The literati mafia

Let’s start with now and work our way backwards
A timeline of my life thus far
Some think I should be moving onward
Not thinking so much of the past
But when it haunts your every present
It’s hard to make that last

But, Emily, it’s been played over and over
There’s no point in bringing it up again
The fact is you don’t have to make apologies
For what it is you went through

You don’t have to be sorry for being a sponge
or easy to hurt, and vulnerable
Big girls cry, that’s what Sia says
And she’s the one to know

Covering her eyes, her face with a mask
With such a beautiful voice behind

She suffers in pain, like so many do
Because they can’t see what’s in the mirror
Someone that endured countless pain
Maybe not the third world type
And don’t get me wrong…

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Most times when the week ends, a time I sought all week, I feel the crush of water breaking, from dams vulnerable to bursting, I think of how my heart beat, the times I held my breath, pushing through another moment, all tiny moments,
culminating in a wellspring of tears, uncontrollable.

The pressure to perform, provide to those within my sphere, the comfort and the mercy that they need, like dehydrated sponges that wish to be filled, I fill. I fill and empty as my own wells run dry, the words I speak often volatile, like guttural cries from voices pushed down by hierarchy and stigma.

I wish I could say I understood everyone, that I even try, but I don’t. Only to those that understand me, will I give the gifts of my own. Closeness longed for, connection needed, substance to fill the vacant holes, unaware of my selfish reasons, drowned in pity and self-loathing, caged, repelling love as it seeks me, an ache without remedy.

Emily Cloward © 2018

Hello all,

I write to you all on behalf of Nitin, someone I call a dear friend; one who has collaborated with me on poetry and co-founding a collective.

For now, Nitin is taking a break from WordPress until he feels ready to come back. I will be managing his blog while he is gone.

He is currently struggling with personal problems that have motivated him to seek peace, and WordPress has been a source of chaos for him lately. I don’t expect everyone to understand who he is; as poets it feels like we wish everyone to understand us deeply, but it isn’t realistic in many cases.

For those that are close to Nitin, we know his true intentions, we know who he really is, and despite poetic license and being able to say whatever is felt through this medium, raw, real feelings are behind each word.

Social media can often become a cesspool, and it is my hope that those who read this will have some empathy for someone who struggles daily with personal demons that some of us can and cannot understand.

Sincerely,

Emily Cloward

 

 

I see enemies on the blogosphere each time I visit. Thieves who steal your lines, betrayers, haters, backstabbers, cutthroats and male and female perverts. Come up with something original bitch. Or at least take what I give and spin it like a top, until a dizzying stream of consciousness helps you write better. I give people my friendship, my hand to clasp but devoid of integrity they stab me in the front and that hurts more than some vagabond roughing me up for cash. And all this talk about ‘creeps,’ well what about the female version, the fucking cyber whore. She pretends as if things are pretty picture perfect, but in all actuality has no life except a virtual one where she leads strangers on. The fuck girl. Yeah come, you Nazi feminists. Wave your pink swastikas. I have nothing to lose anymore. I’m sick of cyber whores ganging up on people because someone rejects them or because they perceive rejection. You are not the center of the universe woman. I could care less if you’re lying on a pothole tomorrow, intoxicated or if you’re flying high. Leave me the fuck alone. That’s the only thing I want. A world devoid of you sending e-mails to people or personal messages targeting me. You know you’re in the wrong but like the typical narcissist you are, you cannot accept your fault and go running to some black cock, sucking him dry virtually and saying, ‘Daddy he’s after me.’ You’re a pervert with no sense of purpose and an absolute waste of space. I put up with this shit for way too long. Groups, ostracism, hate, threats, sick twisted bullshit but I’m not taking it anymore. You want a war? Do you fucking want a war? I’m talking to all of you and to you Drake. I hear you. You’re just a rag-and-bone peddler of poor poetry. Your lines have no meter and yeah you try fam, but you fall short. Do me a fucking favor and stop your Jesus, Malcolm X, Black Supremacist swinging back and forth between a two-inch cock erection and preaching and get a fucking identity bitch. Develop something we call a personality. And that whore’s valiant alright. But she’s playing you. Her lines make no sense. It’s cryptic, verbose jargon. She has no command over the English language and is a creep. A virtual stalker who shags thinking you’ve got a large pecker when we know you don’t. You say you’re in college and I’m in school but your lines lack meter, rhythm and they aren’t in the manner of poetry or rap. They’re just lost somewhere between like a faggot pretending to be in the closet. And I guess that’s what you are boy. So, come on out. Get yourself a man. Maybe a white man. He’ll treat you good. And to the selfie taking bitch who steals my lines, your child is in the closet, screaming, ‘Mama! Mama!’ While you’re shagging off to a married man on a phone conversation. You’re the whore of Babylon, sitting on a dragon of false-youth. You’re old, your tits sag and your cunt’s loose. And hey cryptic bitch, do me a favor and stop putting yourself on a pedestal because you fucking get a hundred likes. You get them because you’re a creep. Not because you have talent. Your writing is spittle that only the coffee shop poet loves.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

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We’ll meet again sometime in a place where God Is an Astronaut plays and the ambiance is just right. We’ll be older then and will have so much to talk about. Shades of youth will color our conversations with a passionate red, a dreamy blue and a strong brown. We’ll be lucid, articulate ourselves better and talk of fights fought and wars won. I guess we’ll also pen some Biblical prose about the fall of our Jerusalem in the vein of Lamentations or a nihilistic Ecclesiastes. We’ll talk about the women in our lives and progress from romances based on a flutter of youthful emotion to those based on tragic ideals – faulty right from the beginning – embodying the love and hate, the yin and yang of our twenty something sex crazed selves. We’ll then progress to older lovers and a more mature catharsis, and marriages and illicit affairs. We’ll talk of our slipshod existences and the guilt mistakes bring. A deep Kierkegaardian despair where we’re desperately clinging to despondency because we’re shitty that way. Maybe, we’ll hold hands or act weird, holding silly flags and semaphore signalling. We’ll flaunt the keloids we’ve gained on the skin of experience and the tattoos that mean something. We’ll talk of righteous indignation when people betrayed us, matching the wrath of Jehovah. We’ll talk of walking like nomads without a place to stay – like abominations and outcasts – with Cain’s mark on our foreheads. We’ll shoot Indian rum or sediment soaked cheap Indian wine. We’ll drunk dial exes in both a friendly and a perverse way and say we’ve discarded the scrimshawed jewelry they gave us but kept the panties. We’ll talk about our irrational, antigodlin fears and the paranoia that made our eyes dart from side to side, wondering if the boogeyman impersonating Lorelei was going to drown us in panic and cacophony, though the rivers were still and they were just small puddles personifying zen. We’ll talk of absurdism and how we embraced it like a fling with an alluring woman at some point in our lives, fighting despite acknowledging there is no purpose. But all that’s for then, but now, you and I must take leave. I’m going MIA soon and dissipating in the mountains, hoping to reform again, to find new birth and your path is yours alone. Farewell friend.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

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The literati mafia

I’m listening to Look on Down from the Bridge by Mazzy Star and there’s something about the concept of finding freedom by abandoning everything I’ve known that appeals to me. I’m sick of it all honestly. The women and the sex. The cigarettes and the booze. And this isn’t some ephemeral disease of the soul like heartbreak or failure. No, this is a deeper cry that resounds through my very core beating any millennial petulance. When I was younger, I dreamt and dreamt of things I thought will materialize, coalesce and take shape, carrying me to objects of affection and wreaths of adoration. Now, I’m older, writing bawdy, perverted, shitty poetry on Google Hangouts to people who get me (or don’t) but the truth is I’m in this ramshackle bar of my depravity. The puke of consciousness staining everything, and in this nasty Tophet I’m shaking the bartender by the…

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I spoke to the old woman who stands clothed
in black and white behind the counter, this
noon. Deep in our talk, I asked her, ‘Do you
regret a choice made? Have you truly loathed
a circumstance – one that didn’t give you bliss?
‘My young friend,’ she said, ‘I can’t make brand new
the life I’ve forged, and even if I could
I’d forcefully say no, because age brings
truth and what’s truer than the deepest hue –
that says that I’ve stood and lived as I should.
I rise each morning thankful; the bird sings,
and that’s the greatest gift my age begets –
a gratefulness without darts or regrets.’

‘And what if you could see beyond, will you
choose suitably and live life fuller, strong?’
I asked, but she looked with worn, jaded eyes
and said, ‘The future is, and just stays true –
It isn’t mine to edit, or right, wrong.
I’ll live this moment and the next, ‘till ice
or fire I am, and ashes I become.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

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