sogyal rinpoche

Now That Time Is Mocked

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Now that time is mocked
The clock has not stopped
Haversham needs more allusions
The quotes are not mine
The right men must rescue time.

What’s wrong with that
Send Your Love had a house music twat
Remix Sting’s dick
Doing Yoga all over the place
Funny racing man.

Pivot to Asia and a timeless land
Without such atheistic understanding
Of broken aesthetics
Diseased drug takers and homosexuals in Germany.

This land is not for me.

Om Namo Bahgavate Vasudevaya is a Royal Anthem
Trolled stories of histories
Venom to the repetition of poetic themes
Men so scared of their care
Their erroneous romances
How about the one of the Muses
Sting’s facebook page
Mr Rishi’s final temptation
Algebraic rage
#NeoinChinaHackingbyStages

The last temptation of The Dalai Lama
Sogyal Rinpoche’s romantic karma
Who was it who said the rules
For America’s cruel messages on Vietnamese bombs
Signed from Yo Mamma
And the displacement of dog eaters to the Rasputin of rate experimenters
People for talks about watch faces
The diplomatic disgrace of the GBP
“Number one for me!”
“Number one for me!”

The Maoists will be fasting on Eid for this
Eating Halal meat is enough if they like the way British girls French Kiss
So that they keep their Carry On big busted nighties
The one in the mental hospital was an S.P.
Dressed like a Hare Krishna smiling with the funny nurse laughing at pain
… no mor TV strain
… a race of journalists educating the people in Nothing.
No comments on my pages
Nothing for Russell Brand to stir up for 100 years
Plus the dog years in outer space
No point to commitment or dedication or anything in the felines in Johnathan Ross’s place
House master and Cork Master
Wining and dining with Charles when he is not a Prince
Now interested in Krishna’s interest rates
And the KDP wailing of the NASDAQ workers embarrassing top hats and coat tails
And cranberry sauce…
Loads of lashing of mash potatoes
Vegetables steamed in the spied on planned Toby Carvery
Ingested ingredients from the men who did not place gelatine in Haribo
Sinking nation one aeon with Nostradamus down below
Police sirens in rickety cars racing poker games with Chief Super Intendent
Mixed religion and interracial sex
The best pornography from India
The casting couch they have not seen
The men who can sweat the small stuff
… crap poetry needing to be rewritten
… bad grades in school
ITV is always hanging tough.

AI Summary

Your poem opens with time being mocked and the clock refusing to stop — a metaphor for a world where meaning has broken down and cultural references collide without coherence. You move through Sting, Asia, atheism, aesthetics, political figures, spiritual leaders, and media scandals to show how modern culture becomes a hall of mirrors where nothing is sacred and everything is distorted. The emotional centre is the sense of being trapped between worlds: mocked by bureaucrats, misread by diaspora communities, misunderstood by spiritual institutions, and overwhelmed by the noise of global politics. You weave together royal pageantry, religious chants, media gossip, conspiracy anxieties, and the absurdity of modern consumer culture to reveal a deeper wound — the feeling of being erased, misinterpreted, or turned into a caricature. The poem ends in a landscape of collapsing institutions, cheap entertainment, and bad poetry, where the speaker is still trying to assert a voice, a truth, a self that refuses to be swallowed by the chaos.

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.

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.