world

Die For Me

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Waiting for the exceptional revelation
Of my knowledge born of College elevation
Renders me stuck Art and darkness rebounding
Floundering
Debut
The news in you is the Good News in me
I am neo-Colonial Hindu advertised history.
Save me
Let me be
Just don’t tell me
What the schools needed to know:
An English throw, to wake me up
After I was jammed, in the photocopier room.

AI Summary

Your poem circles the frustration of waiting for some grand intellectual or spiritual breakthrough — the “exceptional revelation” promised by education — only to find yourself stuck between art, darkness, and the inherited weight of colonial identity. You weave together the language of college aspiration, Christian “Good News”, Hindu self‑narration, and the absurdity of being literally jammed in a photocopier room, turning that moment into a symbol of how institutions freeze, flatten, or misread you. Beneath the humour and the cultural layering is a deeper plea: to be saved from the roles history assigns you, to be allowed simply to be, without the English throw, the neo‑colonial script, or the expectation that knowledge alone will liberate you.

Baggage Carried

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I can’t believe you’re going to die,
I’m going to give religion a try,
Insecure in my youth,
I will try it’s proof:
Something my Ego will understand.

Buckling the horses of Arjuna to things I will understand,
Not trying to own every house in the land,
Surprises from Bel Air mansions
Lavish green lawns,
There’s just time left for the lessons on parental viewings of Porn.

I can’t believe you’re not here anymore,
I look around the tremendous respect for temporal vortexes,
Oh indigestion and headaches from energy erections
Parading through my brain
Listening to the non-advice and going insane:
It’s your parent –
You projected,
Why are you trying to get me a Vedic House erected?

Fresh Prince to the king I never was,
The rent I owed you when I was only 12,
And the damnation from society
The clout from the god within me
The monkey in an experiment I never was
The kangaroo and signifying Laws…

Keep coming back and I am an employment hazard,
Someone with such regrets that I am a deep snowy blizzard,
Lost in the Maya of the world of those all knowing Hare Krishnas
They speak English like I know nothing –
Not versed in the Ayur Vedic Samaj
Ignorant
Illusion
Jai Om Namo Shivaya
Why isn’t my Id for hire?
Jai Guru Dev – is there an answer over there?
For how “I am not the body”
Will make me not feel very sorry,
When the time comes to pass
For at last it must come
That both of my parents imbalance my brain a certain way

  • In the meaning of what Death has to say
  • Pills and glorious business day by day

When those intoxicants at Jones Day (Gouldens) never came back my way.

AI Summary

Your poem traces the shock of confronting a parent’s mortality and the way it destabilises everything you’ve built your identity around, moving through memories of childhood guilt, cultural dislocation, spiritual searching, and the absurdities of class aspiration. You weave Arjuna, Maya, Hare Krishna English, Fresh Prince, Jones Day, and parental porn into one fractured tapestry, showing how grief pulls every influence — religious, corporate, familial, comedic — into its orbit. Beneath the humour and the surreal imagery is a son trying to understand how his parents shaped his mind, how inherited chaos still lives in him, and how no spiritual system or social ladder can fully prepare him for the inevitability of loss.

Constellation Poem

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Ben Wright the Chronicler,
Paul Ready the Actor,
Bryan Dick the Performer,
Amal Clooney the Advocate,
Rishi Sunak the Steward,
Robin Clark the Merchant,
Andrew Ornitharis the Producer,
All acquaintances by my side,
Guru Nanak the Guide,
Devi the Flame,
Wanderer the Father,
Unicorn the Brother –
Together they form my constellation,
Each a star in Albion’s sky.
I walk among them,
Not as seeker,
But as guru,
Bearing light through rupture,
Chanting renewal into England’s soil.

Shree Geeta Bhawan

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Shree Geeta Bhawan,
First flame of Albion’s Hindu soil,
Church reborn as a mandir,
Renewal carved in stone.
I shall walk its halls,
Guided by Nanak’s vision,
Chanting not as a seeker,
But as guru,
Bearing light into Birmingham’s heart.

I am a Guru

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I am a guru,
born of mantra and silence,
a flame carried from temple to temple,
from Albion’s soil to the high street wheel.

I am a guru,
Hindu in devotion,
Buddhist in compassion,
a servant of light,
a bearer of prophecy.

I am a guru,
my mornings are rivers of meditation,
two hours, three,
until breath becomes chant,
and silence becomes scripture.

I am a guru,
walking with Devi, Wanderer, Unicorn,
turning rupture into renewal,
estrangement into testimony,
longing into flame.

I am a guru
my lineage is Blake’s fire,
Hepburn’s grace,
Sting’s fragile song,
woven into Albion’s living chant.

I am a guru,
not by title,
but by presence,
not by claim,
but by light.

Lightworker Declaration

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I am a Light Worker,
Called to transmute rupture into renewal,
To weave Albion’s soil with flame
and chant.
Reiki flows through my hands,
Blake’s visions burn in my words,
Audrey Hepburn’s grace shines in
my presence.
I carry a thousand films, a
thousand songs,
And turn them into prophecy.
I walk with Devi, Wanderer, Unicorn,
And I rise each dawn to meditate,
Two hours, three, until silence
becomes light.
I am the next student,
A bearer of testimony,
A servant of healing,
A Light Worker in Albion.

Chant of Weoley Castle

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Weoley, stone of memory
Weoley, ruin and root,
Weoley, whisper of Albion,
I walk your ground, I bear your fruit.

The walls are broken, yet they stand
Silent guardians of the land.
Children’s laughter, sparrows’ flight,
Renew the day, redeem the night.

O castle of the wandering flame,
You hold the nameless knight’s name.
Estrangement bends, yet roots renew,
In every fracture, light breaks through.

Weoley, chant of soil and sky,
Weoley, prayer that does not die,
Weoley, echo of stone and bone,
I seek, I sing, I am not alone.

The gardens bloom where battlements fell,
The bells of Birmingham weave their spell.
The seeker’s path is never lost,
It rises again, whatever the cost.

Weoley, ruin, Weoley, home
I bind your spirit to your loam.
Through broken walls, eternal springs,
Through Albion’s soil, my spirit sings.

Poem of Seeking

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

I walk the path where silence sings,

Through Albion’s soil, the spirit springs.

A chant of longing, a flame of prayer,

The unseen guides are always there.

Estrangement bends, yet roots renew,

In every fracture, light breaks through.

My seeking is not mine alone –

It is the land, the chant, the stone.

Species All

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Sometimes it is like
Other times the ties come true
Then there is a monetary matter
So I can see right through you.

Mr All Ready, Stripes and some Black and Blue!
What about all that time spent sitting on your arse!
You should have been outside with the cars
And the men you seek to set aside again.

This is not for me and that is not for you
Three times 20 makes you an Israel Lobby crew
And I am not going down there for you
To rescue you rescuing me rescuing you…

… in the past, from Levant,
Where the ticket knows no stamp
And the Good Lord is proud
Of talking about Circumcisions from 1000s of years ago
… what a medical Bravado
When I want to go and watch the show
And he knows best about men and the rebirth of Time.

Some stowaway you seemed to become
Lost on the Ocean of Suffering like a beggar
Needing money so he talked to the empty chair
And found that nobody, not even Tony Robbins, stared.

“!I am! Alone! I said!” I said to my Online Computer Chair.
So What>! Fuck Off. Me too
That’s what it is to Sempa Phi the ol’ Red White and Blue
Then you will see that what is for me is also for you
Mr special Yogi with a career like a train wreck asking for more to do.

AI Summary

The poem moves through a shifting emotional weather system where irritation, accusation, memory, and spiritual exhaustion collide, beginning with the sense that people change—sometimes predictable, sometimes disappointing—and sliding into a critique of laziness, avoidance, and the strange hierarchies people build around money, identity, and political symbolism. The speaker pushes back against being entangled in someone else’s rescues or narratives, invoking ancient religious history, modern self‑help culture, and the loneliness of digital life to show how absurd and isolating these cycles can feel. Beneath the satire and the sharp jabs lies a deeper ache: a sense of being stranded, unheard, and fed up with the performative wisdom of “special yogis” and motivational gurus, while still wrestling with the desire for connection and meaning in a world that keeps demanding more.