The love song of every unfortunate soul born after 1982

Let us lie on the fields, watching the starry night.
Look! A comet! Wish that we’ll lie on
quilted beds, with breakfast coffee and bacon,
or at least green, dewy grass, breathing in the
petrichor, because here, the dust rises and falls
every night, the smog becomes a trojan with
soldiers of monotony bursting through,
and setting us on fire, until we’re charred
monochrome, only to rise like phoenixes
the next morning, wishfully thinking we can
devour, consume, destroy, contaminate
the world.

And maybe tomorrow we’ll think of a hundred
things we must do, and a thousand things we
never did, but when youth’s fire still burns,
false recollections must meet actuality,
and actuality must bring a thousand joyous
echoes, like a rapturous choir in ecstasy,
the baritone, bass, tenor, alto, soprano and
descant filling voids within, and grins staying
longer than wistful smiles.

And there will come a time for Lot to judge,
and for us to insult him, and there will come a time
for revelry judged by fire and brimstone, yes, there will
come a time for reckless abandon castigated, chastised,
and blind lust blinded, and sin hacked down.

But now, the night is young darling, and so,
wish for more than the same sordid ground,
littered with yearning.

Come let us thirst for each other, you and I,
my lips tracing a route from your neck,
to your breasts, soft, and then lower to your
belly button before finding yours, moist, while
you sigh and arch your back, my path
leaving a route of syllables on you,
forever, and these lines? What of them?
They’re just simulacrums of the path left
on your skin.

Come Lazarus! Be the muse and call us from slumber!
For we sleep, my lover and I, thinking of becoming
more than just being here, and we’re
creating dreams and delusion more than
just fucking the moment away literally.

She looks through the window, the rain
gently falling on cars with their headlights on,
making their way somewhere or someplace,
while I sit by the hearth and drink myself
to sweet oblivion, the fires crackling,
telling me stories and lulling me.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

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    1. Thank you very much. This piece is satirical and so, I’m not really one to put it off, but then again I just might be considering the life I lead lol.

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