Most times when the week ends, a time I sought all week, I feel the crush of water breaking, from dams vulnerable to bursting, I think of how my heart beat, the times I held my breath, pushing through another moment, all tiny moments,
culminating in a wellspring of tears, uncontrollable.

The pressure to perform, provide to those within my sphere, the comfort and the mercy that they need, like dehydrated sponges that wish to be filled, I fill. I fill and empty as my own wells run dry, the words I speak often volatile, like guttural cries from voices pushed down by hierarchy and stigma.

I wish I could say I understood everyone, that I even try, but I don’t. Only to those that understand me, will I give the gifts of my own. Closeness longed for, connection needed, substance to fill the vacant holes, unaware of my selfish reasons, drowned in pity and self-loathing, caged, repelling love as it seeks me, an ache without remedy.

Emily Cloward © 2018

I see enemies on the blogosphere each time I visit. Thieves who steal your lines, betrayers, haters, backstabbers, cutthroats and male and female perverts. Come up with something original bitch. Or at least take what I give and spin it like a top, until a dizzying stream of consciousness helps you write better. I give people my friendship, my hand to clasp but devoid of integrity they stab me in the front and that hurts more than some vagabond roughing me up for cash. And all this talk about ‘creeps,’ well what about the female version, the fucking cyber whore. She pretends as if things are pretty picture perfect, but in all actuality has no life except a virtual one where she leads strangers on. The fuck girl. Yeah come, you Nazi feminists. Wave your pink swastikas. I have nothing to lose anymore. I’m sick of cyber whores ganging up on people because someone rejects them or because they perceive rejection. You are not the center of the universe woman. I could care less if you’re lying on a pothole tomorrow, intoxicated or if you’re flying high. Leave me the fuck alone. That’s the only thing I want. A world devoid of you sending e-mails to people or personal messages targeting me. You know you’re in the wrong but like the typical narcissist you are, you cannot accept your fault and go running to some black cock, sucking him dry virtually and saying, ‘Daddy he’s after me.’ You’re a pervert with no sense of purpose and an absolute waste of space. I put up with this shit for way too long. Groups, ostracism, hate, threats, sick twisted bullshit but I’m not taking it anymore. You want a war? Do you fucking want a war? I’m talking to all of you and to you Drake. I hear you. You’re just a rag-and-bone peddler of poor poetry. Your lines have no meter and yeah you try fam, but you fall short. Do me a fucking favor and stop your Jesus, Malcolm X, Black Supremacist swinging back and forth between a two-inch cock erection and preaching and get a fucking identity bitch. Develop something we call a personality. And that whore’s valiant alright. But she’s playing you. Her lines make no sense. It’s cryptic, verbose jargon. She has no command over the English language and is a creep. A virtual stalker who shags thinking you’ve got a large pecker when we know you don’t. You say you’re in college and I’m in school but your lines lack meter, rhythm and they aren’t in the manner of poetry or rap. They’re just lost somewhere between like a faggot pretending to be in the closet. And I guess that’s what you are boy. So, come on out. Get yourself a man. Maybe a white man. He’ll treat you good. And to the selfie taking bitch who steals my lines, your child is in the closet, screaming, ‘Mama! Mama!’ While you’re shagging off to a married man on a phone conversation. You’re the whore of Babylon, sitting on a dragon of false-youth. You’re old, your tits sag and your cunt’s loose. And hey cryptic bitch, do me a favor and stop putting yourself on a pedestal because you fucking get a hundred likes. You get them because you’re a creep. Not because you have talent. Your writing is spittle that only the coffee shop poet loves.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

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We’ll meet again sometime in a place where God Is an Astronaut plays and the ambiance is just right. We’ll be older then and will have so much to talk about. Shades of youth will color our conversations with a passionate red, a dreamy blue and a strong brown. We’ll be lucid, articulate ourselves better and talk of fights fought and wars won. I guess we’ll also pen some Biblical prose about the fall of our Jerusalem in the vein of Lamentations or a nihilistic Ecclesiastes. We’ll talk about the women in our lives and progress from romances based on a flutter of youthful emotion to those based on tragic ideals – faulty right from the beginning – embodying the love and hate, the yin and yang of our twenty something sex crazed selves. We’ll then progress to older lovers and a more mature catharsis, and marriages and illicit affairs. We’ll talk of our slipshod existences and the guilt mistakes bring. A deep Kierkegaardian despair where we’re desperately clinging to despondency because we’re shitty that way. Maybe, we’ll hold hands or act weird, holding silly flags and semaphore signalling. We’ll flaunt the keloids we’ve gained on the skin of experience and the tattoos that mean something. We’ll talk of righteous indignation when people betrayed us, matching the wrath of Jehovah. We’ll talk of walking like nomads without a place to stay – like abominations and outcasts – with Cain’s mark on our foreheads. We’ll shoot Indian rum or sediment soaked cheap Indian wine. We’ll drunk dial exes in both a friendly and a perverse way and say we’ve discarded the scrimshawed jewelry they gave us but kept the panties. We’ll talk about our irrational, antigodlin fears and the paranoia that made our eyes dart from side to side, wondering if the boogeyman impersonating Lorelei was going to drown us in panic and cacophony, though the rivers were still and they were just small puddles personifying zen. We’ll talk of absurdism and how we embraced it like a fling with an alluring woman at some point in our lives, fighting despite acknowledging there is no purpose. But all that’s for then, but now, you and I must take leave. I’m going MIA soon and dissipating in the mountains, hoping to reform again, to find new birth and your path is yours alone. Farewell friend.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

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I spoke to the old woman who stands clothed
in black and white behind the counter, this
noon. Deep in our talk, I asked her, ‘Do you
regret a choice made? Have you truly loathed
a circumstance – one that didn’t give you bliss?
‘My young friend,’ she said, ‘I can’t make brand new
the life I’ve forged, and even if I could
I’d forcefully say no, because age brings
truth and what’s truer than the deepest hue –
that says that I’ve stood and lived as I should.
I rise each morning thankful; the bird sings,
and that’s the greatest gift my age begets –
a gratefulness without darts or regrets.’

‘And what if you could see beyond, will you
choose suitably and live life fuller, strong?’
I asked, but she looked with worn, jaded eyes
and said, ‘The future is, and just stays true –
It isn’t mine to edit, or right, wrong.
I’ll live this moment and the next, ‘till ice
or fire I am, and ashes I become.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

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I see the little boy, insouciant –
on a worn swing, so carefree, full of heart –
not bothered if the ground splits; set apart –
in worlds devoid of fate – nirvana sent –
the football’s in the corner, reverie –

begs, urges him to Neverland, to life –
to youth forever lived, and hope held strong –
like amulets that right all treason, wrong –
then layering trees with gold – autumn rife –
all while he swings, not looking more than he –

should see. Oh, how I long for youth’s glint, glow –
to burn within, an inner clarity –
eyes blazing – deep refining purity –
a turn – beatification: soft, slow –
a coming back that helps me just unsee –

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

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My inspiration has left me,
my muse lies like dry bones without a
scrap of meat on them, in the corner of
a plate, decaying, disintegrating, deforming,
there was a time when I wept aloud
the lines I penned, when gripped by
paroxysms of emotion, I’d write thinking
of you, thinking of how sincerely and severely
I loved you, but how you split my heart in two,
pulling asunder ribcage, tearing the red.

Now, I’ve walked so many paths, wearily wandering,
I’ve seen things best unseen, heard things best unheard,
but your ‘faith’ in me kept me, rooted me
in the ground of belief.

But I’ve learned now that belief leaves keloids
which never heal, though they don’t hurt anymore,
reminders of trust in a well-crafted ruse you called love,
a public display of affection and adoration.

I thought I’d find my way back to you,
that villa with the red paper lanterns, you put up,
but I look now and see debris of what we’d hoped
to create.

You scream, ‘It’s your fault! Your lack of trust!’
But I’ve stopped letting you accuse me with your
command over my thoughts, treating everything like
a fucking joke. Somewhere, someplace there’s a
her who’s not a better version of you, but just
not you, and path leading to path will
help me find my way.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

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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)

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