Fuck existence and whoever put me here,
I never asked for demons chewing on my sanity,
the blood of incoherent and isolated thoughts,
dripping from their mouths, feeding off each
moment of peace, turning everything
into a twilight—
a teeter between water choking my lungs,
while I drown, disconnect and dissipate,
falling, fading…the green abyss all I know,
and the bright, brilliant faith to sight, or
the beatific vision, enveloping and engulfing
my core, flooding my songs with echoes of
rapture and a major keyed symphony of delight.
Fuck me and everything I stood for—
a middle-class hobo in a third world country,
holding a sacramental vigil though
the bread’s corrupt and flea-ridden,
and the wine’s riddled with sediment.
Unemployed, unforgiven, tossed in
an oubliette of destroyed hope, and
a debilitated scope, wishing on a revolution,
charge you red soldiers of anarchy! Sure.
Fuck the man I’ve become—
reeking of alcohol and sex, stinking of
cowardice and a death hex, thinking some
force or person will fuel, flood and force me
to wake up from my hard bed and do something.
Fuck life and death—
so, tell me, yeah, make it clear, does the blade
that breaks canals of blood, creating the red fizz, or
the intake of twenty Valiums, a slow haze, before
a crippling ‘who am I?’ Existential writhe, before
the black screen, or the leap from a neo-cosmopolitan
apartment—trying hard to emulate the skyscrapers
of the west—in this town of ‘black’ beggars
and ‘white’ politicians
do the job as quickly as possible?
Be sure to tell me how to embrace the black robe
and the beheading scythe, because ‘life is beautiful’
is an overrated, overused cliché that I’ll never
© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)