I moved to the West because
I wanted freedom from
saffron-robed false prophets
and heresy spewing monks,
I no longer wanted to walk
squalid streets littered with
drunk, paunched, corrupt
policemen and starved mongrels,
I no longer wanted to haggle
with auto drivers who looked
at women like they’d never seen
I no longer wanted the dust from
the construction site coupled with
the stench of the ditch suffocating
me while I sat on the balcony of
my apartment, reading
biased news reports
by Squealeresque jingoists,
but in the land
of hamburgers, capitalism
and unbridled liberty,
I found myself at odds with
free-spirited hedonism, dubious ethics,
bizarre definitions of relationships,
and decided against the culture
and walked into a church.
There, I quickly got roped into
and a very American Gospel.
“God bless this land!” we shouted
as policemen broke necks
and people broke windows.
“The President is doing the
Jericho Walk! Let the trumpets
roar!” we yelled while Xenophobia
like crimson smog coated
our doors, fences and roofs.
“Hallelujah! The Lord’s kingdom
comes!” we screamed,
believing that God chose
conservative Christian Republicans
who held themselves ramrod straight.
They gave me an anglicised name,
chastised me when I quizzed them
on difficult beliefs,
made me vote red,
and honestly, I don’t know who
I am anymore.
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