The literati mafia

Let’s start with now and work our way backwards
A timeline of my life thus far
Some think I should be moving onward
Not thinking so much of the past
But when it haunts your every present
It’s hard to make that last

But, Emily, it’s been played over and over
There’s no point in bringing it up again
The fact is you don’t have to make apologies
For what it is you went through

You don’t have to be sorry for being a sponge
or easy to hurt, and vulnerable
Big girls cry, that’s what Sia says
And she’s the one to know

Covering her eyes, her face with a mask
With such a beautiful voice behind

She suffers in pain, like so many do
Because they can’t see what’s in the mirror
Someone that endured countless pain
Maybe not the third world type
And don’t get me wrong…

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The literati mafia

I’m listening to Look on Down from the Bridge by Mazzy Star and there’s something about the concept of finding freedom by abandoning everything I’ve known that appeals to me. I’m sick of it all honestly. The women and the sex. The cigarettes and the booze. And this isn’t some ephemeral disease of the soul like heartbreak or failure. No, this is a deeper cry that resounds through my very core beating any millennial petulance. When I was younger, I dreamt and dreamt of things I thought will materialize, coalesce and take shape, carrying me to objects of affection and wreaths of adoration. Now, I’m older, writing bawdy, perverted, shitty poetry on Google Hangouts to people who get me (or don’t) but the truth is I’m in this ramshackle bar of my depravity. The puke of consciousness staining everything, and in this nasty Tophet I’m shaking the bartender by the…

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The literati mafia

A Literati Mafia Collaboration: Part III

Silence is seen as a treacherous doubled-edged sword in my tumultuous mind. I never knew what silence meant in my daily life. Since a little girl, I have watched my family delve into anger and confusion over money and disagreement. I have seen people stab me in the back as I grow older, letting emotion cover every fiber of my being as i’m lost in my own sense of noise. I have seen those that don’t know one true fact about me, talk down about my hopes and dreams. It floods my mind in waves. For when I heard conversation behind my back, I knew it was words in which would cover me in blood and agony.  I was finally cleansed. I forgot about those that used words to hurt each other, or hurt me. I began to find silence was spectacular. I didn’t…

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The literati mafia

A Literati Mafia Collaboration: Part II

there was a time when it would settle, a threadbare mantle covering all the things that buzzed and hummed inside, demanding stillness. but now it is the rasp of snoring children, the score of tires on asphalt, the whisper of birch leaves. it does not cover so much as it permeates from the outside in. penetrating skin and fascia and muscle and bone until there is no more to traverse unless it were to exit. and that it will never do on its own. it is still made to settle, preferably in the supple bowl of my diaphragm, until breathed out by forces beyond control. only then is it reality, when it has been stealthily captured and exhaled in the guise of my own air. only then can i call it silence. and that silence is the enemy of mine enemy, welcome yet conniving…

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The literati mafia

A Literati Mafia Collaboration: Part I

In the end, everything is silent. Maybe that’s why I hated it so much, I’d always liked beginnings so much more. My flat when my parents reached the end of the end of their marriage was like being a character in a silent movie. We might as well have been in black and white. I laid in bed, waiting for them to start shouting, arguing, reading the same old script they’d been reciting every single night for years when they were foolish enough to think their insomniac daughter had fallen asleep. But it never came. There was nothing left to fight for. The war had ended and they’d both lost, claiming my childhood as a casualty. I never thought I’d miss the fighting, but somehow the silence was worse. My own relationships are plagued by all the things left unsaid, silence where there should…

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The literati mafia

I dropped out of college when I was 24
and went straight to the abyss,
I’ve spent six years there,
darker than the belly of Jonah’s whale,

I’ve fought and lost, I’ve fought and lost,
I’ve fought and lost.

A mind fallen into utter despair
like a trunk of rich wood now
riddled with termites,
intrusive thoughts, chaos, hallucinations
like a gaudy show of theatrics,
garish demons dancing to cymbals clanging,
a lurid parade of the macabre,
knives draped in white diaphanous silks,
pots broken, milk spilling,
mood swings – left, right, up, down,
shifting gears trying to get this
locomotive back in control,
unable, unqualified to hold on
to undying hope.

And so, I started a blog last year,
‘Fighting the dying light,’ after
Dylan Thomas’s famous villanelle,
but my lines have left me,
just like my lungs now corroded,
my liver now diseased,
popping a pill, a day…

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The literati mafia

Am I asking for too much when I say
I want more than this slipshod existence?
Or is that too little?

Affliction and hurt haunts me, breaks me down –
white demons masquerading as bright light –
I fight with battered weapons, a worn gown –
but in the end, I’m lost to the dark night –

Doubt without faith; callousness without love,
and I’m torn asunder, hand in glove
with misery’s curse, with hatred’s dagger,
wistfully wanting more than this wicked stagger,

stepping, stumbling, slipping,
falling, failing, fading,
never knowing, never reaching.

Show me more, give me unrestrained love –
Teach me more, ask me, ‘why, when and how?’
Give me more, a beautiful redemption –
Love me more; more than base, low, sensation –

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

You’ll find more of Nitin’s work at Fighting the dying light

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