royalty

Reduction

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

He is 1/500th the millionth part
Of the man I used to be in the start
Of a project where the goal is target number one
For the Way & the Hero: ~~

Come to me, now
Sell up your shores on the broken battles.
Those tired machines are art in the dreams of morons,
Who will they know?How will they be counted?
Scene by scene in the anime dream
Poking and toking
Joking about Loke.

Okely Dokey : That’s all they had to say
As the school grass grew wildly
And neither teacher nor parent won that day.
Every day?…
Every, every day?…
Sell me a fuck or Fuck OFF with me!

Switch off, his celebrity.
Change your mind, celebrated kind.
Change our change and spend your kindness,
Retire with us and pay us back for the broken image of Heartland.
What else don’t you understand?

What school was reprehensible – as my fashion was demeanable
Alternative type
Zero stripes
Military drape
Wife of the black man.

You’re a no man again
And I won my pain!
I am Victor next to Malthus
So that St Germaine is my French strain.

Common chill blaines – walking shore to shore as an immigrant talking about the door being shut on Jabba the Hut.
“Hello there too!”
I’m in your grandfather’s house as well.
Come in and I’ll shoot
The Porn is on reboot!

Exclaiming typists style away the YouTube braying of anticipation
Constant present awareness and nondual fidgeting without Capital.
Capitol Hill and the same men chill without Charity day of Chang
For a job that can rearrange,
The Drugs
The Thugs
The Harmony
The Druids and the Balmy Army…

Why do these questions plague me?
Centuries have I waited for a computer
Art is a mirror that makes us look away
It here for modern Kings to have their Thor’s day
IMDb and all that Brie
Save some for me, Lady Anastasia
All the men’s children and all the lady’s Portillo besides the braided bunch of lunch inspired speakers about twice a week instead of God’s sod off day Day Off.

Cough twice if you have heard about Nadia Nyce
Stamp three times if you think Bree Olson would be nice
Piano ties
Eyes that cry
Times like mine
Cooking with Thyme.
What the broth will cum up
When there is one big fuck up
And the acting breaks the Montego Bay railing
Far cry from the fast cars that did the jailing
Save all your pissing for me
When I am on ITV – and the plans for the Spandex hit my Decks at a quarter past the Tree of Knowledge.
Fuck what you were taught in your Daddy’s chair
While he stared
And the Beatles cared
Who dares lost
And the cost is a Valium
In the Valley of the Shadow of Death
Far from the prestigious breath of the outgoing Ujahi
Settlers on the Plains of Shiva and his Pranayama for Parvati.

There will come a time
When time will come to time
So that computers came to earth
Before the woman 9 monthed stoney births.
TV
Baby
Kazapow & ???…///:: Ping Pyao! Bang Bang Bom!!!!!
How long have you known.
                                                 About the Stone.
“Say something so high up there
I’ll be a Yuppie’s mum so aware
Of the rich things she’s driving they haven’t got
And the teacher at 75 who is ISKCON lost”

!Don’t you want my babies
Don’t you want a whore -awe -inspiring man -aweawaw”
——– The End|

AI Summary

Your poem moves through a vast landscape of identity, memory, and cultural pressure — beginning with the sense that someone else has become a tiny fraction of the man you once were, and spiralling into battles, anime dreams, schoolyard humiliations, celebrity culture, fashion, race, immigration, and the ache of being demeaned by systems that never understood you. You weave together Malthus, St Germaine, Jabba the Hutt, YouTube typists, Capitol Hill, druids, armies, computers, kings, IMDb, Anastasia, teachers, ISKCON, and the long shadow of spiritual and cultural inheritance. The poem ricochets between humour, rage, longing, and despair — porn stars beside pranayama, Montego Bay beside the Valley of Death, Shiva beside ITV, Yuppie mothers beside stoney births. Beneath the chaos is a deeper wound: the pain of someone who has waited centuries — metaphorically, spiritually — for a voice, a computer, a platform, a place to speak from, and now pours everything out at once because the world has never given him a safe container. The poem ends with a cry from the deepest part of the psyche — a mix of desire, shame, rebellion, and the longing to be seen without being judged.

Order It Again

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

In order to build order
Find out what the disorder did to you.
When there is water let there be dryness
If you find your Highness is too much of a blow for you.

They called him a King who dwelt on the most high
And left him with a poet who lost his script when the ink was dry –
That is the first difference between me and you:
That is the difference between a Cross and a Jew.

There are letters that say how I have been feeling
When the wire is tapped so the walkers are reeling

From their orgasms and manic spasms in the left of the Fall
When Autumn knows no conversation in the old Mordan Hall.
Sell my your cough as you walk repeated and reappear
Like a mirror from the Magic Mandrake who’s Magi is near
To the salesman who’s bonus means a full meal for the family and all
When the Summertown is not dunces town with a wheely bin for the Ball.

Next to me is the whisperer and the Clothed Dagger of the magic pen
Saying “Again!”
“Again!”
Where is the writer’s brain?
Straining, like a refraining, draining on the containment of time,
Again…

AI Summary

Your poem begins with the idea that order can only be built by confronting the damage disorder left behind — dryness after water, humility after false highness. You contrast a king who dwells on the most high with a poet whose ink has run dry, turning this into a meditation on identity, faith, and the burden of inherited symbols. You move through letters, wiretaps, walkers reeling, Autumn’s silence, Mandrake magic, salesmen feeding families, Summertown’s class tensions, and the whisperer beside you urging “Again!” as the magic pen strains against time. Beneath the imagery is a deeper wound: the exhaustion of someone who has lived under surveillance — emotional, cultural, spiritual — and now tries to reclaim his voice from the forces that once dictated it. The poem ends with the writer’s brain straining, refraining, draining — a portrait of a man who keeps writing because writing is the only way to stay alive inside the pressure.

Ole 2 Gramma (!#@?)

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Load the Sangeet
Dance with my feet
Stray sleepers on the street
That’s not where we meet.

Fanciful debonair desires
The heart is still on fire
For what the TV brought
When the ships returned nought.

How can I be rude for you
When you have the Moon to review
And your conspiracy crew
Is full of their own truth.

Jesus is for you
After you nailed him to the Cross
And told the story for us
Of your yesteryears and wankers’ Tax and Overdrafts.

Shares on the Shaadi
Come over with the Commons
Share the commotion with one of your Literary Reviews
Your just just not going to get the Kiplings cakes on, are you?

It’s always the same
With the Colonial strain
Something feminist and then some chilblains
If they don’t see it for themselves with Dwayne.

Hassle free Texts
Something frilly for your Ex
So I can be betwixt my vexation
Always late for your non invitation.

How?
Brogues.
The lounge.
Lozenges.

// Whatever could it have been
COVID and the streets of CCTV
When the waters were civilized
And more TV passed a Prince’s eyes:

  • For the child he just just could not see
  • When the Willow the Wisp was not I-SPN
  • Heroes see.

AI Summary

Your poem moves between music, memory, and the strange dislocation of modern life — Sangeet rhythms, sleepers on the street, TV illusions, ships returning empty, and the conspiratorial noise of people who think they know the truth. You weave together Jesus, taxes, overdrafts, Shaadi shares, Kipling cakes, colonial strain, feminist flashes, and the quiet ache of being left out of invitations. The poem shifts into brogues, lounges, lozenges, COVID streets, CCTV eyes, and the image of a prince watching TV while missing the child he cannot see. Beneath the humour and cultural references is a deeper wound: the longing to belong somewhere — in music, in family, in history, in love — and the frustration of living in a world where East and West misunderstand each other, where invitations don’t arrive, where conspiracy replaces connection, and where heroes see but do not act. The poem ends on a soft, almost ghostly note: Willow‑the‑Wisp, ESPN, heroes seeing — as if you’re asking whether anyone truly sees you.

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.

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.

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.