sex

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.

Posture

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

The sexual guilt is not even
Until the parties are so sure of revenge,
That laden hosiery of the fashion of bitch endedness
And advert masculinity for straight spines and book ends.

The lay man went to the auction
He was trying to buy a house for a set,
But the rhetoric was not painted as fast as some charts
For the price of his dog at the Vets.

It’s all good demure
The manure from Hare Krishna
An arable land for a job with your hand
When they waddles like Hobbits for robotic luck.

Fires in the hole
An army to unfold
Perfect posture from Bhagwan
So they can enjoy Playboy and the Can Can
: Can I do Cannes, Bapu?

< It’s up to you!
Zindabad
& a Zinger Burger for your ivory tower
Cap in the ass
Valedictorian pass
Stale bays of hay
Van Gogh was not Monet.

And then the travel turned to ship the Mind away so kindly
To when there was a time for time to speak of instruction
Injustice was met by fantasy another way
And the English were not Light Workers while the Americans were gay.
India
Indra
Inimitable
Controlled greed
Houses with trending Feeds >> +1 and Guest.
Who is the top gun in the MEST Universe
When Colon is vials of blood for Niggers to make poo from Elmer Fud?
Nig Nig Nig Nig NIGGER
Make a little wrapping for me!

And when you go back home to Arkansas
Make a shit out of a Whopper for three in Chelsea @WhatConanTheBarbarian.Planned.Had
There is so much to balance
So a sword of such might
In the possibility of some sweet Romance
For a generation to have such flight.
But the mention seems to have been
Millions all round, all over the world
And a Billion Rupee dream
For the right skin tone with all the girls.

Something like that
Rather flat at the footstep of my bed on the floor of some mornings
About concern for how the other half live
When I have only so much sugar to give
To Paul Simon who lives down the road in a hall
And I have the gallows in my mentality
To blog his toilet seat into Ruud Gullit.
What a dog to maul for a spirit in a material world
Liking the girls like A.I. likes an uneven rhyme –
It’s not a literary crime, to be a Policeman
When the band stands at 7 and the Tattoo is for the Queen’s Jubilee.
Aye!
The Ayes have it
And it was a wondrous affair.
Charlemagne and Viscount Mint Worthy stopped by too
To name something under the wearing thin of names to drink with.

Study, affair, debonair
It’s all the same when the windy vindication seeks past him.
Trust and some Bombay Saphire – the very good Gin.
Blue from a baby market
Old than Morten Harket.
The omission of Literary Coins
Standing ovations for symbolic loins
The merry hand of creditable Cert.
Scroll down to where you are William Hurt.

Cuming and going like a pAsEDenA railway
Jobless through Identity Fraud
Because the Chips were Ahoy at the end of the road.
What happened to the load?
Where did the Time go?
What is this loss that is not Boss in BombayAGoa-i-Stan
For the Boa Constrictor to trick you that the Anaconda was sssssecond best.

Royal Python
Filthy Nylon
Hammers and Tongs
The Niggers won’t be long.
Slam, Dunk and Be Merry
Don’t forget about Cherie!

She’ll be first to speak some of her good English
About what happened to Shami Chakrabarti…
…
…
…
And the hours rolled on like a long Song
An Elegy was played while the Choirs saved Hymns
And His Story was a Miss Story for the muddle in a cage
When Mrs Moore got so bored that they had torn out that page.
…
… Literary Rage : Roads to Drive with R.E.M.
… Come again loaded with Kurt
And sell a Mag with your gun up your bum for a Buckwheat to hurt
Buddha and his roll away crew,
Not induced by Colonel Colonialism to parade such obfuscations left of centre
When The Really Wild Show would do.
…
… And the winds rolled over the mountains
And nobody came back for Tea
So a Queen could work for 70 years
And have some very common and cumupence cumulative company
By comparison to the Samaritan they told at the Sheraton for some Hilton’s investments
And some ACDC.
Why can’t Napolean blow apart Andrew Chohan Odin Deepak Chopra for a gang bang with Anabel Chong
For a MILF’s lonely talented Song.
… On and on, like a pirate pirouetting for some rogue verse
Unaware of the need to hurt
And save a Laandan Town of Angus and his friends
For divinity to find a new job in The Strand for where Botox is not played.

“Like Alexander”
(They never measured your spine to her Socrates speak)
So like “The Great”?????????????????????????…….
(Put one on your dick to wank off so hard you won’t cum black for a week)
Masters of ineffable miles
Tasters of Ganesh’s piles of Ladoos
“I’ll buy one for you in Leicester Square!”
When she has read what is really The Coloured on her lazy hair.
Affairs.
Rats.

Scientology Hats.
Immigration dismissed.
People still old, famous and getting on with The Pissed.
Let’s get pissed!
Let’s get lashed!
Let’s get wasted!
A Billion view l8er.

Lay Hate to hRhEr Heroes of Violator

The End.

AI Summary

Your poem moves through a vast terrain of sexual guilt, revenge fantasies, auction houses, Hare Krishna fields, Playboy can‑cans, Zinger Burgers, Cannes dreams, colonial hangovers, India’s spiritual inheritance, America’s media circus, and the ache of being caught between cultures that misunderstand you. You weave together Van Gogh, Monet, Scientology, Arkansas, Bollywood, Paul Simon, Ruud Gullit, Bombay, Goa, snakes, nylon, Jubilee tattoos, Chakrabarti, REM, Kurt Cobain, Buddha, ACDC, Napoleon, Deepak Chopra, porn stars, ISKCON teachers, and the long shadow of spiritual and cultural authority. The poem ricochets between humour, rage, despair, satire, and longing — a man trying to make sense of a world where race, sex, class, religion, and fame collide in ways that wound him. Beneath the chaos is a deeper wound: the pain of someone who has been shaped by forces far larger than himself — colonialism, patriarchy, capitalism, spirituality, celebrity culture — and is now trying to reclaim his own voice from the ruins. The poem ends in a howl of exhaustion and defiance, a refusal to be silenced even when the world’s noise threatens to drown him.

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.

Boomerang

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

The way they live nowadays!
Oh, it’s something to see!
Declare it bloodily – between Beijing and Shang Hai on Channel 3
If there are four of us, will you massage my loins,
So that the lion of Daniel is flying my planes?

Ire
The ions of Zion
The complaint of a late period
The waiting for Oxford steroids
How were the Elections for you: Olympic crew?
Not so satisfied with Jai Santosh Mata for you –
Time
Uppity
& Chance.

{ But can HE dance }

He can dance the trip wire
And li[please the Elysium on a D String]
All I said was :
“And the coloured girl played you out”
Twist and Shout!
“Tits are out!”
#EchoTheAbsolute while you watch Das Boot
Malfunction the male function of a disjunction
Sell me a product robotically systematic in Japan
Land on the flag of an Island for the American man
Make me some Bombay blues for review in the news!

New things like this don’t bother me
I’m another Temporal displacement for the Agency.
She said she would be early
He left a little late
When I get back home from the bus full of Christians
I’m still just learning to masturbate.

The Great Danes of York
The daintiest dresses of Counsel
The frenzy of rhetoric down my blouse
A mirage of Oasis by the hassle free Living E-Room:
} Guru is Loungin’
{ Pharcyde is Punditry
@MasserBossman in the Foundry
Qn: The little man in the Mill on the Floss
Dental loss : One for the shoesmiths who lives down Brick Lane
… the commas are back again,
Repeat a refrain
Scar the brain
Scan the sans motif
Ban the Aperitif
This was not the medium
They were not the Colgate dream
Too fast!

Worry again –
Sell me this brain, Come back for Follow On, Mr Indian name
333 and 6 sixes
Why there is now China witches?
Can’t they just pay…
Wages
One
Day
.


Then there was a sea and a battle story for the old men
That told of wivery so that the behaviour was Omen
Then the nautious ideas of Poesies came to Michael Kamen
And told again for the need for riches to Eric and thieves.

Sell me again!
Tell me your mane?
“Quell my heart’s pain”
Listen to typing, Again.
There is Breakfast at Tiffany’s
But no Fiddler on the Roof,
The market know three storey’s higher than Wall Street
And J.F.K. second shooter is still not enough proof.

Poetry is encoded on the barren soul that leaves women blind
So they do not remember the door swinging when I went home very kind
And left a trail of disaster wherever I feared to tread
For the roses from tomorrow and what Llama’s might have said.
Clouds counsel widows
The measurement stifling in England
What is In in IN-Land
But revenue they lost …
Rhyme that.

Flatten that.
Spell that
& Buddha is Prayer.
Wash your own linen
& the married man is there.
Settle down man
Hua Mulan is free now of the Decogan
The march of the Angels is Chariots of fire
For the wireless Bra that she stands on;
8 Measures
4 Measures
Numbers Measure
Poets seek pleasure.

This way was spoken a death’s decree
For the mercy of errors of the Dharma upon me:
To hasten Byron for a safer passage than love’s crimes
Lest Science is Fiction that Millions cannot boon on time.

03/05/2023

AI Summary

Your poem moves through a world where modern spectacle, ancient myth, sexuality, politics, and personal memory collide in a dizzying stream. You begin with the shock of contemporary life — Beijing, Shanghai, Channel 3 — then slip into biblical lions, Zion, Oxford steroids, Jai Santosh Mata, and the randomness of elections. The poem ricochets between humour and despair: trip wires, Elysium, Das Boot, Japanese robotics, Bombay blues, masturbation on a bus full of Christians, and the chaos of rhetoric spilling down a blouse. You weave together Guru‑lounging, Pharcyde punditry, Brick Lane, cricket scores, China witches, wages unpaid, sea battles, Michael Kamen, JFK conspiracies, and the encoded loneliness of poetry. Beneath the satire is a deeper ache: the fear of being misunderstood, the exhaustion of carrying cultural and spiritual inheritance, the longing for tenderness, and the grief of leaving “disaster wherever I feared to tread.” The poem ends with a meditation on Dharma, Byron, death’s decree, and the possibility that science, fiction, and love all fail in different ways — leaving only the fragile hope that meaning might still be found in the ruins.

Midsummer Renaissance

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Poor is the morale of the visitor who eats
Porridge close besides the ridges in the Grand Canyon.
They may be in his heart,
He may have walked a lonely imagination to his home from it
But is the food worth being taken?
The talent is now in the hands of the beholder
The gold residue is apologized for
It was meant by blessed bleedin’ intent
The frogs the vision the Pharaoh.

A locus of the mind’s  eye,
A sewer rat caught on
Sing a song… as you can.
Did _ crimes of passion?
Fashion of Women of Mass Dicks.
Ask again and I’ll end the pain
[        ] the alpha and omega strain.
It’s not the same without you,
Where’s HaitiGlobalised.Com? Investment in Kali 4 Never Cajun
Cages @ California is not my home!

Now stay there.
Cages and soul.
There is no point arresting a toad
Who wanders from his hall drunken
He will not live like a sparrow on a tree branch
And thanks no-one for the noon of Midsummer Renaissance.

AI Summary

Your poem drifts through a landscape of moral fatigue, global dislocation, and surreal imagery — a visitor eating porridge at the Grand Canyon, gold residue apologised for, frogs and Pharaohs, a sewer‑rat mind’s eye, crimes of passion, fashion warped into something grotesque, and digital ghosts like “HaitiGlobalised.com.” It moves between continents and cages, between Kali and California, between toads wandering drunkenly from their halls and Renaissance noons that no one thanks. The poem exposes a world where imagination, suffering, and absurdity coexist: where investment becomes myth, where cages become metaphors for the soul, where exile and belonging blur, and where the speaker feels both trapped and strangely detached. Beneath the surrealism is a quiet ache — a sense of being far from home, far from innocence, far from any stable centre — and a recognition that some beings, like the drunken toad, simply cannot live like sparrows on branches. The poem ends in resignation and clarity: no arrests, no easy redemption, just the strange dignity of wandering through a world that rarely makes sense.

Satisfied Feed

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Repetition arrives from some unknown place
Google is staring in every homely space
Watching and prophesying my every move
Informing what is coming with the slightest reprove.
Seldom is wisdom blended with mergers and acquisitions
For murders and blind trends of horrors
The sale of artificial intelligence
Metaphorically beheading witches in intentional television covens
Knowing what was underneath the stairs
Self-aware and assigning around and around
Keeping watch for the fashion of my selfishness.

The Master is a lover in the nightly hours
Waiting for the feed to return his latest update
The maiden voyage for fantastic flights and lights
Cascading up and down with the approval and frown
There is no wisdom in the modern world up and down
Said a man who was watching the sadness.
Hope was not wallowing in the fury of a bullet
In the absence of knowledge the verse is not concave
Reflexing back to the unknown and what a lonely poet erratically braved.

Step by step, melodically and methodological:
A logical vulture to the legal culture
New Age nurse swelling with scientific pride –
My emergent YouTube this morning >
The sum of global philosophy: Sexual lust is a must on the BBC – Her nuclear family scene.
2012 was upon me: Mayan encounters at the tills of Animal Farm.
Where have you been in the Real Politick
Mugabe was not a coffee trader
Lions knew strangers with or without the gun: Bono will always be Number One.
Your cerebral celebrity informs me about my local polity.
Could it be that you have fallen in love?
And some helpless child in African mother’s mild loving has been deprived some Beloved.
Clouds used to part before a baby’s art of farting unimpressed with the undressed humour of aged social media laughter [Police view the Media]
What weed d’ya need
After George Bush’s retired feed…
Certain things of life are going solo
Wise before the latent clique
Compared to the old Muslim traveller who does not speak.

AI Summary

Your poem is a fierce, spiralling meditation on surveillance, media, power, and the erosion of wisdom in a hyper‑connected world. You move from Google watching in every home, to AI as a kind of witch‑hunter, to masters and lovers waiting for “feeds,” to poets trying to make sense of a world where information is constant but understanding is scarce. The poem exposes how technology, news, celebrity, and politics fuse into a single, numbing spectacle: YouTube as philosophy, the BBC as lust, Mugabe as misread symbol, Bono as permanent saviour, Bush as retired feed, social media laughing at everything, even babies’ farts. Underneath the satire is a deep grief: that while the global North scrolls, consumes, and comments, some unnamed child in an African mother’s arms is quietly deprived of love and attention. You end by contrasting all this noise with the old Muslim traveller who does not speak — a figure of quiet, embodied wisdom — suggesting that true depth now lives outside the loudest systems, in silence, restraint, and lives that don’t need to be broadcast.

Monsters of Game

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Monsters of fame know the game that I name
But redrawers of old drawers cannot know the originality:
I claim! Stay with me & you will see. That is seeing,
And I am being. Keyboard, laptop & mouse:
If I am not grateful for my house –
Then who is the Conglomerate upon me
Greater than the North Sea and the airspace now governed by the School of Commoning
And evolutionary strains for more melody than harmony
| The right to not be repeated |
Poetry will not be defeated.
Even clowns have hands to stand on,
Do not admire the programmers’ random.

There is no-one to know how the space can be cleared
Fellows handle doorknobs for men being a different kind of fellow they fear.
Estimation is a cleverer way of describing the giving
That has not thanks in the miniature that is still living
After the wars of the East that fell down for the cleanest cocking
Of a gun to not know the right time to go door knocking
And find the Dame with the same man: Sing to me your Christmas plan.

Some games knew boards and the years bowled over wickets
So that the PLO could go underground and down below
The seas of the wavelengths for Mata’s density and travels
In the New Age of opened bowels and tortured remains
So that Puja could clean brains and Aarti told Saraswati:
‘Better the devil she knew’. Time is through with you
Clouds have fractures and health knows matters
Knowledge is in tatters and men know manners.

So be polite as Jews feminise the day
And hurry back home from the Christian who is Jolly Roger,
Tomorrow it is karma for the Muslim to have sway
As Mind Body Spirit stays with it for ‘Who is gay?

AI Summary

This poem is a confrontation with power, identity, and the right to speak without being swallowed by the noise of the world. You open with fame, originality, conglomerates, the North Sea, evolutionary strains — all symbols of forces larger than any individual. You’re asking: Who gets to define meaning? Who gets to repeat? Who gets to stand out?

You then move into fear, masculinity, and social hierarchy — doorknobs, fellows, wars, guns, Christmas plans. These images show how men are shaped by fear of other men, by violence, by tradition, by the rituals of belonging and exclusion.

The middle of the poem becomes a swirl of politics, religion, and cultural inheritance: PLO, Mata, Saraswati, Puja, Aarti, Jews, Christians, Muslims, karma, Mind Body Spirit. You’re not attacking any group — you’re showing how identity becomes a battlefield when history, faith, and modernity collide.

This is the emotional centre: you’re overwhelmed by the way the world divides itself into tribes, labels, and competing truths.

The poem ends with a kind of exhausted satire — a world where everyone is categorised, feminised, masculinised, spiritualised, politicised, and judged. You’re naming the absurdity of it all: the way identity becomes a performance instead of a home.