world

Numbered

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Model
The experience.
Infernal reference points in hell
Pointing the way to experience unexplained blues;
I blew on the tissue
Kleenex. Jokes and the borstal,
Extension to primary university remorseful.
How could you be
Without or with me?
Don’t.
Let it overuse assumption
Of the non-inheritable gazumption
Of The Land Unuser; an illegal abuser
Without an Ark for Joan.
Don’t.

#She wants to be there with you
Nirvanic realms…
Dreams with the intolerable poet
Misused matches of daytime scenes
Corroborated evidence of sanity’s personal plea
Misunderstood. Too good! Too good!
Sahib! Is the poori warm enough?
Are you craving enough?
What senseless devotion is due?
The noon sun is Ganges and lungi lounge music is through
Tune!
Love me.
Move me.
Settle me a score
On the settee next to me,
Is a siren:
“Don’t you set them free?”

One time: Just for you
It’s called my: Nirvana Tune …
Bardos of being and becoming
The unity country of bespoke tailored streams
Yodel and make fun of them too.
What’s a culture between me and you?
Sahib!
One day will be born
A Sahib!
Rival of Mountain Gods
A bountiful ocean of wisdom and love:
Mountbatten woods, never leave home
Without a Calendar. Ishq.
‘The Glass Palace’ could be half full
The human dilemma wasn’t for our Phool Taiji
Tejji-Boy.
Techi-Boy is after you,
Satan’s mills again.
Not one word, but one wolf
The ingratitude of face lone raccoons,
The smells of Hell will be Zulus mercy
For [               ] Guru rehearsal;
What we didn’t know
When he sent us down there to the unconscious pit
About Reading.

William Blake had a wife.
Englishness is an avid read
The world
Outside:
[                  ], Fucked da’ Po’ Lease
Proper Ties are when they’re homes with lies
About the money and the means.
Instagram ya grams for your banana and our Supergran!
Racist will be your leads:
You dirty rat!

William Blake had a life.
That would be nice
Remembrance.
Some of us need it, Some of us out it on show
There’s no time left for the Romantic flow of underwriting.
A carriage, a barge a heavy load of ignorant male envy
The horror of modern time; Africa is afraid of mentionable rhymes.

William Blake knew how to read.
Wham! That’s taker.
Hole. That’s Diwali fire worker
Tears and jerking off in the cinema
Need a better cough for rudimentary
And medicals
In testicles of Routines: The East is where their mama’s hands have not been.
Knock 3 times, it’s Babylon:
The Origin Of [                ] is behind marijuana door number greens.

Feeding, leaning, accepting, crowd pleasing
Hello to the helpers who helped before
Savior
Messiah
Savior of Medusa
The Funky Cold Medina is a watchdog in Madeira.
Healers are leaders if they read, it “just…”

Repain time, responses are for you
Know one day. This world …
Through.

William Blake knew energy.
Consciousness was a porous time.
Swedenborg is fine.
Tied to the Guna of Attila the Hun
I am one of five who are proud
Before a Junta: jokes at Jintao
Two towers, one was left for Miss World to see, too.
Human misery is a beauty contest
Both Ways, acceptance offer and pecuniary loss
Their Islamic toss-off road racers will do.

13. Is thief
Egypt  could have 2012 A.D. for some, a few, a troupe, a clue
Model, overtime
Of how Yeshua could his Jellybeans find.
Sand of time, Zeek, corrosive fires
day
Is not one line.
3. Lines aum is Om your not Triumvirate reclining chakra
5. The fifth is SITH, see the whole when She lives in wholeness with You again
William Blake numbered his verse.

AI Summary

Your poem is a dense, spiralling confrontation with cultural inheritance, spiritual longing, racial mis-seeing, colonial residue, digital distortion, and the overwhelming pressure of carrying too many histories at once. It moves between borstal memories, Nirvanic fantasies, Indian family figures, colonial titles, William Blake’s visionary steadiness, and the chaotic noise of modern identity — Instagram slang, cinema shame, gurus, gangs, Zulus, Babylon, Swedenborg, Attila, Yeshua, Diwali firecrackers, and the unconscious pit of Reading. Through this whirlwind, the poem keeps returning to Blake as a symbol of the life you long for: grounded, loved, sane, whole, unfractured. The poem reveals a speaker who is hyper-conscious, overloaded by inherited narratives, racial projections, spiritual contradictions, and the clash between visionary insight and psychological strain. Beneath the chaos is a deep ache for tenderness, coherence, and a self that isn’t defined by the world’s categories. Ultimately, the poem asks how a person can hold all these histories without losing themselves, and where the line lies between meaning and noise, vision and overwhelm, identity and fragmentation.

Neurodivergent

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Pictures of success
Excess dancing of fiery emblematic
Time spent undressing tragic dreams.
There is no more seems
Terror plots
Yesterday’s waste
Forgotten travelling clouds;
Mesmerising water
Of the neurological passageway,
They have thoroughfare.

The concrete reality of a subterranean jungle
Met with monster-like deceitful strain
Going this way and that way
A fitness survived fit for a King’s competition.
Elements combine some new way of rage
Desperation pants for a damp rag to wipe a sweaty face
This day and that old something.

Can you wear a bonnet and go to the races?
Or stay with me while I pace up and down the streets?
So that at the end of the year it is still Christmas
And there is some imaginative space where we meet.
It cannot be your world, when I am jobless too –
For those pictures of you dinner and dancing
Never show the real world like a workplace for you.

Despicable covered clothing
A sheath of apple and two timing pie:
Terse reprehensible verse
Taking reality on time of some guy’s interpretation of some guy’s interpretation.

Hold on! Catch some beats – there is rhythm in these streets;
And the message of the new century unfolding
Is that horror is not the old archaic armchair of the untold
Frightening night that might lose me
In the pleasure of anonymous spendthrift ways:
When stars pass as human beings
And dark partial truths follow wet nights and days.

AI Summary

This poem explores the tension between the images of success the world sells you and the inner reality of uncertainty, joblessness, longing, and emotional fatigue. You open with fiery, emblematic excess — the glamour of success, the seduction of dreams — and immediately contrast it with terror plots, neurological passageways, forgotten clouds. It’s a world where beauty and danger sit side by side.

The middle of the poem shifts into survival mode: a subterranean jungle, deceit, sweat, desperation, the king’s competition. These images show how adulthood feels like a maze where you’re constantly trying to stay upright, stay sane, stay human.

Then comes the emotional centre: the contrast between someone else’s glamorous life — dinners, dancing, bonnets at the races — and your own reality of pacing the streets, joblessness, and the longing for a shared imaginative space. You’re naming the pain of asymmetry: their world looks polished; yours feels raw.

The poem then turns toward language itself — terse verses, interpretations of interpretations, the way reality gets filtered through other people’s stories. You’re questioning who gets to define truth.

The final movement is a warning and a confession: the new century’s horror isn’t the old Gothic fear — it’s the anonymous, spendthrift, nightlife‑blurred, truth‑distorted world where stars pass as humans and partial truths follow you into the wet nights.

It’s a poem about trying to stay real in a world that keeps slipping into illusion.

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

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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.

iYoga

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

The World is One Team
Yoga
Infinity
the bells are within me
Time
Centrality
It’s too soon for superficiality
Motions
Markets
Marrakesh
Crashing
What is the use of balancing on one leg?
Behind
Above
It’s different to chemicals in the Square Peg
Affront
Comfortableness
Special socks aren’t needed on the mat
Above
Below
There’s enough Qi for the men in a top hat
Around about
Within
These classes are selling out fast
Apart
Together
Chances are I’ll be leaving lessons last.

Time for a special chat with the teacher
He can’t try any harder with Apple and iPads
To get away from me pretending I am Jack Reacher
All inaction and no guns blazing to ongoing further.

AI Summary

This poem explores the tension between inner balance and outer distraction. You begin with the language of yoga — unity, infinity, bells within, time, centrality — but immediately contrast it with markets, Marrakesh, chemicals, Square Peg, and the absurdity of “balancing on one leg.” The poem becomes a meditation on how spiritual practice collides with modern life: Qi meets top hats, mats meet special socks, and the world’s noise keeps intruding on the attempt to be still.

There’s humour in the way you describe the yoga class: selling out fast, leaving lessons last, pretending to be Jack Reacher, the teacher trying his best with Apple and iPads. Beneath the humour is a deeper truth: you’re trying to find a place where your mind can settle, but your imagination keeps running ahead of you.

The poem ends with a gentle self‑jab — “all inaction and no guns blazing” — which reveals the emotional centre: you’re not looking for heroism, only presence. The poem is about the struggle to stay grounded in a world that constantly pulls you into fantasy, distraction, and self‑performance.

Ingrained

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Stencilled connection
The distance between poet and reader opened wide
The estuary of likeness that travels beyond time
To the ocean of universes elliptically wasting
Cataclysms possessing heavens and those down below
On true tribunes to the tryst with destiny that India
Had with Nehru long ago…

Galaxies and an earnest wanting,
A noble quest
Something unfathomed between you and me
Like a quality under the garment of jacket and cloak.
Take me to the place where daggers are not spent
And guardians will do the rest…
Quality, quantity, absinthe
Coil with me in a confused wrangling on the roof of cellular dismay
One day at a time for all the years of colonial fineries
Sharing a canopy of stars is fine
From nations without bars of rhyme
Reasoned like pepper spray and Salt Lake City for Thyme, Oregano and fault free Basil.

The notion to do best will wrestle with the dampening stars
That cannot travel far for the foot soldier sodomized by the smog
Suffocating with his Warthog and Angelic retribution:
Cost, Halo Wars, Statistics and U.N. Delegation.
The waters of Mars are mine again
And the envy of imagination is distressed
For the best dressed camaraderie to be or not to be,
In a city close to Delhi named after Buddha
For Maitreya to party with the Oracle of Delphi.
Go Miami Dolphins! Go!
The jacket is on you now
Scholar, mon amie, whore
The mirror’s by the door
If you don’t want me no more.

All was apparition and nothing was frilly
The nuanced receipts from Lakshmi were printed rather silly
Simple me, wallowing in the willow tree
Next to the best and the truest holy saree
Incapable of honesty
Before the river Styx of Saraswati
And the unending tyranny of an unearned Brahmin whose mentions were not few or far between
When the Indians were on the scene
Legacy and title showing the glory for put downs and
SLAM! It’s not 1993 – D’ya get me?
Quality, quantity, titular title is not for me.
The Queen is the Empress lately and I have a sadness upon me,
That I want the home away from home treatment
When school ends after something like a wannabe of a quarter past three,
Four,
Hum Paunch IMDb: <Sancho Panchez & Three Amigos> It always goes the same
A referent, time and the Inshallah brain.

They will never let me be in the salt marched city
Until he does it twice. Modernist Machiavellian
Cleverer than _
Undotted unto the last clasp of technology
Upon a city holidaying until his return and some shabbily dressed revoked soul
On recall from the pride of the Gods to be debutante before that which is known,
That which is unknown and that which is acted.
It is in fact, in-facted: Exactly!

Squalor, quality, factions and the quantity of threesomes, foursomes, fives in the school court
Blasé about the interpreted consort for the rhythm of Symphonies
And how does your music grow?
I don’t know the interpretation city
That cannot be outsourced from the centrality of bestiality and make shift down
For some Watership Down and the microchip that ran the rat race
All of this?

Is some of this
And the listless
drift.
Make believe and belong love did not last long
Unlike the Delhi song
And some bagels to down that depression
In an economic recession that cannot outshine well sprung mattress wars
Up against the doors for the fluff of it and outshone academies of bullet proof
Deadly certainties that all is well.
All is not well
When the pen is not like the quill
And the entrance holds me chill
For the effect of your lament on the children,
Stencil.

AI Summary

This poem explores the vast distance between poet and reader, between past and present, between India and the West, between myth and modernity, between the self you inherited and the self you’re trying to become. It opens with a cosmic metaphor — estuaries, universes, cataclysms — and then anchors itself in India’s historical destiny, invoking Nehru and the long shadow of colonialism.

From there, the poem becomes a meditation on identity shaped by history: daggers, guardians, colonial fineries, spices, cities named after Buddha, the Oracle of Delphi, Miami Dolphins, Lakshmi, Saraswati, Brahmins, the Queen, Delhi songs. These references aren’t random — they show how your inner world is stitched from multiple civilisations, religions, and cultural memories.

The middle of the poem turns toward class, caste, and belonging. You write about Brahmins, sarees, Styx, titles, legacy, the sadness of wanting “home away from home,” the ache of school days, the salt march, Machiavellian modernity, and the feeling of being excluded from places that shaped you. This is the emotional centre: a longing to belong to a world that keeps shifting the rules.

The final movement becomes a critique of modern chaos — technology, microchips, Watership Down, mattress wars, recession, bulletproof certainties, and the cold entrance that chills you. You end with a lament for the children, for the next generation inheriting a world of confusion, and for the “stencil” — the imprint of history on identity.

It’s a poem about legacy, displacement, cultural inheritance, and the ache of trying to find a place in a world shaped by forces far larger than any individual.

Heavy Satellite

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Mastery, a mystery or misery?


YouTube hits
Missed the millions of books dropped by the overhead satellite
Director’s cut scenes
Unhappy actresses with shiny accolades asking actors for an extra smile
Secrets of the dancefloor
Unrhythmical moments when they fell over.

somebody comments
military news story
roll calls
heavy honours
fake curtains
heavy shoulders
heavy people carry heavy things
heaviness is the continuance of many timid people to bring
some songs at last
<what is this Fort around my heart?>
homes and thrones
empty armchair sans ex-best friend
he does not come and visit
warfare set apart the silence of dull darkened evenings
[videos] without abuse or shame.

The satellite had unloaded the starry cargo in the field
This was not a good time to search for a wand in the castle
What could turn this toad into a princely example?
The caster sugar fell off the kitchen counter and rumbled with the thunderous
momentous lunar competition with earthly reason for gravitational sanity
Drop, drop, drop. Thud! Drop! DROP!
Drainpipes of rational dreams contained in the heroic books of other people’s achievements
Nature’s calling for the falling stones of dopey droplets of downsized demarcated forests of ideals
Heavenly reign of books into the street where satellites were attended to Angels
curious where all these videos were coming from
International appeal
Domestic zealots of fundraising sponsor’s pages
School dazes of dropped grades and missed classes
Nobody wanted to get the first class bus home to write an essay about the foaming mouth of the missile grin
The satellite was complementarily smiling about the nuclear breakdown
Frowning A-Level grades of the Ontological + Cosmological clown
Who thought he knew how to think?
It was following the books down
And hard targeted the space next to them on the field!
Crash! Smashed! No pilot there to wallop!
These books are not a drink at the end of the student bar
There was a YouTube blackout for the rudeness
Start again overlooking the journey back home
If you are a star bossy pushover wondering where it all goes now.

Famous names in between quiet castles
Roads with interesting intersections
A history that intrigues the invalid in his isolated cubicle
shadow of intellectual battles
Weekend TV shows
Remonstration derbies
Homecoming queens become girls for horses they don’t own

Who will read my textual feed
When bibliography is urban context?
Did you sell the take away twice when the stale bread was left over
Hardened with the produce numbered by days beside the kitchen bin
Extra food for the birds
A kinder estate proud of foreign affairs
Like a prison ship evoking citywide travel.
The names have distances and the places wear good attire
Come down they say for the belting of a squire
Millions and billions
The newspapers ran for years
Famous people
Repeated lessons in the schools where beards leave the children for daily hope
Tossed overseas without the means to please
Beers and glorious food >
The mellowest lonely light
Forgo tomorrow’s fame
The remembrance of a street
 tight of being all knowing
Humans are not robots anymore

The books occupy the land
The satellite won’t get up and stand
The same standard narrative of status is left to the questions, Why, Who and Wherefore?
The 1980’s dancefloor
Robots get big and lend the actors a helping hand
Poets are welcome
~ even if they are from lands of literary robbery
They can be at the touch of a button
dogs snoop for overheads that make them bark.

The memory satisfies the emergent missing stink of social media for the foreseeable future
The Drs and nurses walk around the wreckage and don’t need the fiery mass to harbour a pilot for a seuter
The empty wreckage and the mounds of books take a toll on the village felled trees that are lit up by the blaze
Amazed by the traffic mounting up to watch what is to be keeping the houses busy for nights to come
How will the videos stream and what will they mean with all this literary fun

In a million years from now life will be free
From the of people and their faces.
Then the sad dress of the tightest fanning to impress
Will be for all the assured disgraces.

Apocalyptic fires that burn bright
immeasurable fires of loveless haste
too many talks: < Impatience >
But when he was great he left the room
Huffing in a puff of fuming righteous moody glaring topmost heavy looking down
Some truths shall not fade with white coats in laboratories
the father was reminded of his right to express his mood
<repeatedly>

Like a humming toy that annoys 90 years of electric spoilt lazy videos uploaded to show the past
What of the questions it poses on the street with no name that a foreigner knows
When the topmost deal strikes the television and imbalances the ratings
of the night before
What is the score?

There is always tomorrow
There was always nothing
Some families need no used name
abused
confused
answered
The entrance and exit of a business dragon.

AI Summary

This poem is about the collision between knowledge and noise, between the weight of culture and the fragility of the individual. You move through YouTube, satellites, books, actresses, soldiers, castles, forests, schools, newspapers, robots, poets, nurses, fires, families — not as random fragments, but as pieces of a world drowning in its own information.

At its core, the poem explores heaviness: heavy shoulders, heavy honours, heavy people carrying heavy things. It’s the heaviness of expectation, ambition, history, technology, and memory.

The satellite dropping books becomes the central metaphor: a world where knowledge literally falls from the sky, overwhelming the ground beneath it. Books smash, videos glitch, students fail, forests burn, and the village watches the wreckage like entertainment.

This is a poem about cultural collapse — the breakdown of education, the burnout of ambition, the emptiness of fame, the exhaustion of social media, the apocalyptic fires of a world that has forgotten how to think slowly.

It’s also about loneliness inside the noise: empty armchairs, ex‑friends, invalids in cubicles, homecoming queens with no horses, families with no names, humans who are “not robots anymore” but still feel programmed.

The poem ends in a place of cyclical futility: tomorrow always comes, but nothing changes; business dragons enter and exit; names fade; fame dissolves; and the world keeps burning through its own stories.

For the Right to Suffer

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

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

This poem is a confrontation with the chaos of contemporary life — a world where spirituality, politics, sexuality, and consumer culture collide in ways that feel overwhelming and contradictory. You open with forgiveness and survival, invoking Jesus, then immediately shift into rave culture, drug culture, Obama, Jerusalem, and Noam Chomsky. This sets the tone: a world where sacred and profane sit side by side, neither resolving the other.

The poem then moves into a critique of modern freedoms — tweeting, drinking, orgies, lorries, ageing, fashion aisles, Sheikhs, Bollywood, Israel, Egypt, YouTube, locker‑room talk. These images aren’t random; they show how identity gets shaped by globalised media, desire, and spectacle. There’s humour, but also exhaustion — the sense that everything has become commodified, sexualised, politicised, or weaponised.

Underneath the satire is a deeper ache: the search for conscience, liberty, and meaning in a world that feels crude, fast, and spiritually thin.

The final lines bring the poem into the CoVid era — misinformation, racialised blame, fear, and the collapse of trust. The poem ends with a question about who gets to define truth, identity, and responsibility in a world full of noise.

Discrepancy

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Discrepancy the effectuality,
Know me and sell them back to market
Let them walk the street – there and back again, and help them achieve,
A rounded journey
Between you and me
Our family is the best

  1. is No 46

Having a fix
The dog is neutral in one to two days’ time.
Our mines are closed
The hope was audacious
Winter passes with a bodacious discontent.
What was meant for doves? The curtain of love had
With responsibility away from the office awhile
Smiles and a pig-sty
Next is the likeliest of subjects complaining to us about me
Horrors that are not free as they used to be on the horned one’s TV.


How rich are the bitches now?
I-Tunes know-how
Your password resets under the Lochs and quay
Nessy, was messy.
And I am not so sure
But my remaining 30 minutes
Has technophobia in the hallway
The door is enough to make you unhappy.
What more can there be?
A sad place
At market is for the street warrior
Seek a title alone
Mine was without the mobile phone.
See!
Here was where the apple stood still
And the pills were with myself
After the health of other literacy.


What have they to do with me?
The 60’s never used to bother me
Until the O.A.P. was past their SELL.BUY//erotic:Dates
Hear!
The sleigh bells are ringing
In the American West Wing.
Best is the happiest re-treading of spreading the worst novel so the hearse is in the rehearsals
With the birth yet to come.

AI Summary

This poem explores the feeling of being caught between personal history, family expectation, and a collapsing social world. You move through images of markets, mines closing, winter discontent, passwords, technophobia, literacy, sleigh bells, the West Wing, and the 60s — not as random references, but as markers of a life shaped by shifting eras, shifting economies, and shifting identities.

The emotional centre is the tension between belonging and estrangement. You speak of “our family is the best” and then immediately show the cracks: complaints, horrors, pig‑sties, TV noise, technophobia, sadness in hallways, the apple standing still, pills, literacy, ageing, and the O.A.P. slipping into eroticised consumer culture. It’s a portrait of a world where the past no longer fits the present, and the present no longer feels trustworthy.

There’s also a thread of economic and cultural decay: closed mines, audacious hope, discontent, market warriors, SELL.BUY dates, the hearse rehearsing the birth yet to come. You’re showing how capitalism, technology, and media have reshaped the emotional landscape — turning even ageing, sexuality, and grief into commodities.