Once there lived a pseudonymous coffee-shop poet who
percolated poetry. An insipid Joker with
his poor man’s Harley Quinn – Brandi or
Cindy or Mindy or whatever the fuck her name was.
Well, he wrote blank verse without meter –
and that’s as blank as it gets.
He wrote his analogies drawing from folklore
and Star Trek, devoid of depth and emotion.
He spoke in emoticons, ‘Yes, we must avoid
poisonous ink Mindy!’ He squealed, ‘There are
too many deceivers who masquerade as writers,’
he preached, while he secretly asked a few women
for nudes and then threatened to publish them.
He said he was 54 and black with a nine-inch cock,
when he was just a lanky, balding, white lecher.
He tested me then and talked about skeletons in my
closet with his virtual concubine – Brandi or
Cindy or Mindy or whatever the fuck
her name was – when he hardly knew me.
But here’s the deal, I don’t have skeletons in my closet,
but I keep a scythe. A friend said I hack weeds while others
pick flowers and he’s right because he knows me.
He knows that when blood seethes and my soul glows
vehemently with rage, I open that very closet Brandi or
Cindy or Mindy or whatever the fuck her name was, talked about,
draw my scythe and split poetic minds,
until muses fall to the ground,
scattered like bits of ripped off grey matter.
Do I scare thee? Do I frighten? Do I terrify?
You can believe in rebirth or reincarnation,
but once you push me, I’ll take your blows on my Hagler chin,
before asking you, ‘Is that all? Really?’ And then I’ll
proceed to throw you into the void without remorse
I see you, coffee-shop man. I see you drawing from an
Inkwell this time. Don’t ask me how I know, but I do,
and I don’t care if you’re black or white, fat, thick-muscled,
gym-brained, or lean or athletic. I’ve saved a grave with an epitaph
that says, ‘Here lies one who lived to 45 but still remained
a fisherman though he had all the resources to sell caviar,
and it’s not lack of ambition that kept him there.
It’s lack of skill and ability. Talentless, tainted, terrible and tortured.
Oh, what a miserable fate! But don’t pity the bastard!
He was born stupid, that’s all.’
And if you wish to literally challenge me, India opens her doors.
I’ll be gladly willing to knock some sense into that
Canadian arse from the land of Maple Trees where the
owl sings Tru-deau, Tru-deau and liberal Joan is a postmodern
faggot (no offence to gay people).
I can’t pay to make it there, and so come here, and we’ll
settle scores, and to make it fair, tell me what you
want written as your epitaph.
Do I rile thee? Do I haunt? Do I provoke?
Good then. Keep your mouth shut this time
and I’ll keep your secrets.
And to someone else, ‘Story fuck a poem! Seriously!’
Poetry my dear friend is drawing from experience,
infusing it with emotion and expressing yourself.
It isn’t verbose, self-indulgent, cryptic garbage.
So, don’t write poetry in code and please
don’t envy what you can’t do.
© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)