bloody foreigners …
these bloody foreigners
zimbabweans
somalis
angolans mozambicans syrians
pakistanis
turks
congolese
rwandans
indians
etc etc etc et al.
these bloody foreigners
flooding our clean streets
taking jobs away
from me and from you
ps: aylan kurdi was a bloody foreigner too
the migrant …
i couldn’t bid my beloved farewell
i didn’t hug my mother
i had argued with my father that morning
then
i left
fled
crouched
starved
and
died
in a lorry in austria
a boat off the coast of libya
washed ashore
cold and dead
i am that migrant
an immigrants lament …
gazing at the sky
i often wonder why,
birds soaring,
high in the open sky,
are free to fly?
is it that they have wings,
for i too have wings, friend,
so,
i often wonder why,
huddled against desolate sleet,
and,
i often wonder why,
buried under flimsy newspapersheet,
that i too have wings, friend,
i too have wings!
and my wings,
are my feet …
The Immigrant …
Seeking solace.
Seeking a home.
The immigrant finds,
rotten prejudice.
Fungal anger.
The immigrant,
alone, hoping for,
A solitary chance.
To belong.
The immigrant,
alone, always,
an outside entity.
Eternal outcast.
A viral threat.
A reeking odour.
The immigrant,
ever alone,
and alone knowing,
that no place exists,
but that lost home.
immigrant song
are we broken by spoken barbs spewing out of sewers cloaked beneath acceptable garbs while the blades of splintered humanity are sharpened into lethal shards of ‘my country right or wrong’ under the comfortable charade of clinging onto feigned piety dragged along weaving new lies obfuscating what’s right and what’s wrong waving flags like swords wielding swords to behead and to subjugate the many who’ve forever been on the wrong side of the gate shut out of the dream pummelled by untruths of working hard and doing more and shutting up because we need the money the greenback the notes the coins the oil the designer innerwear that barely shrouds the stench of putrid opulence of festering greed of capital and influence and power ripping out each seed by the by wishing a better life for all a hasty goodbye because when love and life and hopes and dreams and aspirations and desires and aches and yearning for something better just a bit better not much not much at all except for some grain for the famished and respite for the numberless banished cast away into the currents of the seas swept along islands of stillness breaking ashore with the waves of happenstance.
so yes
yes
“that’s how i got to be here”, the immigrant says …
Scribbled Verse 