Experiments

I think I’m too daft to comprehend e.e.cummings’s
style of writing, lines projecting out like horizontal
stalagmites, spaces, words meshed together
like they’re thrown in the blender, an i outside
the parenthesis probably symbolizing a loneliness
and an I within probably embodying wholeness
with another. Experimental fiction was never my
forte, and maybe that’s because fate’s experimented
with me a little too much, using me like its lab rat –
made to run a wheel sometimes, injected with the
black ichor of despair sometimes, caged sometimes,
I could go on and on, but this isn’t about e.e.cummings
or me or even poetry; it’s in its truest form, a piece
written using stream of consciousness about the
paradox between free-will and determinism. If there’s
absolute freedom of choice, then God is indeed dead
and further yet man is God, if there is no freedom
of choice then you’re a puppet or worse yet a muppet,
a smelly sock regardless of what your branding is
(Nike, Adidas or Reebok) and finally, if there’s both then
let’s rejoice! You bring the whiskey and I
the cigarettes and we’ll sing of the mysteries of the universe
and the experiments we play when we choose or the experiments
played on us when we don’t and once we’re done we can
weep, feeling like lonely i’s meshed together in this spiderweb
of chaos (yes, I’ve noted that the preceding
metaphor is an oxymoron)
and finally, we can hug it out, fully closing
the spaces between us
and achieving a fucking transcendent We or I. Fuck me!

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

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