Danse macabre

So you’re here at last, though I’ll admit I was expecting something a little more extravagant. I mean the clichéd black cowl, robe and skull face are things we’ve pulled from the screen don’t you think? Or maybe I’m wrong. Great, so, you’re mute too. I guess we can’t distinguish fact from reality in this (de) centered universe. So, I’ll just let my rambling continue while you listen, and then do what you have to. I guess it was the cigarettes. I mean I did try the other more modern variety, but I couldn’t figure it out. Hawaiian cherry cream mint, poured into a plastic chalice of sorts, before you fine-tune settings, and I’ll admit that gooey stuff is just as disgusting as the flavor. So what do you want me to do? Write you a sonnet or a villanelle. I never did figure out the modern sestina, and the traditional one takes hours. Or do you want a confession? You won’t say? Fine, I guess I hypocritically called out the people who romanticize a (bi) polar reality, when I romanticized you. And as far as torture is concerned, well I think I’ve alluded enough to tell them what haunts. Hell, I’ve even stated it directly in some places, and some inquisitive enough will read! I mean, I tried, but some things I have no answer for. I doubt most theologians do. Anyhow, I guess I’m thankful that I was able to patch things up with mother, father (albeit to a certain degree), the ex, and a few friends. I’ve realized that interpreting someone is tougher than interpreting some of the toughest modernism! Insight, instinct and reason are distorted, or must I use the other word? Nah, that’ll be hypocrisy. Fighting fascism alone is a joke, and fighting it with a clique of writers is a bigger joke, and joining politics is flat-out criminal. I think you’ll agree. Well, anyhow, wield the scythe. Wait! You’re gone again! See, this is exactly the reason, I kill off a non-existent wife, or brother, or friend in my poems!

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2017)

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