This is an image of people walking on a street. It conveys the wealth of experience that life brings us. My prose poem examines just that from an angle of a relationship

The moon with her muted, ashen light partially illuminates my path, filled with clinkers of despair and hankering – an off-time, off-tune sequence with a murderous coda. I pass withered Jacarandas, hoping that I’ll find you after this battered car or after walking past the smog that coats the splintered sidewalks. I look yonder and see the mist coated peaks with snowflakes cascading. I dust off the grime that clings to me and keep walking though I look grey and everything looks like cigarette ash. I fucking love you, and I ask myself if the recollections and echoes of memories are worth the effort. But I’ve flipped this coin so many times before, over the years and regardless of how it falls, I can’t rid myself of you. You’re the green, vivacious wine that creeps over each broken, disjointed wall that personifies a fractured me. When we made love, did you only think of the now and completely discard the after? Was it something transient, and did the nirvana to the rhythm of that soft snare, slowly building up with the double bass and tom-toms and hi-hats mean nothing to you? I often think I need an exorcism – strapped, while a priest chants and rids me of you, but having loved you with the unmitigated desire of the Flame of the Forest, dancing to breezes of togetherness, having kissed you and having slowly slid down your neck and having gently bit you with both unparalleled sorrow and the pleasure of maniacal ardor, having slowly and fiercely found us on that peak I finally met after a long taxing sojourn makes these tough moments worth it, and gives me a plethora of new dimensions to explore, hoping one day they’ll be mine.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2019)

2 Replies to “Clinkers of despair”

    1. Not as much as I’d like to be John. Which is probably why I romanticize the act so much! Otherwise my writing would be succinct, to-the-point and raw like Bukowski’s odes to the low-life. But on the flip side, not getting laid enough produces sexual tension which leads to bursts of hypomanic energy, which produces creativity leading to art. So, hell I’m not complaining! Thank you again for the laugh and the support John.

      Always

      Nitin

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