scientology

Unemployed Man

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Unemployed man
Terrified Middle Eastern caravan
Travelling the international routes
With my mind
With my mind
Gaining military support
Looking at DWP reports
Checking our nigger Sociology
Setting Barack Hussein free.

What’s an Obama to the Unibomber
And a reraise from Phil Ivey
Possible poison to the Christians I see
And the malevolence growing from the jealous young ones in the pews.
They don’t like the rhythm in you
They don’t like you’re fitting in
They don’t like your connection with the Jew
The one with the blonde hair who tried to care…

Something for the racists to walk about and stare at
One man crowds in Weoley Castle from me shouting at Abishek all aloud
So easy to predict like a Sambrook trail of shit on our streets
So young and so fashionable with Russell Brand’s karma
The Beatles will harm her again.
The Beatles will kill Bruce Lee again
And Mr Paul Paki will never set these streets free.

For who was he when my father was driving?
Who was he when my father was cooking alone?
How did the police discriminate against him then and upon what grounds
As their radios played crap music and Oasia rolled on along the charts with Blur.

#itsallfittingin for the size of the Indian yogi tin
As they lecture on the parts of lyrics fair
For the words I would not learn.
Don’t ask me how Beethoven moves
You called British, that’s what that language proves.

Don’t ask me to celebrate Operatic performances,
They’re in London, far away from my mother.
Keep them for the thespians in London who don’t spend their money on their own culture in London
As my rhymes don’t please them
Better than Shakespeare in the 1600s – who’s been rewriting that and keep them out of the stocks, wickets and crowds?

How do they spend their money when Gordon Brown is allowed..
{Free reign over any pussy he likes!}
London is full of dykes and not the fit sort on American Porn
Madonna won’t tell the truth about the Spirit that helped her spawn
Music better than the tripe she shovelled to invading niggers in her older years.

Dancing on ice is what she needs to fear!
Slip ups and staged catastrophes
“One thing for me” and the Queen nearly resigned at 93…
Saving Private Charles is now Matt Damon to me
With Ben Affleck hiding tall dark and manufactured.
What time is the 6 o clock shadow Mr Ordinary Man
And where did you stash that cash in the walls for Mr Amitabh Bachchan?

So party on dudes and cause some rucus if you dare.
The streets of England and fair Birmingham City –
Come on you Blues!
Come on you Blues!
BLOOOO ARMEEEEEEE!
BLOOOOO ARMEEEEEE!

  • They are George Clooney and Ryan Reynolds aware.

The Man Who Wasn’t Jesus

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Locked and located in the visions of the abatement
Taxed and gyrated in the fractured giving of some hate that meant
Time on a prison planet in the formation of the Self;
Leave me alone lest I mate with an Elf.

The roads around Elgin Avenue are softer than the marshmallow texture around them
Lake Districts walks in the coldness of a fanciful imagination of power
The adornment of robes and the inculcation or flights of the orgies
Holding people into power when the High Street said “enough!”.

This as it is is the mentioning of tempestuous recalcitrant energies
Pulling the simple man apart so he may walk on water on the Thames
Merry with last nights joviality and sad with tomorrow’s created stress,
And too burdened a mind lost with the lover that is Christ wanting more.

These are the doors or perceptible forgiven channels and angles troubling angels
Harassing the ordinary ambition of every day mental men
Walking the tight rope to the corporate office and raised appropriation of success
While the light within beacons for more than is possible from a human breast.

Washes from washes are potential when the image is coursed in love
Such is greatness when it falls for pigeons in Trafalgar without a dusty dove.

Pride

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

What awards has Nobel given?
What estates has he blessed?
Where is the evening out of his grace?
What is a school tomorrow for his pride?
When is the State alive for what could be planned?
How long is the dictionary lane to the organised meeting?
What is the roughage of the shit of a Psychological Degree;
When all it still is is property, Flag and the Celebrity Centre of Scientology?
What has the medic done in England?
What is a GP to the boy scouts and girl guides handing out cookies in America?

#MyBookieWookie ^ LSD
Time controllers again and no awards
Verification
Leader by attribution
No other nation
Tibet cannot be Rwanda
They list the causes
They control the donations
Now he sighs when all is branded
Now he complains when his Indian sex orgies have been commanded
What is the complaint that Arjuna knew to give Krishna
Once a nervous breakdown, always unreliable.

For why do you war, Russell, and shit on the talk show couch?
What are these laws you speak over & why does Jimmy Kimmel and Matt Damon make you say “ouch”?
Who did what to whom when Rishiboy graced the world,
With a flash of Depakote for Epilepsy on the BBC?
When Aishwarya wore leather for Wossy?
And his fat ugly wife bought shares on Images on the computer?
When is a King so inert?
When his Princeship is codes in a predicted poet?
When is his child so revert?
When blondes are their prediction from a poet?

Slow down there tiger and lets lets,
For Akaash Rani that you won’t let go…
I know all the biographies of demonic English writers
When will you share with us this Krishna,
For God’s sake, surely, that is what we’re having a go at?!

With

(Yo Mama)
The Pharcyde on Cassette in the 1990s
So tell them Noam as you hide your plans
To dominate the world as Plato from victory land
That Israel is Is it Real for the worst of human kind
And shit on a Church that Bill Clinton still wants to teach Russell Brand to find.
Give us the tape from Hulk Hogan, sir, of your cock being sucked
For the losers in Haridwar that Will Smith taped to touch
Then, maybe then, you’ll see the Rish out in public land
As the worst horror of politics so old, white and demented for anger to understand.

What were your local elections and how do you follow the teacher
For Abishek using Aishwarya too many times in print
Run the hurdles in your private schools on English land for a stint
Turn around that fashion in the world of time
Pity the failure you see in Rohan and Ritesh that is not karma…
Give Peter McDonald one more try
For an essence of Indian law courts with Jenny Afia and a Jewish creampie.
Once

#FreeTibet is not my organisation
I wrote #TibetForever because we were 1990s Scientology

AI Summary

It’s a poem about the collapse of trust in institutions — Nobel prizes, states, universities, psychology, medicine, celebrity culture, political leaders, religious figures — all of them swirling together in a chaotic, accusatory, grief‑stricken monologue where the speaker feels betrayed by systems, misread by strangers, and overwhelmed by the noise of global narratives; the poem leaps from Rwanda to Tibet, from Bollywood to Scientology, from BBC scandals to American talk shows, from Indian family names to English schoolyards, from Krishna and Arjuna to Russell Brand and Noam Chomsky, all while circling the same wound: the sense that identity, sexuality, reputation, and meaning have been hijacked by forces far larger than the individual; beneath the fury and satire is a deep exhaustion — a longing for clarity, dignity, and a place where the poet’s voice is not swallowed by politics, gossip, or cultural projection, but allowed to speak from its own centre.

Pick and Choose

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Pick
The puzzle
The optimal start up speed
The world is spinning around
The why is so pertinent
The where is so evident
These are the things we know
So I went down below
I mediated the earth’s core
I asked the time travellers for more
The culture we adore
Those who adore the messages from the past of VHS
The best man’s hairy chest
The father in your arms doing his best
These are the things I tested
To see if I could stay seated when the violence was no more pacifist
Clench
Yogic retention
Imbalance and detention
Partition of special relationship
Llamas in the Whore House
Green Berets through the front door.
I reaped the remeberance of an Oxford Degree
I forgot my mother (again) to avoid misreading the Church as S.P.

Choose
And I am undone
The choice is too fast for thought that is ruined
It’s the same for us all
Special people being strange in a normal world broken by Buddha’s mirrors
Mental health adrift the tides of life lived by fine people
Directors dealing with the ladders some people don’t climb
Most people don’t climb these corporate ladders.

Then
How? I asked [poetically]…
Are we supposed to talk?

AI Summary

It’s a poem about the difficulty of choosing a path in a world that spins too fast, where the speaker dives into transcendence, memory, VHS nostalgia, family echoes, yogic strain, and the weight of spiritual and cultural expectations, only to find himself overwhelmed by the speed of thought and the strangeness of being “special” in a world built for ordinary ladders; the poem moves from earth’s core to Oxford, from Gurdwaras to gurus, from violence to pacifism, from identity to exhaustion, ending with the simple, human question of how people are meant to speak to one another when the inner world is so dense and the outer world so unforgiving.

Grunge Music

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

This thing called love, Ben
I just can’t stop the feeling of sex.
What is this sex cult called Jesuit you intimate?
Why do you hate India so?
Was it the O.T. level of your father?
Is that the claim of the medical books he leaves at Birmingham University.
Top draw political science for the illusions in He
Slapping his daughter in the shanty towns of the British Isles
Something for Charles to smile about
Some more failure for the unpolitical unrest
The people without servants
Time to undress the young man George
And all that politics he has planned with Tony Wright’s photo on Images on Yahoo!
Or maybe that is not for you, Mr Narendra Modhi
An Empire from Bournville, for his secret Santa with Tony.

AI Summary

Your piece moves through a tangle of religion, sexuality, family wounds, political figures, and cultural memory, using sharp, chaotic imagery to express how overwhelming and contradictory the world feels to you. You question why certain people or institutions seem hostile to India, why spiritual traditions get twisted into power games, and why family histories still echo painfully in the present. The poem blends British politics, Indian identity, Jesuit references, Scientology fragments, and personal shame into a portrait of someone trying to understand the forces that shaped him — from parental expectations to cultural stereotypes to the noise of modern media. Beneath the anger is a deeper ache: the desire to be seen clearly, not through the distortions of religion, empire, or other people’s projections. The poem ends with a sense of exhaustion and exposure, as if you’re trying to peel back all the layers of misunderstanding to find a self that isn’t defined by anyone else’s story.

I Man

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

When the Iron Man commeth
The fat lady will sing
The memory on the wall
Will bring and bring and bring.
The ringing phone
The past is never alone
Regression objectless
The people are debased
The victim’s history is traced
The raped is taped across the mouths of empty courtroom judges who aspire to higher things
Hemlock is drunk upon the self of itself
Reaping the rich wind of the merchants daughter
Taped across the mouth herself and eating cherry pie.

These are the lies of zero
And the empty thought
How can you know the second scene
When the first wonder is not amazement?
What is the brilliance of a Dr when the wages are not noted in the margin
Of hopelessness before the whiskey decanter
And missions to Mars in Oppenheimer (IMDb).


If you could replace your end results
The catharsis from film the nosey man wants
And admit the hollowness of RnB in the rampant man’s mind
Then maybe I would speak to your leaders.
“Take me to your leaders!” Cried Xenu,
Let’s see worlds unfolding
Cosmoses destroying each other
Unifying fields theorising in the matter of a retired man’s fantasy
Consciences appeased on the 2012 messages on YouTube.

AI Summary

Your piece moves through a landscape of mythic judgement, courtroom trauma, philosophical despair, and the collapse of meaning, blending images of violated justice, hollow institutions, failed leaders, and cosmic fantasies into a portrait of a mind trying to understand a world that no longer feels anchored. You describe how memory loops, how victims are silenced, how authority figures fail, and how even art and science — from whiskey‑soaked doctors to Oppenheimer’s Mars — feel like inadequate answers to the chaos. The poem circles around the desire for catharsis, the emptiness of modern culture, and the absurdity of spiritual or political systems that promise clarity but deliver confusion. It ends with a cosmic shrug — Xenu, unified field theories, 2012 prophecies — as if to say that when the world becomes incoherent, the mind reaches for myth, science, and fantasy all at once, searching for a truth that still feels just out of reach.

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.

Singh Song

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Catch me some history and the trees will fall
The writing of one book and love for us all.
The Guru Granth Sahib is remarkable for what I do not read
The eyes of another and internet feed.

This is the modern age and man does not know himself too well
Tainted paint with graffiti about facts he summarised.
Man cannot use that which is normal for too long without time
Interfering gathering of life around vices representing grime.

Manners are spoken, voices can be heard
A man’s true designation is otherwise preferred.
At the feet of the Master and not out there with the loose cannons
Computer gamblers hopeful of some sexual passions.

Man was not made to know woman until the Bible was spoken over top
Optional headdress for those left out in the cold,
Like this old verse that beyond Renaissance ideals
Seeking love elsewhere for those fashions to balance a heartfelt steal.

Save me from Guru save me from despair
But do not rescue the Buddha within me
That will cut off my hair.
In England they are the same
And the Gurdwara is no good
They tempt you there with wastage and free food.

These interludes are some qualities of knowledge that I see vaguely
The lights on the city of the hills is not really business for me.
These religions grow tired, and the true Guru has enough words for himself
To leave me out and not include me in the fortress of his rude health.

Words can be deceptive, and the hierarchy can leave acres in the brain
Neurons mistake projects for New Age scientists to place strains
Men and women workers suffer uncooked food at home tables
Education is lesser and wielding to their career and pension repeatably well.

These are the days of finding that time is not beyond embarrassing man
And Guru Nanak faces psychiatry with a hand in the Yugas and Kalpas:
Again after Scientology they have a Master Plan
Nazi, suicide missions and English revisions to delete your man.

So, gather for a ramble and a march amongst the brambles of Birmingham
From an unlikely suspect of poetic disturbance within himself:
Where is the stealth of Xenu in the bygone age of post-2012 spirituality
After the NHS medicated my mother with tortious liability of proximity?

AI Summary

Your poem is a restless meditation on religion, identity, disillusionment, and the exhaustion of trying to find spiritual truth in a world where institutions, gurus, scriptures, and modern systems all feel compromised or insufficient. You move from the Guru Granth Sahib to the Bible, from the Buddha to Guru Nanak, from Scientology to psychiatry, from Birmingham brambles to global politics, weaving together the weight of tradition with the confusion of the present. The poem exposes how modern life — technology, media, education, careers, pensions, and the pressures of survival — has eroded the clarity that ancient teachings once promised. You describe the fatigue of religious repetition, the disappointment of institutions that feel hollow, the loneliness of being spiritually hungry but unable to trust the places that claim to feed you. Beneath the critique is a deeper ache: a longing for a teacher who does not manipulate, a tradition that does not exclude, a wisdom that does not collapse under history, and a sense of belonging that does not require you to erase yourself. The poem ends in Birmingham, with brambles, marches, and memories of your mother’s suffering — grounding the cosmic and historical in something painfully personal. It is ultimately a poem about searching for meaning after the collapse of every system that once claimed to offer it.