma

Since Romantics knew my bonds.

They sold it to me fair

I don’t see why it needs to be sold out late

Now that records speak of the devil

And The Beatles have no first mate!

Still the demons and demonstrate for me awhile, So I can see : —-

—–

—-===++++

— xxxxxx £

$ cost

£Prophet

% Reportage

This is the Spirit of the Age

Again.

{Again is the pain}

And far away is the brain I cannot see on the sea.

These are ships that told of the three line whips

And how Majesty knew to address the dress line

For one or two poetic and rude linearity healthy quips.

AI Summary

The poem is a sprawling, turbulent meditation on history, sexuality, colonial memory, spiritual inheritance, and the commodification of bodies and cultures, moving from Sindh to Spain, from serpents to sycamores, from pharmaceutical cynicism to ancient epics. It blends mythic imagery with modern anxieties, invoking Kama Sutra, Hanuman, Mona Lisa, Gazprom, and Beatles in the same breath, creating a world where trade, desire, violence, and art all become part of the same restless current. The speaker navigates oceans literal and symbolic — ships, boys, ports, storms — while wrestling with the weight of cultural expectation, erotic frustration, and the sense that everything, from sex to spirituality to history itself, is being bought, sold, faxed, or burned. Beneath the satire and provocation lies a deeper lament for meaning, dignity, and clarity in an age where the “Spirit of the Age” feels fractured, commodified, and endlessly repeating itself.

The International Mama

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

There are times in the solid room
There is a okay Heraldry in the plastic tomb
Here and there is a fractured glass of a sonic boom

When the ships in the night are frightening.
These are the times when my teeth need whitening
And the lazy Sunday deserves an extra half hour in bed
After a week of working and washing the clothes
So far and so long that the measurements are not dead.

Something for me and something for them
The next thing they ask for is going to be too much.
There is not a bedroom that couldn’t do without a Rabbit Hutch
And more life for my kids stuck in a rut in England on a couch.

Married or unmarried it has to be the way
That Islam is Brick Lane when Hindus like Stoney Lane:
This eases the paths so that wires can be their heads
As Darth Vaders playing Space Invaders when I am gone and dead.

Halo boys on the angelic tip looking for some ink wells to laugh and dip
Their erectile problems fathoming centuries of God,
Because of schools and computers
That told of Blake’s Thel and her encounter with a Clod.

Something for me and something for them,
At least I will be back here again!
With their rotten spoilt karma to wile away the time
And think of good demons who give Satan all their crimes.

Nothing
Everything
Commanding things
Washing things again
These are the ways
Those are not the ways
DO this
DON’T DO that
What a prat
My son is a part prat
Because of Rat a Tat Tat
And all the stocks went splat
Breasts that are flat
Moments that I say “Drat!”
Who says “Drat!”?

When the movies are over after 96 minutes, some Nachos and some cheese.
pLeAsE
AcCePt : My Sons without regret
And let them finish some sand, sex and some sandwiches
So that Sanghrias could help them forget,

The war of Mahabharata 78004
Or whatever is at the door,
When I am not separate from you
Like the Heavenly liar and the Holy Jew.

AI Summary

The poem moves through a week’s worth of fatigue, domestic labour, parental worry, cultural inheritance, and spiritual confusion, all filtered through a mind that refuses to separate the mundane from the mythic. Lazy Sundays, whitening teeth, and kids on the couch sit alongside Blake, Mahabharata, Darth Vader, and the ghosts of England’s immigrant streets, creating a portrait of someone trying to hold their life together while the world’s histories, religions, and digital noise press in from every side. The speaker oscillates between humour and despair, tenderness and irritation, invoking angels, demons, gods, and games as metaphors for the pressures of fatherhood, identity, and survival. Beneath the associative leaps lies a steady ache: the desire for rest, for understanding, for a future for the children, and for a world where the wars of the past — cultural, religious, personal — stop echoing through the living room.