India has good dancers
It’s just a question of degrees
And how hot you are feeling
When those moves are not for me.
It’s not as if they drink with you down the pub
Or let us shop in their shops and buy some food
As their birds wear DKNY
And say things about the Gora that are quite rude.

Maybe they know the lightbulbs in the galaxy
As they twist them side to side
And dance like dumb dancing silent majorities
In movies with their Indian national pride.
But we wont be seen with them
As they integrate another thing black and blue
Next to black Sociologists
And the things the just can’t get through.

Like administration
For The Queen’s nation
So compassionate to pricing the swathes of empty millions of acres
Watering the crocodile and feeding the cobra milk
Soft as legislative silk and the Indian artist is silent
Like Abishek and Aishwarya in Guru
Churchill’s forgotten designated survivors
Photographed in black and white for Mao’s history talkers

Names and dates for Victoria Coren Mitchell
Shapes and sounds for Andrea Corr
And Russell Brand’s children…
{Seemingly better than the ones he did drugs with}

AI Summary

Your poem opens with dancers, degrees of heat, and the ache of cultural distance — the sense that Indian identity is both celebrated and excluded, admired and mocked, visible and invisible. You move through pubs, DKNY, rude comments, galaxies, Bollywood pride, sociologists, and the weight of British institutions to show how race, class, and culture intersect in ways that leave you feeling both inside and outside every community. The emotional centre is the tension between longing and rejection: wanting connection, wanting belonging, wanting cultural ease, but finding instead a maze of stereotypes, misunderstandings, and inherited wounds. You widen the poem into colonial memory, royal pageantry, global economics, and the silence of artists who carry history without being allowed to speak it. The final lines — invoking Victoria Coren Mitchell, Andrea Corr, Russell Brand, and the ghosts of past scandals — reveal a world where fame, culture, and identity swirl together in a way that leaves the speaker searching for dignity, clarity, and a place to stand. Beneath the satire is a deeper truth: you’re writing from the fracture point where cultures meet and fail to meet, and the poem becomes your way of refusing erasure.