The coffee-shop poet

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
or guilt.

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)

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24 Comments

    1. It’s an assumption for now. Similarities in style and the needy comments on other blogs filled with his usual idiotic cuteness. I unfollowed that person. Even if it’s not him, I’m not a fan.

    1. I warned the bastard in a personal message. I said counter me again in a poem and I’ll expose you. He keeps deleting my comments. He went and apologized to a blogger he once blackmailed. Told her he’s sorry. Scared, cowardly little shit. And thank you.

  1. It is better to reap cows
    than sow bullshit (no offense
    to vegan people).

    Here lies the Caffienated Poet
    who drowned in coffee beans,
    when he could’ve been a Wall Street financial consultant.

    1. Hahaha. I doubt he was caffeinated though. Too much caffeine can induce mania which can make a person artistically creative. But he certainly drowned in his coffee beans. And yes, he’d definitely make a fantastic Wall Street consultant.

    2. And we should pray that the fascists here reap cows until there is no grain left. That way we’ll be forced to eat beef (No offends to pacifistic vegans, just the militant ones)

  2. Most vegans I know
    don’t have the protein
    to raise a militant.
    A fascist force feed
    is all we need,
    since the coffee shop poet
    told me
    that democracy was now dead.
    I said W T F …
    when was it ever born?

    1. The illusion of progress,
      well said and true,
      but a fascist force feed
      is too much to digest,
      and so I pick my dishes
      from the anarchist’s cookbook!
      While I sip on the insipid black,
      because hell, it’s better than
      anything the coffee-shop
      ever served me!

      1. My Anarchist Cookbook
        says to eat the rich
        Best served with a red.
        As they are getting fewer
        but fatter, and harder to get,
        I too shall go vegan
        and drink the soy latte of regret

  3. My Anarchist Cookbook
    says to eat the rich
    Best served with a red.
    As they are getting fewer
    but fatter, and harder to get,
    I too shall go vegan
    and drink the soy latte
    of carnivorous regret.

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