Poetry analysis

Hi there ,
Has anyone ever analysed Daljit Nagra poems - specifically "Our town in the whole of India" I'm currently attempting to answer the question " How does this poem celebrate multiculturalism , whilst never loosing sight of the conflicts that accompany it"
Would be great to get some feedback on this as i am currently struggling .

The poem :
Our town in England with the whole of India sundering
out of its temples, mandirs and mosques for the customised
streets. Our parade, clad in cloak-orange with banners
and tridents, chanting from station to station for Vaisakhi
over Easter. Our full-moon madness for Eidh with free
pavement tandooris and legless dancing to boostered
cars. Our Guy Fawkes' Diwali - a kingdom of rockets
for the Odysseus-trials of Rama who arrowed the jungle
foe to re-palace the Penelope-faith of his Sita.

Our Sunrise Radio with its lip sync of Bollywood lovers
pumping through the rows of emporium cubby holes
whilst bhangra beats slam where the hagglers roar
at the pulled-up-back-of-the-lorry cut-price stalls.
Sitar shimmerings drip down the furbishly columned
gold store. Askance is the peaceful Pizza Hut...
A Somali cab joint, been there for ever, with smiley
guitar licks where reggae played before Caribbeans
disappeared, where years before Teddy Boys jived.

Our cafes with the brickwork trays of saffron sweets,
brass woks frying flamingo-pink-syrup-tunnelled
jalebis networking crustily into their familied clumps.
Reveries of inscence scent the beefless counter where
bloodied men sling out skinned legs and breasts
into thin bags topped with the proof of giblets.
Stepped road displays - chock-full of ripe karela,
okra, aubergine - sunshined with mango, pineapple,
lychee. Factory walkers prayer-toss the river of
sponging swans with chapattis. A posse brightens
on park-shots of Bacardi - waxing for the bronze
eyeful of girls. The girls slim their skirts after college
blowing dreams into pink bubble gum at neck-
descending and tight-neck sari-mannequins. Their grannies
point for poled yards of silk for own-made styles.
The mother of the runaway daughter, in the marriage
bureau, weeps over the plush-back catalogues glossed
with tuxedo-boys from the whole of our India!