I’m walking straight to the abyss on a road of scintillating Asphalt like peeled off skin, the nude red tendon exposed.
The road isn’t without its share of cavities like small cigarette wounds and craters like gangrenous putrefactions with ichor.
Briars and thorn bushes surround the road on both sides smelling of human piss and animal discharge. Kopi Luwak anyone?
The azure skies of redemption soon close in on themselves and the spotty crescent peaks like Daniel’s little horn – The Antichrist.
The seals break, the trumpets blare, and the Lamb – the Tiger doses me with bowls and bowls of wrath and judgment.
Locusts with human faces and sharp teeth that Abaddon releases bite into my flesh and though I pray, ‘Forgive me or at least let me die!’ there is no reprieve.
So, I endure, the ground shaking, the road breaking and my bones crushing, metatarsus splintering, an Alien foot, or a claw.
I limp, weary and jaded, knowing there is no god for sorrow, just one for sin which I’m unable to repent of because the guard locked the doors of my ‘own iron prison’ and I remember the progressing Pilgrim asking why.
Somewhere, someplace in the foulness of Babylonian hedonism, a man, a cyborg that blasphemes and a white-robed Satan’s prophet declare themselves gods for sorrow. But I don’t wear their mark or the seal of the Sovereign. Who am I? Trapped between darkness and light. A dichotomy between hate and love exists within. I’m split, having a rough stony eye that judges and objurgates and a soft brown irised one that tries reaching out and loving and caring for the people who matter.
The seventh stage of the abyss is reserved just for me – below Judas; the fire doesn’t quench, and the worm gnaws while the angels impale the traitorous expressionists and Ginsbergian ignus all in the omniscience, omnipotence, and omnipresence of ‘Justice’.
The trumpet blares again, and I fall face first, my two front teeth chipped off. I yank the remaining part out with a nutcracker, and the red gush twistedly invigorates me. ‘I must prepare,’ I say to myself with a lopsided grin, the words a mush of syllables.
I crawl, the red spittle coating the road – the smog a grainy eye gouge – searching for half-smoked cigarettes. I find one and struggle with the matches before finally lighting it. I inhale, the filter bloody. ‘Well I’m still fucking here,’ I say to myself and exhale and crawl into a fetal position.
© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)