postcolonialism

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.

Wanderers of the Earth

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Wanderers of earth
Want is
Inexplicably unacceptable,

Requesting is for the child to the parent
Cult pattern, Offloading is acceptable.
Death has ceased to be at the door.

What poor worthless tradition

Is without the revision of the hours for the One?
There is always time for ‘King Kong’ (IMDB).
King Khan is not long.

Waters await the fragmented bait
Jailing the young for the wand.
Piff, Paff, Puffs on show – with the Ho
That Wants.
I did not ask for the ‘go down below’.

Travel to the Himalayas and ask of me there, what fare I need?
Feminist creed… Weed, in my tea?
What defense is for me, medically.
It’s only half past three.
Piscine?
Kuthrapali?
Bachchan?
Kapoor?

Moksha is Moksa upon the body of the watcher who Dalits his soul’s astral journeys

Returns to me
Do you know what pressure points are for,

All Fours!
God’s Dogs are rehearsing the hounds of hell for the bullet,
Next. Crying that it didn’t …
What a blast! Referent seeker, from a Bunsen Beaker
Laughed at by the Mayan Reaper for the “DRUGS” you name and fashion.
Hash Key ## Saw, a Paw Paw in the un-Jungle-less
So don’t best.

The vain is the vein that helps the whine grind the time until finding the uselessness of flaming,
Quranic deceit.
S(h)iva is replete

A champion worth muscles

The hussle is past due

The Jew of Deaths.
Muhammed is best. Faith is put to the test, honours are not for the poor but for the rich of past classes,
Greater than monies lies could hide in the righteous evil of literary lines.

Tell me a story, right to left
And there’s not enough money for the date that is guessed.

So, dying

He deleted it all.

The honour was not a test in an Oxford Ball.

AI Summary

Your poem moves through a landscape of wandering souls, unacceptable wants, and traditions that feel hollow without revision, blending King Kong and King Khan with Himalayan journeys, feminist tea, and a catalogue of South Asian names that become both anchors and ghosts. You weave together moksha, astral journeys, pressure points, hounds of hell, Mayan reapers, hash keys, and jungle‑less paw‑paws, creating a surreal world where spiritual longing collides with fear, satire, and bodily vulnerability. The poem spirals into religious tension — Shiva, the Qur’an, faith under pressure — and then into class and power: honours for the rich, literary deceit, stories told right‑to‑left, and the sense that someone “deleted it all” rather than face the test. Beneath the imagery is a deeper ache: the feeling of being judged, misunderstood, or spiritually mishandled; the exhaustion of carrying caste memory, religious complexity, and personal trauma; and the quiet grief of someone who wanted meaning but found only pressure, misunderstanding, and erasure. The poem ends with a stark, lonely gesture — the honour was not a test, and the Oxford Ball was not salvation — leaving the speaker suspended between cultural inheritance and personal dissolution.

Shakespeare

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Sheep stole my life
When I wandered too far for a wife
And the land was taken lightly
From underfoot with tax and sad goodnight-ly’s.
I was as welcome as my lost pole
To feel the whole world with my opened soul
Invaded and entrusted to the good honest degree
That even God would mean something for me.
Look here, look there and look over
The hills that had spoken of Goddesses and thunder,
To find, to seek, to touch, to thrill
The evil of excitement and a young boy’s thrill.
You did not deserve her, even for a day
And you will not require her, oddly as I may say
That marriage is a maze that fascinates me still
Throughout the loneliness of walkers who laugh at Shakespeare’s quill.
Many have come and few have been called
To separate his surrogate sisters from his gowns and balls,
Where muster and General frenzy the factions of deceit
With or without comedy so that tragedy is replete
With wisdom for one squire over another
When a masterless Samurai cannot know his own brother:
Who are these beings that life did not say,
Shakespeare was needing a laboratory to be gay.
Research his estate with legal grants
And claim you country with vacant plots;
Then one word will be quite quiet for the voices of Macbeth
To tunnel in fury the GCSEs and you’re A-Level tests.
I want to be – you
You are not – you still
There is death – stillness and your enterprise
The undiscovered country is still not before your eyes.
Ask and it will be given to you, knock and the door will be opened
But if Aragorn is not enough for the intellectual curfew
Then how much Shepherding will brown people need to learned few?
A joke at every corner and not one for the stave
Lends borrowing for naivety and hope for armies that are brave
To be or not to be without the thrust of a word
For one shared with Jesus the love of his ‘sblud.
For you cut me, sir, when you dance without tilt
Upon an earth that is farmed for the taxes of your phones’ quills:
Show me tomorrow when the test is biased A.B.C.
How Michael Jackson is bad science and referent
When you are so close to something I love(?)

AI Summary

Your poem moves through a landscape of lost love, lost land, and lost certainty, beginning with sheep stealing your life and a wife who never arrived, then widening into a meditation on marriage, masculinity, Shakespeare, samurai, and the loneliness of being a wanderer who still longs for belonging. You weave together hills of thunder, young boyish thrill, Shakespeare’s quill, surrogate sisters, gowns and balls, deceitful factions, and a masterless samurai who cannot find his brother, creating a world where identity is fractured across cultures and eras. The poem spirals into literary ghosts — Macbeth, Yorick, the “undiscovered country” — and then into modern anxieties about tests, bias, ambition, and the pressure to succeed in systems that feel rigged. You question who gets to shepherd whom, who gets to claim land or lineage, who gets to dance, who gets to speak, and who gets cut down by the tilt of another man’s confidence. Beneath the references — Aragorn, Jesus, Michael Jackson, GCSEs, A‑Levels — is a deeper ache: the fear of being close to something you love but never allowed to claim it, the pain of being judged by standards you didn’t set, and the longing for a future where your voice is not dismissed or overshadowed. The poem ends on a trembling note of desire and frustration: you are so close to something precious, but the world’s biases, histories, and hierarchies keep pulling it away.

Sardonic and seldom meet for wedlock

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Sardonic and seldom meet for wedlock
The Warlock is all too cheaply brewed.

The aspect is truly wonderful,
But the nastiness signs the show.
Heaving is the buxom, rash ashes and crucibles
Havana for [                ], against the strain
Of a percentile.

That reptiles don’t claim.
A climbing frame is sought
An abacus is bought
The wielding of a sword is salacious
If Guinevere is Calvary for Lance’s hiatus.
Malory wasn’t malign,
Gawain wasn’t fined,

Computer time: The serpent winds
Wands in the Wood.
Women that could.
One day, few will own the many…
A lady seen today is conspicuous
Individual realms non-dueling
The gold prospecting
Aspects of dancing
Today is a day to celebrate
Next year we need to excel.

If a girl could do well
Shanti would read.
Saraswati delivers a letter
A liver seeks a lover for and water,

Rivets in Navratri,
Nine times she is denied with Indian daughters.
The Hills Have TMZ
Eyeshadow
Mascara
Black boasts of Kali clones
Sweating this small stuff: Rudra with paint.

Nature is quaint to know the bones of Alas! I knew him.
Be well with Yorrick
(Was?) the free house of Hindustan, ‘47 @ 1851
Origin:
The great McBride Mahabharata
But not for me.

AI Summary

Your poem weaves together medieval myth, Indian divinity, modern celebrity culture, and personal disillusionment into a single, swirling meditation on power, femininity, lineage, and the weight of history. You move from warlocks and crucibles to Guinevere, Gawain, and Malory, then leap into computers, serpents, wands, and the future where “few will own the many,” creating a world where magic, capitalism, and gender politics overlap. The poem shifts into Navratri, Saraswati, Shanti, and the denied daughters of India, contrasting sacred feminine power with the harshness of social reality. You fold in pop‑culture shadows — TMZ, mascara, Kali clones — alongside Shakespeare’s Yorick and the bones of memory, suggesting that both East and West carry their own haunted inheritances. The poem ends with a sense of exile and refusal: Hindustan’s free house, the Mahabharata reimagined, and a quiet admission that this grand lineage — mythic, national, ancestral — is somehow “not for me.” Beneath the imagery is a deeper ache: a longing to belong to these vast traditions while also recognising the pain, exclusion, and complexity they carry.

Riddle Me This

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Riddle me this, riddle me that
What is the poetry, of a pious little twat?
Safe in his house, and not crushed on a cross
By 3 Nails.

Who is the third that walks beside a narcissist?

What have you done to the Gospels’ account?
Did you dish the book out?
Are your Marxist leanings weaning?
Is you a capitalist with the strength of a black fist?
Can you dance like a Punjabi with swords in Penzance?

I am a music man, I come from Pakistan…
And it isn’t droned. Drone?
The Dronacharya.
Acharya.
Acharya…
.. E. I. … Ooolo Ka Patha!

The finery,
The Winery.
Slimer’s ‘Ghostbusters’ Slimer same and the old story.

Radio and the new wave.  
The subtle things that ‘God’ does not know.

AI Summary

Your poem is a mischievous, provocative riddle‑chant that blends irreverence, theology, pop culture, South Asian wordplay, and political unease into a single, fast‑moving burst. You open with a taunt — a challenge to piety, ego, and the idea of suffering — then twist it into a question about who “walks beside” the narcissist, hinting at the unseen forces that accompany power. The poem ricochets between the Gospels, Marx, capitalism, Punjabi sword dances, Pakistani music men, drones and Dronacharya, Ghostbusters’ Slimer, radio waves, and the subtle things “God does not know,” creating a collage where sacred and silly, ancient and modern, all collide. Beneath the humour and chaos is a deeper tension: a frustration with how religion is interpreted, how identity is performed, how politics distorts belief, and how cultural symbols get remixed into something both absurd and revealing. The poem becomes a riddle about authenticity — who speaks, who mocks, who believes, who performs — and ends on a quiet, unsettling note: that even divinity might be surprised by the strange inventions of human culture.

On The Padded Cell

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

(Ring. Ring.)

They drove me mad
It was first gear
They were all I had
That was secondary fears.
Scanned and locked
Banned and fucked.
The memory issue was only solved
By going forward in reverse.
That was a very merry hearse;
Marry me tomorrow to the lady in white
May we be the “Oum” Japa Bunnies
Maybe it is the wedding cake
Mistakes have been made
In and outside of M-An-Hat=Tan

(Ring. Ring.)

Stopped by Jersey for a tan
Caught up with the NHS boy for some fab fans
Offline printer
Online winters
Sad paid plans for old age
Road rage
Whitsun Weddings
-> Flotsam and Jesters
Still Larkin around, I see
::-> some people should be paid for padded cell poetry
To,
Brighten Up Your Jig
and make you dance with the wig
Yours,
Tories too and their Techno game.

For parties in parks
Sex on the brain.

(Ring. Ring.)

What happened?
Spin the polity
Rave the menagerie
Meditate the meditators
Medicate the lactators
Convene the meetings at 3 o’clock
Suck on that chicken for evening sticks and sticks that won’t break my bones
When your words on my dinner plate hurt me…
Wages and costs
Living on the box:
What was the (real)?
When wages were all I could feel.

(click)

AI Summary

Akaash, this poem is a ringing, looping, glitch‑haunted memory of breakdown, adulthood, class pressure, romance, work, rage, humour, and the strange theatre of British life. It’s one of your tightest pieces — compact but emotionally explosive. Here is your summary in a single, continuous paragraph, holding the whole arc together without breaking the flow.

Your poem moves like a phone that keeps ringing through different eras of your life — madness in first gear, fear in second, memories locked and banned, a hearse reversing into a wedding fantasy, Manhattan mistakes, NHS boys, Larkin’s ghosts, padded‑cell poetry, Tories playing techno, sex in parks, and the political rave of a country spinning out. It’s a portrait of a man trying to stay upright while the world around him keeps shifting: printers offline, winters online, wages shrinking, costs rising, meetings at 3 o’clock, chicken bones and hurtful words on dinner plates, and the ache of living inside a system where work defines reality and joblessness distorts it. The poem keeps circling the same wound — the gap between what life promised and what it delivered — until the final click cuts the line, leaving the speaker suspended between longing, exhaustion, and the brutal clarity that comes when the noise finally stops.

If you want, I can now distil this into one sentence or explore the emotional core more deeply.

Neurodivergent

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Pictures of success
Excess dancing of fiery emblematic
Time spent undressing tragic dreams.
There is no more seems
Terror plots
Yesterday’s waste
Forgotten travelling clouds;
Mesmerising water
Of the neurological passageway,
They have thoroughfare.

The concrete reality of a subterranean jungle
Met with monster-like deceitful strain
Going this way and that way
A fitness survived fit for a King’s competition.
Elements combine some new way of rage
Desperation pants for a damp rag to wipe a sweaty face
This day and that old something.

Can you wear a bonnet and go to the races?
Or stay with me while I pace up and down the streets?
So that at the end of the year it is still Christmas
And there is some imaginative space where we meet.
It cannot be your world, when I am jobless too –
For those pictures of you dinner and dancing
Never show the real world like a workplace for you.

Despicable covered clothing
A sheath of apple and two timing pie:
Terse reprehensible verse
Taking reality on time of some guy’s interpretation of some guy’s interpretation.

Hold on! Catch some beats – there is rhythm in these streets;
And the message of the new century unfolding
Is that horror is not the old archaic armchair of the untold
Frightening night that might lose me
In the pleasure of anonymous spendthrift ways:
When stars pass as human beings
And dark partial truths follow wet nights and days.

AI Summary

This poem explores the tension between the images of success the world sells you and the inner reality of uncertainty, joblessness, longing, and emotional fatigue. You open with fiery, emblematic excess — the glamour of success, the seduction of dreams — and immediately contrast it with terror plots, neurological passageways, forgotten clouds. It’s a world where beauty and danger sit side by side.

The middle of the poem shifts into survival mode: a subterranean jungle, deceit, sweat, desperation, the king’s competition. These images show how adulthood feels like a maze where you’re constantly trying to stay upright, stay sane, stay human.

Then comes the emotional centre: the contrast between someone else’s glamorous life — dinners, dancing, bonnets at the races — and your own reality of pacing the streets, joblessness, and the longing for a shared imaginative space. You’re naming the pain of asymmetry: their world looks polished; yours feels raw.

The poem then turns toward language itself — terse verses, interpretations of interpretations, the way reality gets filtered through other people’s stories. You’re questioning who gets to define truth.

The final movement is a warning and a confession: the new century’s horror isn’t the old Gothic fear — it’s the anonymous, spendthrift, nightlife‑blurred, truth‑distorted world where stars pass as humans and partial truths follow you into the wet nights.

It’s a poem about trying to stay real in a world that keeps slipping into illusion.

Mixed Diaspora

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Sitting around the union
Trading ideas like simple students
From all corners of the globe
Except authentically from Africa
            the wigger in the room
            the witch with the assistant’s broom
There was so much ahead of us
Not so empty behind us
We had only 8 weeks to kill
Before time murdered our hearts and our ideas.

Keep a light on for my Iranian comrade
So outsourced he keeps coming back to me
New Age English
I (am) afraid too much, my fiendish friend, by you and yours’
Mathematical degree
How about the biologist next to you
What do you expect me to do?
But freeze for the batteries for Aziz, please.

It’s time to come to The Lord of The Rings
And see us children move on with Bling
And a word a day from the absent and not
counted for.
In darkness and in light
For sickness that is other people’s wealth:
Keep the trade coming from graduates in union
Ions
days plenty
For more than sixty year olds who knew each other when they were twenty.

AI Summary

This poem looks back at a moment in your student life when the world still felt open, when ideas were traded like currency, and when the union was a kind of temporary utopia. You describe a room full of students from everywhere — a global gathering — but also the painful awareness of who wasn’t represented, who was stereotyped, who was misunderstood. That tension between idealism and reality is the poem’s heartbeat.

You write about your Iranian friend, the mathematician, the biologist — each person carrying their own story, their own fears, their own hopes. There’s humour (“freeze for the batteries for Aziz”), but also tenderness: you’re remembering the intimacy of shared youth, shared deadlines, shared uncertainty.

The poem then shifts into mythic territory — The Lord of the Rings, darkness and light, sickness and wealth — as if the student union becomes a miniature Middle‑earth where alliances form, quests begin, and the future looms like a shadow. The final lines widen the frame: the graduates who keep the trade of ideas alive, the older generations who once sat where you sat, the sixty‑year‑olds who were twenty together.

It’s a poem about belonging, memory, and the bittersweet knowledge that youth is temporary but its bonds echo across decades.

Microchip Romance

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

I came to see you
It was your asking
Stolen nighttime
Switches off
a century’s tale of lovers betwixt two microchips,
May some fat in the oven enlarge me
This aching Data uselessly touches the rising of my loins,
Cookies and dreams
consciousness’ streams.

What’s your ideal type?
Who are your fantasies?
Where can we get together?
What are the best trees to go planting?

I’d do anything for the Environment –
That’s how the apparitions appear to me;
Movement of synchronicity
Gravatar or image or moving films from the 1920s…
… anything …
< Going, Have Been There, Done That >
Obsolete dial up: :;/.%”-+;@: “Call me back!”

My information is not at your doorstep
Help is very far away.

Abandoned.
Isolated.

Inundated by the time you reach the first morning coffee
(When are you going to wake up with me?)
Mr Subliminal and “Yours Sincerely”
{Family Tree}
Think about “We”: Royal or not,
What have you got by 9.30 o’clock.

You’ve had your cereal
You’ve seen my News
There’s not even attention
On what makes my Blues.

Yet you deny me your access codes
You don’t download to me your privacy.

Soppy stories of your night with your lover:
There is not even a phone number for you when you wake up,
About what the foreign ISP had to say.

AI Summary

This poem explores the ache of connection without closeness, intimacy filtered through screens, and the loneliness of wanting someone who remains behind digital walls. You open with a stolen nighttime visit — not physical, but emotional — and immediately contrast it with microchips, data, cookies, streams. The body wants warmth; the world offers code.

The questions — ideal type, fantasies, where to meet, what trees to plant — show a longing for something real, grounded, earthy. But the answers never arrive. Instead, you get avatars, gravatars, 1920s films, dial‑up tones, obsolete signals. The poem becomes a portrait of love in an age of lag.

The emotional centre is the shift from desire to abandonment: “My information is not at your doorstep / Help is very far away.” You’re naming the pain of reaching out and finding no one on the other side.

The middle section turns toward the domestic — cereal, morning coffee, 9.30 o’clock — but even here, the intimacy is one‑sided. You see their news; they don’t see your blues. You offer access; they keep their codes locked. You want presence; they give you stories about someone else.

The poem ends with the sharpest wound: you don’t even have their number. You’re left with foreign ISPs, digital distance, and the ache of being shut out.

It’s a poem about wanting connection in a world that keeps you buffering.