I had one too many yesterday, popped pills like I was
scattering dimes on the dinner table, laying them bare,
I smoked a pack of Marlboro Red like I usually do,
flicking the half-smoked cigarettes into the rotten,
weed-strewn patch of land that haunts the left side
of my cracked wallpaper, slightly jaded house.
I stood on the balcony that’s barely holding up like
an oxygenated man needing tubes and needles,
I watched the honeydew sunset with dilated
pupils, drifting in and out of a lazy reverie –
a blurred door in the distance with misty vines
creeping over it, the cobbled path like fish scales,
coalescing now and then. I was half-running, half-stumbling
but without fear or paroxysms of angst, I tried
getting to the door but suddenly woke up
only to find myself beginning again.
Is there a point to pointlessness?
Is there a reason for lacking reason?
Am I knowledgeably-knowingly ignorant?
Or am I ignorantly-innately knowledgeable?
Nah, these questions didn’t haunt, nah,
these questions didn’t haunt
while I stood in my thrift store shirt
and track pants, unwashed, unclean
and unattended to. I guess there’s a sense
of freedom in a slightly reckless abandonment
or a partial hedonism.
I didn’t need you at that moment and
I don’t need you now.
I didn’t love you at that moment and
I don’t love you now.
I didn’t feel you at that moment and
I don’t feel you now.
So fucking carefree and wild –
So lost in smooth transition –
A hit that’s gentle and mild –
One that needs no translation –
And that quatrain summarizes this shit, and it’s a fucking wrap.
© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)