Crucify them!

I like the degenerate who lives nearby. The dude’s honest, raw and I wouldn’t mind sharing a beer with him. But it isn’t his honesty that appeals to me. It’s the fact that he has a conscience. Weird, right? But trust me, that’s one of the biggest paradoxes you’ll find in this world. He’s capable of actually empathizing with a messed-up situation in your life, because he’s probably been there. Now, he’s not going to cry with you, but he’ll feel for you, whether his expression changes or not. And then there’s the ‘empath’. What in the world is an empath? I studied psychology and didn’t find the term anywhere. It’s a pop-psychological sorry excuse for a word. Anyone who uses that term to describe themselves, with a hint of pride, is most definitely not one. They’re sociopaths or in some terrible cases psychopaths. Trust me, you’ll encounter them both in life and in art. These people live out some of their sickest, darkest fantasies and then say, “Honey,” or, “Munchkins.” Calvin! Calvin! Burn them already! That idiot Servetus was some poor slob, with some distorted view. These are the people you should find and burn at the stake: Murderers and molesters, who don’t look the part at all, and actually seem gentle and kind. They talk with these cherub smiles plastered to their faces, and deep down they’re cowards, which is why many of them are occultists, who need some supernatural horror to give them a boost. Well, let that very thing consume you, until you can’t stop the bloodlust and are caught in public, and are beaten, broken or hell, even lynched. You cannot face people person to person without any twisted aid, or clandestine approach, and that makes you Janus-Faced pieces of shit. And some of you actually write about your exploits! Fucking lunatics. Oh, Justice where art thou? Hand them to the sword or the chopping block and let the executioner intentionally blotch his swing, so they’re alive and writhing and know extreme pain. Or crucify them. Or impale them with all the wrath of Jehovah, and let them bleed, with their entrails hanging out for hours on end. And while you’re at it, roll the degenerate another spliff, give the sorrowed poet catharsis, the poet who bleeds some respite, the tortured artist some peace of mind, and the seeker some solitude.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

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