In the year 3000 AD, humanity suddenly evolved and (de)evolved, and the earth and the other colonized planets found themselves with four different species: The Homo sapiens or the ordinary human beings, the Homo victoriums who were a rare species of around hundred who used telepathy to communicate and possessed a collective consciousness called the ‘mass brain’ that they used to psychically control the weaker minded, under-evolved Homo sapiens. They integrated all the individual consciousnesses of the Homo sapiens into the mass brain which they supervised. Hence the Homo sapiens soon became the primitive Homo regressums without the capacity to think for themselves. They became robots of sorts and thoughts were planted in their minds when necessary and removed if they weren’t needed. The Homo victoriums did this because they were threatened by another species called the Homo macabreums. Now, the Homo macabreums were immune to the thought control of the Homo victoriums but didn’t possess the gift of telepathy and weren’t connected to each other by a mass brain. They did gain telepathy by killing the Homo victoriums and eating their brains. They never did develop a mass brain though because some secrets of evolution will never be known. Perhaps it had something to do with their immunity to mind control in the first place. They were numerous and were responsible for a genocide of the Homo victoriums who were initially numerous themselves. The Homo victoriums who were peaceful by nature had no other option but to enslave the Homo sapiens to prevent their species from becoming extinct. They used the Homo sapiens or the now Homo regressums as weapons, making them wage war against the brutal Homo macebreums. While the war raged on a fourth species found themselves hidden and avoided all contact with all three other species because they feared war. They were the Homo jazzeriums. They were hedonists who had minds like radio devices that enabled them to switch channels and listen to all kinds of jazz. They secreted peyote and shat out post-marijuana and harvested it for pleasure and remained high most of the time. They reproduced by a process called ‘mindfucking’ when two or three or a hundred mind frequencies were in sync and produced orgasmic mind-music. Their levels of synergy were incredible, and although they didn’t exactly have telepathy, they had something akin to it. They also looked different because they had booze leaking from their post-eyes and ecstasy pills for hair and were therefore considered by the other species to be an exotic animal. They moaned and sighed and never spoke unlike the Homo macebreums (pre-telepathic murderous evolution) or the Homo regressums. They were however hunted by the Homo macebreums when found and eaten because they gave the hunter immense pleasure when he or she ate them. But this trend gradually reduced because the hunter found himself in a withdrawal that often led to death after consuming them.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

Originally published on The Literati Mafia 

I’m not sure if I ever cared about you
and even if I did, I’ll never admit it,
you were sick and twisted,
mooching off the drama you created,
writing line after line about
how people screwed you over,
unable to get a grip,
suffering’s supposed to create persistence
(or so they say) but in your case
all it created was a virtual zombie,
addicted to the numbers and stats
on your blog,
writing oversexualized, hardcore nonsense
or malodorous, self-pity soaked,
‘He fucked with my life! My heart! O my fucking heart!’
Blame game poetry,
you spent hours on that site feasting on
even semblances of gratification
and in the end, you couldn’t live without it
even though the stress to produce something
of depth was eating you alive – flesh, muscle, and bone,
you wrote and wrote, romanticizing everything
and when people called you out, they
were called, ‘dated narcissists,’ by people
who wanted you to forever be the wilted flower
in that cracked vase, you even wrote suicide
letters and deluded yourself into thinking
it was expression when it was pride and the
need for a like or a comment that fueled you,
they buried you yesterday and the Pastor
read Psalm 23 which is ironic because
nothing about that song of praise
reflected your brusque, impatient
manner of attending to anything
except for your blog,
it wasn’t a romanticized suicide
with you jumping out of a window like
you’d pictured it, but a car careening into you
and severing you permanently from your all
your addictions and tossing you into the void,
I didn’t attend though your mother called me
and asked me to deliver a eulogy, I heard that
a cool breeze wafted over the old pink
Rhododendron in the churchyard where they
lowered you in a black casket into the ground.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

Jimmy bought a new moped. ‘I’mma ride it to the hills, brah!’ He squealed; the effects of the skunk weed which landed him in an institution where he spent hours talking to the ceiling fan and calling it his ‘Big Momma’ still affecting him. He reverted to his Indian accent now and then, but I always kept my fingers crossed, scared he’d go crazy on me.

‘What do you plan to do in the hills?’ I asked Jimmy, but deep inside I already knew the answer. ‘I’mma find a bootleg pill man. They sell some fine quality hashish,’ he whispered, bending low on his moped and there was something terrifyingly odd about the way he did that, but then again this was Jimmy. Everything was odd about him. He slept with his feet on the pillows and his head where his feet should be, he drank scotch with mixed fruit juice, he managed to get some old cuckold to film while he fucked his wife, he joined a book club and turned it into a Wednesday swingers party. I don’t how he did it. I think he had this weird cult of personality. It never worked on me, but it certainly did charm a lot of others into giving into his twisted fetishes.

I always wondered if Jimmy made up his exploits until he introduced me to the old cuckold and his wife at a café. The old sleazebag asked me if I wanted to join Jimmy in ploughing into his wife. I politely declined. The last thing I needed was an amateur porn video starring me, some older woman and Jimmy of all people, while a cuckold, jacking off shouted, ‘C’mon son. Fuck her harder!’ I guess I’ve seen enough amateur porn to know how it worked. I’ve decided to stick to watching it; the monitor separating me from the actuality.

I also walked into the swingers party by accident. Jimmy’s mother asked me to fetch him one Wednesday and I said, ‘Yeah, he’s probably at the book club. I’ll fetch him.’ I then called Jimmy and asked him where he was and he gave me directions to some apartment complex. I could hear loud music in the background but didn’t make much of it. He couldn’t have possibly converted a book club into a swingers party, could he? I wondered. I finally found the place in some cul-de-sac and asked the watchman for directions to Room 125. He looked at me with disgust and spat to one side; the red, betel leaf spittle tainting the parking lot. I wondered what I’d done wrong.

I knocked on the door and Jimmy opened, clad only in his pyjamas. I went in and the stench of weed overwhelmed me. I then heard loud music and ferocious moaning from the rooms. ‘What the fuck’s happening here?’ I yelled at Jimmy and he said, ‘Peace fam. Lighten up. We just havin a good time, that’s all.’ I needed to get the fuck out because nothing good happened when Jimmy started speaking thoroughly in his Indo-African American accent. But I’d promised Jimmy’s mom that I’d bring him back and so, I grabbed him by the wrist and started pulling him out of the door. ‘Nigga, you need to lighten up,’ Jimmy barked before screaming, ‘Help! Terrorist!’ And some butt-naked girl ran out of one of the rooms and screamed at me.

‘Leave Jimmy alone! Leave him alone terrorist!’ She shrieked, her tits bouncing while she hysterically jumped up and down. ‘Calm down,’ I said, ‘His mother needs him.’

‘Jimmy’s got no momma,’ she said in some bizarre Indo-Chinese British African American accent.

‘No, he does and I’ll call the police if you don’t go back to whatever you’re doing.’

‘I’m doing Jimmy you fat tit, and I’m not letting him go until I’m done,’ she yelled and slapped me, and Jimmy started crying. ‘I’mma lose it again brah!’ He whined, and I had a panic attack.

‘C’mon Jimmy,’ Big breasts said softly, ‘I’ll fuck yer brains out until you’re happy again.’

‘For real! Bitch please! You don’t know what I’mma lose.’

The girl then started crying and I took the opportunity to cart Jimmy away. We raced past houses and ramshackle huts, Ganesha processions and Hindu activists and gay parades and livestock and restaurants and finally reached Jimmy’s house.

‘I’mma lose it,’ Jimmy squealed as I bodily lifted him and carried him home.

‘You’ll be fine Jimmy. Just think of the bootleg pill men and the hills,’ I said, dropped him on his bed and went out and smoked a cigarette.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

Part 1

When even nature fails to invigorate,
When forests seem bleak and mountains heave a sigh,
When things just fall apart like a reprobate

Whose worn existence and stale cigarette
Makes me – a twisted catcher in the rye
Whose broken nature fails to invigorate.

When gnarly trees do threaten, castigate
With haunting browns, dead leaves – a sore to the eye,
When things just fall apart like a reprobate,

I look at you and set apart all hate
And embracing love with its low and soaring high
I look past, ‘Nature fails to invigorate,’

And such sayings that just sear, eviscerate
The little strength I cherish and hold nigh
When things just fall apart like a reprobate.

I cannot deny the existence of fate
Because it brought me you, beyond the ‘Why?’
When even nature fails to invigorate,
When things just fall apart like a reprobate.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

I’m in the mountains where the air is cold and crisp and the fog enshrouds this little town like an enigmatic esoteric doctrine obscures a portion of scripture. The layered tea plantations look like layers of a green pyramidal cake; rich in taste and a delight to the senses. I amble down hairpin bends and breathe for a change, and I’m mystified by the power of nature. It has this innate ability to calm and refresh me. I’m no longer surrounded by brutal machinery and vapid super malls. I have no need for cheap wine and even that insatiable urge to write something that reeks of self-loathing is gone. Smoking is no longer something that temporarily releases me from angst but is a pleasure I savor while I fix my gaze on the blue peaks that encircle me like fortress walls. I say fortress but I’m not trapped here. It’s a far cry from some devilish force holding me against my will in a sequestered apartment complex where rage erupts from some wound within causing a catastrophic explosion that leads to an implosion of reason and perception and an animalistic thirst to wreak havoc taking over. Here, freedom beckons with the scent of the Eucalyptus; vivacity beckons with the freshness of the animated sparrows; serenity beckons with the aura that each blade of grass possesses – engulfing me and lifting spells of depression. I like this cottage I’m living in. It’s quaint and archaic and my internet’s limited and I need a fireplace at night; the door is made of teak and doesn’t open easily, but I’m not complaining. The more I look at creation in the eye, the more I want to leave my neon hued, gaudy city behind. I’ve never been one for boisterous laughter and parties and making an utter fool out of myself. Sure, I’ve lived that life but each day felt like giving a piece of me away. Some deep inner piece that cheap hedonistic thrills will never replace. Now, in this place I’m taking those pieces back from the earth, the petrichor, the breeze and the mist and putting them together in those vacant spaces in my heart. There’s something within every person that no amount of materialism will suppress – a deep despair that’s rooted in a need for a higher, more transcendental connection. No amount of wine or people or cigarettes or even art takes that away. Most people don’t project this despair and try their best to deviate other people from getting a glimpse of their inner self with their ostentatious Facebook feeds and Instagram pictures. The few who do are sadly shunned by a society that stereotypes. Then there are a popular few who know how to create drama out of it and thrive on the attention that they get on social media. These cunning few suddenly write about their ‘problems’ and then move back to the mainstream pretentious nonsense. They know how to manipulate the sheep on social media with their sorrowed narcissism. But this post isn’t about them. It’s about confronting the despair within. It’s that very despair that leads to addiction, to incessant posting on social media, to hate, to rage and to a crippled existence. It eats at a person and that person finds temporary respite in temporal things and idolizes them. We forget that things fade away and people can never be our everything, just like we can’t be our everything because we’re finite with limited minds and limited lifespans and limited abilities that wither slowly and just like books collect dust or iron rusts, we deteriorate with age or illness. So, there isn’t any point in finding solace in what’s innately fractured; severed both existentially and eventually literally. So, it ultimately comes down to finding an infinite God. That’s the essence of Christianity. But what happens when we can’t find God or when God is silent or if you’re an apostate who feels cut away from him? There has to be something more than banal materialism or reckless hedonism. I think that’s where the beauty of solitude comes in. I feel lonely in the city, but alone and at peace with myself in the mountains. The neo-cosmopolitan city I live in is a modernist’s lament. It’s a harsh reminder of the things I don’t have. Having said that, there’s also a constant discomfort that nags. It tears my contentment asunder and I’m always looking for answers using technology when technology is the very thing that’s killing me. Now, I’m not saying technology is bad, but I do have a little Luddite in me that screams when there’s too much of it, which is why, I race to the hills when I get a chance. Where will I finally end up? I don’t know. I have an idyllic dream of settling down in the hills and taking long walks and perhaps teaching; shunning my old life and avoiding self-loathing and angst, and mooching off them to write completely; basically killing the narcissist in me using nature. But life with all its practicalities and pragmatism always stands in the way like a huge unclimbable gate with spikes on top. But I’m feeling vaguely optimistic today and hence these lines.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

Hey you,

I just listened to the recording you sent me last Wednesday. I’m sorry it took me so long. As you already know, I’m a tortured, unemployed artist struggling to both find inner peace and make a dime out of these dishonest lines I peddle. Having said that, I think this is the most honest thing I’ve written. Nevertheless, I digress and forgive me because I’m going to digress again. I think I’ll always remember Wednesdays because it’s supposed to be our curry day. Remember? We talked about it when we talked about idealistic togetherness and shared a dream about fame and not fading into obscurity. I wistfully smiled then because you and I both know that such dreams never mature because life’s a bratty adolescent who loves tossing rocks at already devastated people walking knock-kneed on broken pavements; bruising their already haggard selves. So you wrote a piece in dactylic pentameter? I loved your reading of it. I think that little sniff you had made the reading really cute. But not puppy dog cute. An alluring cute. Yes, such a thing exists, and if it doesn’t, I just made it up. Funny how a cold can alter the tone of a person’s voice and make them seem more entrancing than they already are, and trust me you’re really fascinating. You’re the most enigmatic and enchanting woman I’ve known. Wow! I’m glad I got that off my chest. Now I guess I’ll have to prepare for purgatory in the friend zone. I took a really cheesy video of me smoking and posted it on Instagram by the way. I’ve grown an eighties pornstache, and my hair’s all oily. I got a notification saying that you saw it. Man, does social media really plow into your privacy! It’s fucking ridiculous. We’ll soon have the iCommode. The chamber pot that lets you catch up on the latest post-Kardashian gossip with each shit. Moving on, I didn’t have bacon for breakfast today or beef biryani for lunch. I’m trying to lose a few pounds and look good. Anyhow, I wrote this post because I miss talking to you. Text me tonight. Bye.

P.S. Your poem is amazing and surreal. It’s strange, but your poetry reflects you and brings out more of your mysterious core and that’s a win-win for me!

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

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I’d like to think we had some
beautiful moments, rippling through
those trying times when a miasma of despair
coated the flooring, the beds and ourselves
with agony’s dust and though we shook,
washed and clung to hope,
the metal remained rusty,
the windows opaque,
barring any trace of light,
and our spirits ebbed
and the horizon wasn’t an incandescent
force looming over the swashbuckling waves
as they dashed against the rocks, giving them
their momentum and beckoning us to leave
our throes behind and join them,
but a pale, nebulous cadaver unable
to control his children while they rode blue
horses of fury and swept away shore and debris alike,
I’d like to think that despite my inner battles
and your weaknesses, despite finding myself
locked in a white room with a high ceiling and
nurses in pristine white gowns forcing me to
ingest white pills and despite your ambivalence
gnawing at you, making you wonder if you should
leave me or not, we found some peace in the chaos
as clichéd as that sounds,
now, older and without you, aimless, those days
spent weeping, thrashing and threshing for solace
seem like a reverie with wine flowing freely and
drum beats and gala,
I lit my cigarette this morning, and I know
I looked like an archetypal, sorrowed man,
to the passerby with his dog, swimming
against the currents of a middle-life crisis,
the pull threatening to push me over a cliff face,
one I’ll never recover from, but what’s left really,
when the woman who stood by me through
the darkest periods and the piercing nights
of my life, when friends who once seemed seraphic
suddenly turned into demonic bullies, when my popularity
didn’t just wane but disappeared altogether,
when I stood by the street lamp watching everyone
I know, pass me by after looking right through me
can’t be found anymore though I petition and pray,
so, tell me? What’s left to live and die for when
hurt screams through my blood, and I’m just
spin-drift coursing past, looked at once and then
forgotten.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

Originally published on The Literati Mafia