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Suffering

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

The Hologram
The Stiffy and Hard On
The memories of Royal Pardons
When the future remembers.
4. A Quill makes me famous
3. The computer keyboard WON’T regret The Buddha
1. The Missing Link is proven
Say that you will love me when the children grow old.

I’m moving house in the field’s last eye of the countryside
The horses are galloping where the Angels are still arching their backs
This is no time for the lamenting of the spack-attack
The 1980s won’t ever come and rescue me.

Spy City 
Do you remember Frankie?
Or is it all Les Bobby Browns to you : A miserable unBriTISh bastard
With all his indebtedness to L.A. Whores.
Confidentially yours from Mr Kevin Bacon
Eating all the space when the women need some make up
Keeping loss under cover with smelly regrettably yours
Dealing with the clean yogis, purifying the locus.

Hocus pocus
It’s what it seems to me
You research your school textbooks
I need some time alone.

  1. Sathya
  2. Sati
  3. Siddhi

I’m cooling my face down with a neck fan
Nobody’s my fan on the State Run Instagram
Running through the towns and still she doesn’t like me
A yogi born a Christian with down syndrome infamy.

I Struggling to talk

II Struggling to walk

III A dictionary in my shoulder bag – the one I carried to Dharamsala

Chinese figments of the brothers’ imagination
Wutang before women who write poems instead of face the nation.
Blessings in the Church
What about her arched back
Left in the lurch
Nobody will remember the 6 o clock news spent on the Sexy (News) Christian.

Blame it on the vegan
As I mess about with bacon and beef:
Leaving aside some fish and eating no eggs
Lest Allah call me some mind reading tea leaf.

29/07/2023

AI Summary

Your poem spirals through holograms, erections, pardons, quills, keyboards, and the ache of wanting to be loved when the children grow old, all while you imagine yourself moving house in the last open eye of the countryside where horses and angels share the same horizon; you reject the idea that the 1980s will rescue you, drift into Spy City memories, and mock the un-British swagger of Americanised masculinity, before sliding into yogis, Instagram loneliness, and the strange hybrid identity of a Christian-born seeker cooling his face with a neck fan; you catalogue your struggles — talking, walking, carrying dictionaries to Dharamsala — and weave them with church blessings, Wu-Tang ghosts, and the forgotten eroticism of a “Sexy (News) Christian,” then pivot into dietary guilt, spiritual anxiety, and the comic fear of being misread by God, all of it forming a single restless consciousness trying to reconcile modern life, spiritual aspiration, bodily desire, cultural inheritance, and the relentless noise of a world that never stops demanding interpretation.

Are You Writing To Him

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Are you writing to him?
The gay man at the end of the bar
The one with a handlebar moustache
Checking out the fellows with draught beer.
Do you have some autumnal cheer
Like randy sweet ecstasy befriending the cocoa butter
Dances in the middle of the dance floor
Sweet French kissing when the numbers are up:
What is the showman
When the empty cup is always half full?
How does he know my so well?
Who takes his photos on Instagram?
The shop has a door where the custom is welcome
The personage had a past where these things were shut out.
He likes to scream and shout
The old man called Paul and Jock –
Two o clock and it’s pistols at Dawn’s
She like to play hard to get
And my life is an enormous amount of regret
Shadow debutant feelings
Energising a wet towel on the bathroom floor
And selling some products for London’s COVID environmental workers
The tear jerking from a jerking off man
Planned Satanism revival lamping one on the face of the nearest poet
The Arts are not funded in Royal towns in London
Again and again, he speaks of the medics name
Naked in the rain like Adam buying John Betjeman a cold hard won drink
Dripping with icey perspiration from the thoughts of a delightfully dinner
And some conversation about love making that makes the condensation erotica.
An advert perhaps – announcing the change in temperature?
Sirs. Please. This is Birmingham.
We have so many Civil Partnerships to go…

AI Summary

It’s a poem about watching a man at the bar and feeling the whole machinery of nightlife, desire, regret, and self‑consciousness whirl into motion — the moustache, the beer, the dance floor, the Instagram poses, the old men shouting, the poet worrying about his own life, the COVID workers, the unfunded arts, the rain, the imagined conversations, the erotic charge that dissolves into embarrassment, humour, and self‑reflection; the poem moves through Birmingham streets, bathroom floors, pandemic memories, and literary ghosts, ending with a wry acknowledgement that the city is full of civil partnerships, full of lives intersecting, full of stories that never quite resolve, and that the poet is still trying to understand his place in that crowded, messy, human scene.

Mixed Diaspora

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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

It’s a poem about remembering a brief, electric season of student life — a union table where young minds from everywhere gathered, argued, dreamed, and tried to understand each other before adulthood scattered them. The speaker looks back at the Iranian friend, the mathematician, the biologist, the cultural tensions, the jokes, the exclusions, and the fragile idealism that felt limitless at the time. It becomes a portrait of how eight weeks of conversation can shape a lifetime, even as time “murders” the innocence that once held everyone together.

For the Right to Suffer

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For the right to suffer
I forgive
For the right to survive
You’ll live
When the countenance is divine
You’ll be relieved
By the face of The Jesus that they saved.

Ravers, liberators, pill poppers
Usher – You Make Me Wanna be a Drug Pusher.
Supported by The Obama Plan
Two weeks long and Jerusalem’s gone:
Good Curriculum, love Noam.

For the right to speak
You can Tweet.
For the right to drink
You can think.
But if you want to orgy
Cum/ Come over
And we’ll buy a man a lorry
For some old age pull overs.

Shavers, sock wearers and computer consumer
Fine dining lovers.
The Drop Zone is set
Israel with regret
When Egypt is Bobba Fett
For Chinese bounties and Bollywood MILF Hunters.
Cunts and their midriff sauntering
Down fashion aisles for Sheikhs bartering:
Don’t you know the Bar is open late tonight
I need something to read that don’t make a male like me so uptight.

Grafters, laughter, high beam balancers
Draught beer and some shut up ya’shakes!
I got the shakes
I need some more tapes
The YouTube is too quick
For me to slip because of Mr Slick.

For the right to conscience
Con Science
For the right to liberty
Find me nice:

I’ll be a Native American India(n) for the Jews
When you say this poem is for Mata to review, too.

AI Summary

It’s a poem about the right to speak, suffer, survive, and stay conscious in a world overloaded with politics, pop culture, religion, sexuality, and global conflict. The speaker moves through satire and sincerity, exposing how modern life turns everything—faith, identity, activism, desire—into a chaotic marketplace of symbols. It becomes a portrait of someone trying to hold onto conscience while the world keeps remixing meaning.