The Days of the New Raj

The Days of the New Raj

The masala dosa hangs
twice the radius off my plate
but now I see your thali,
I’m jealously reminded of a circus.

The choices we make at tiffin
are the most important
and flavour the remainder
of the afternoon.

Malaria is not considered
a danger in the heart of Soho
but we ward it off anyway
with ice mountain gin and tonics
as dry as Chianti,
as bitter as grapefruit.
Lemon eighths glisten in the mix
like yellow sapphires.

The world turns around us,
south of Fitzrovia.
The talk of your ideas,
which will shape the minds
of a generation,
seem to others the ramblings
of a three martini lunch.

As the midday sun makes an Arizona
of Old Compton Street,
Hoxton boys forsake
the alfresco seating, invading
air conditioned rainbow bars
and trendy queer restaurants.

You snort. “Look,
how quickly those cunts retreat.”

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