Hypocrite


By Mouli Banerjee 

I’ve triumphed over the uselessness of life,
Shoulders shrugged and questions dodged—
Very elaborate art, this is.

I look at you in your Guevara bag,
And T-shirt and shoes and a heart to match;
I marvel at length at this
giant, ten feet tall,
Devouring Che and all that he was.
It’s named irony, and now it wears his face like a mask.

I look at you and I recognize,
You and I are one.

Our revolutions are plotted over
cups of Irish coffee with whipped cream on top
CCDs and Baristas will tell tales one day,
The graffiti of our empty politics scratched on their walls.
Buildings rocket into the sky
Not fair, not fair, we say.
And see they have no water, no food
Not fair, not fair, we say.
And look, they burnt those slums down,
We must do something where is our plan of action do we make a Facebook group oh!
we must write
some articles oh call the waiter I want
more whipped cream and isn’t the pizza delicious oh!
but let’s plan something we mean it we mean it and
the assignments tomorrow and
the projects day after and.

Over and over again,
With hearts that mean
Such good
That they cry themselves to sleep every night,
Hypocrite you and hypocrite I,
We plot a future we’re too scared to have.


About the poet:
Mouli Banerjee
is currently pursuing her master’s degree in English Literature from St. Stephen’s College, New Delhi. Amateur poet and poetry enthusiast, Mouli loves travelling, singing, and writing fiction among others. 

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