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This is a Poem about me. and my ridiculousness.

Losing My Spices

600125_10151092095016133_1221264550_nby Ronatani25 Aug 2013

I’ve been shipped and moved around, flown and broken down.
3 continents have their mark in me,
but I don’t know for the life of me
which spice I am!

Been 19 years since I went home back to the air I first breathed.
Been 4 years since I went home back to air which made me - Me.
Been 16 years home, on and off to tell.
This crisis is almost a mockery,
of any sense of Identity
And my poor passport is looking at me like
?

That hot and dusty life that I Freudian hug home.
Mambo vp? Poa poa! Fresh!
Syntax in my bones words I’ve always known.
My baby body for a walk through Serengeti in
Kenya. Nairobi. Home.
Or
The cold and rainy city, all grey and black and high.
Quick moving and silver Benz, flashy, pin striped suits, Greggs pies.
Calculating and ripped, artistically flared with coalit-ical faults.
History beyond compare and most importantly. MOST IMPORTANTLY
Pubs.
England. London. Home.
or
that everlasting Sun coated in tamarind and lassi.
Infused with spirits of colour inhabited light.
Sounds to make your ears water, food to make eyes dry.
Enough corruption to topple God, his sons and all humanity.
But koi bhat nai yaar.
India. Bangalore. Home.

Coconut milk, Heinz or Garam masala.
Which spice am I?

Do I belong to a culture
Or is this culture mine?

The new age of brikendian.
One of a kind I’m sure.

Cause no other man will cook Korma with mustard,
Or eat his uttapum with crab.
Have baked beans with chapatti,
Or snorkel in Primark chuddies,
Go mad for T20/20,
And know the girl on page 3!
Well.
That's me.