By Arjuna Parakrama –
Forgiving us our filth, She’s even found some use for CHOGM now, for
Colombo’s rat-addled graves have come alive,
Fooling fossorials that there’s fresh flesh galore to feast on.
But even worms are said to turn at times, not us, this Lankan (supper) middle class.
The grandest graves look grander now, the small are tiny, all fittingly piled high with decay,
Chuck is due, the dead must be on show: Trees are chopped, walls painted, gates fixed.
He’s visiting white men killed in their old wars; we’ve seen more, and don’t discriminate so much.
Note, this dressing up’s on the surface, stuff goes on below, and that’s unchanged,
Since we’re only rats and mice here, and, of course, lemming thinkalikes.
God or Charles who cares, give old Caesar his due: Our departed
Sleep happier, now the Army has cleaned them up.
Not so for the Wanni’s ungrateful dead. So what? Let corpses burden the living there,
Serves them right for dying like flies for rotten terrorist causes. Embarrassing us, machan.
The deities do not forsake lightly, but when they do it’s murderous, and eternal.
Like CHOGM’s choking, small mercies, trifling gains betray our hopes
For pavements, clean streets, walkways, beggarlessness, soirees, websites, and these
Separate us from those who really suffer beyond our ken; yet
God is wonderful. In her deep pockets our trust is stashed. Guns protect her (and us)
From minorities and NGO human rights; Thank Goodness and the State, that’s history now.
God loves our country as we do, only traitors criticize, or crooks, for gold and gain,
We’ll fight the world, those jealous hordes, and win. Gods are with us, just you wait and see.
In the interim, proxy demi-devils oversee intricate political economies of rats, mice and worms,
We share more than family resemblance with vermin now; they’d do well to follow us
Feeding on the living and the dying in the refurbished graveyard of our times,
Bartering life and death for some crap, burrowing or cheering as others burrow
In not-so-underground labyrinths of violent cash. Or we complain over coffee in nuanced despair.
Better than the rest, that’s us, here, now, and, at least for me, it’ll last for my forever.
Who needs gods, when we’re already in just heaven?