The skag-addicted bunny

This is an image of two bunnies with eerie grins on their faces. I've used it to augment my piece which is about an anthropomorphic drug addicted bunny suffering from withdrawal.

The skag-addicted bunny couldn’t find his fix
And Snowflake (his dealer) wasn’t working the usual spot,
He certainly didn’t want withdrawal’s ticks
And so, he rummaged through his damnable rot

He sniffed each corner with deeply addled brains
And ruffled clothing; looked beneath his cot,
But found nothing that would soothe his veins
The place was only littered with turd and snot

Hours later, frantic and in deep despair,
He tore at the grass in the neighbor’s empty plot,
He screamed at God, said, ‘Do you bloody dare!’
Cried, ‘You took everything, even the pot!’

‘I hate you! I hate you!’ The bunny caterwauled,
‘Ah need some skag awright!’ He yelled in Scots
And plucked his hair until he was slightly bald,
Until he lay writhing, seeing colored spots.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

Shoeshine Timmy

This is an image of a man pushing a boulder while he's climbing a steep slope. I chose this image to parody optimism and herald realism. My poem does the same.

Shoeshine Timmy lived in a brownstone
near vacant parking lots, and a street lamp
that sputtered measly light on potholes
riddled with garbage and acid rain.

He lived beneath black starless skies;
prayed to a god who’d jilted him
and thought of Carla who’d married his brother
in the summer of ninety-eight.

‘Be thankful for each blessing,’ a thought said
‘Wake up, seize the day!’ Another yelled
‘Fight! It’s a new day!’ A third whooped
And Shoeshine Timmy muffled his cries
And listened to the same encouraging lies
And I doubt he’ll stop until he’s dead.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

Normal

From what I’ve gathered through the grapevine, he’s now a madman with a theological bend; a disenchanted raging lunatic who incessantly posts confessionals on Facebook. His black and white borderline obsession with God crippled him and now emotionally nomadic he clamors for a like just like a beggar harassing some passerby for change, and once one of his statuses gets one he deletes his account, only to return, months later. His statuses are dark and twisted (or so I’ve heard). He’s apparently so far gone that even if God stretched some cherubic arm out to wrench him out of the pit of depravity he’s stuck in, he wouldn’t succeed. It must be those shady pills he was apparently on in college. Antispasmodics and antihistamines. Trust me, that shit screws you up. It baptizes you in some murky river of self-loathing and soon you’ve lost all optimistic shades of consciousness. You become cryptic and self-indulgent; given to introspection about introspection; talking with a slur and eating with a drool. He messaged me yesterday; said, ‘Hey man. I haven’t seen you since school. Let’s meet and catch up.’ Apprehension passed through me like a dagger making its way slowly upwards through the intestines, rib-cage, and throat. Painful fucking fear. It’s only natural, isn’t it? The guy’s bloody Bipolar or something. He might just stab me in a fit of mania. I’ve heard stories of these loons picking up guns and thinking God’s appointed them to kill people. Crazy, deranged shit. So, I did the right thing that any perfectly functioning, normal man would do and didn’t respond. I still wonder how he got my number though. Technology is frightening in this postmodern world. I have these Luddite tendencies. I’m not on Facebook for that very reason. But I wrestle with my need for Instagram. I have a thousand followers there. I just can’t let go of them can I?

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

A peddler of dishonest lines

I doubt I’ll be able to write an, ‘Oh that’s beautiful!’ Love poem again because grandiose delusions and ideas shaped and molded all my relationships and the idealistic vulnerability of my youth now sees Autumn. I’ve grown cynical and skeptical though I maintain a veneer of a man-child. If you really knew me, you’ll know that despite my obnoxious mannerisms and acutely harrowing impishness, I’m a bleak, nihilistic, distraught bastard and if given a chance to regain my innocence I’d never take it because I’d throw it away and plumb the depths of depravity in minutes. When in a somber mood I trace the path that brought me here, the regression from a maladaptive daydreamer to a hopeless romantic to a sour-faced pessimist to an utterly tortured nihilist. I can’t even look at nature without adding an ingredient of sardonicism to the broth of appreciation in my head. I guess you’ve wondered about that cry for freedom that tears through the poetry I write. Well, honestly, it’s a sham. I’ve grown comfortably uncomfortable knowing that freedom in my case is an illusion, and so, you can discard all those raw, boiling hot metaphors I use and just look me in the eye using my lines and call me a peddler of dishonesty. Go on. I know you want to throw that tomato and boo me off the stage. I’ll go quietly. I promise. I’ll just walk away with the red stains all over my shirt and hair, and the overwhelming stench possessing me. I’m so far from hope that I won’t even puke in the dustbin backstage.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

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Political Melancholia

My beloved Bhakts, militant Brahmins, fanatics, and Saffron-robed prophets, we are gathered here to address a disturbing issue that’s skewing the democratic equilibrium. It’s a malodor like the smell of piss emanating from beneath a DO NOT URINATE sign. We’ve decided to call it political melancholia. It’s something so repugnant and tasteless, so vile and loathsome like a deformed rat fetus with shit all over it. It’s making the masses moody and spreading like gangrene. It’s altering the ambiance from one of bhajans and bells to one of seedy pubs where skimpily clad women prostitute their virtues and men their gallantry. It’s changing the vision of Hindustan of our chai wallah Emperor who took the throne though he was once nothing; slowly moving up the ranks with dedication and drive; making sure justice prevailed in Gujarat and even forsaking his wife for the True Cause into something these tossing condoms in college dustbins sickulars strongly desire just like their animalistic lust for each other. A few days ago we saw an Italian prince hug our Emperor, and fall at his feet, and it was disgusting, to say the least. That very act was the epitome of political melancholia. This is the golden age of transformation and evolution, and these cultural heretics and misfits seek to dampen our spirits.

But no my friends, we will rejoice! We will rejoice because our Emperor visits foreign land after foreign land dressed fashionably using the money of the middle class and the poor because he seeks their welfare. What if tomorrow some deranged leader of a country in the middle of nowhere decides to attack us? And isn’t it only fair that lowly subjects pay their taxes? We will rejoice because our warriors lynch beef-eaters and cow-smugglers. These pagans hinder the nation’s sanctification with their gluttonous meat-lust and apostasy. We will rejoice because our Emperor cares so much about his subjects that he’s placed a system of tenderly monitoring them in place called Aadhar. Now devoid of privacy, they should know that the chai wallah is watching them and considers himself one of them. Just like emperors of old disguised themselves to know more about the people, our Emperor who is also an embodiment of Lord Vishnu and a true Bodhisattva disguises his policies under the umbrella of financial reform. But left-wing dogs do not appreciate his compassion and reciprocate it with seething hatred. We will rejoice because our national, patriotic champion on the news channel The Republic parades the True Cause with embellishment and he does it with such flair and gusto; exposing the corrupt 2G, 3G, 4G and 5G scams of the putrefying congress and conducts post-autopsies to determine the real cause of the death of the sweet, loving 50 crore wife of a crude, ill-spoken, murderous, barbaric Congressman. We will rejoice because we have a Baba who plans on manufacturing traditional jeans, unlike the buttock-hugging abominations from the west that the women who ask for rape wear. We will rejoice because we have a Guru who defends the secularism of yoga by explaining the expansion of solar energy in the solar plexus. We will rejoice because we pay our politicians to join the True Cause even though they’re carted off to resorts and kept there to prevent ‘defection’ by the mutineers. Ha! They can try, and even if some of us like poor Yeddyurappa broke down and wept because he breathes for the True Cause, they’ll never dethrone the monarch. Heil Chai Wallah! Heil Emperor! Heil Lord of the True Cause!

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

The fine old gentlemen

So, we’re a bunch of classy, elitist men discussing the subtleties and nuances of a Rembrandt; the rich browns and the gentle beiges in a classy lounge bar, sipping on Château Cheval Blanc. We talk about Ezra Pound and Fascism. ‘I quite enjoy him. He’s an exotic, fragile thrill,’ I say, my voice sounding classy, flavored with an exquisite, rich, deep-as-marrow Baritone. The conversation drifts to right-wing American conservatism, which we endorse because we regret the sexual revolution with a modernist’s melancholia. ‘A generation of parasitic sybarites,’ I say, adjusting my Roberto Cavalli tie with a gentle, smooth motion. The Mini Caviar Parfaits have arrived, and as we indulge we discuss Bergman with great panache. ‘Persona is a work of Jungian excellence. Leaving behind an alter and those still unplumbed existential questions it posits have left an impression like a Rorschach blot on the deepest traces of my consciousness. I understand exploring sexuality, but we must do it like Bergman with an avant-garde Delphic flair,’ I say and then belch. I excuse myself immediately and rush to the bathroom. ‘Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! I just had to! Fuck!’ I scream and ignore that small inner voice that says, ‘At least it wasn’t a boisterous fart.’ ‘Fuck! It’s like reading Helen Steiner Rice to an audience looking for the rich symbolism of Eliot,’ I whine. And then I pull out my mobile phone and text my dealer. ‘I need you to hook this old bastard up,’ I text him and wait. In minutes I’m sent a group sex video on WhatsApp. I head to the urinal and relieve myself, and return to the table and sit down. ‘I apologize for the inconvenience gentlemen,’ I say and then boisterously fart.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

The Beef-eating Sadhus

The beef-eating Sadhus, Sundar and Bundar were lynched. – Anonymous

Anonymous’s crisp, concise, lucid, pragmatic style is like petrichor after the boisterous farting of the neo-jazz postmodern novels. No harsh, discordant trombones, no horrisonant screeching trumpets playing that sharp C. The beef-eating Sadhus is just a to the point, in your face micro-novel. – The Guardian

Anonymous’s trial by fire, exploration of culture in saying too little is exactly what this generation of wordy obscure, abstract expression needs. A micro-novel that’s thoroughly objective and birthed in a rough womb of diatribes against meat politics and the sharp rise of nationalism trying to subdue the little voices of the voiceless. Well, the beef-eating Sadhus doesn’t enter this world whispering or sobbing. It screams. A must read – The Huffington Post

Am I the only one who noticed the humor? Sure, they were beef-eating Sadhus, but the lynching is where Anonymous strikes his darkly comical, scythe slash. Anonymous uses his sinister wit to compare lynching with aggressive masturbation. The same ruthlessness and blood spilled. This micro-novel is a tour-de-force in its exploration of modern sexuality. The sexual revolution is here to stay brothers and sisters. Yes, VR porn definitely gives us a sharper sense of perception and enhances the erotic eye’s vantage point, but Anonymous does it here in 9 words. A micro-novel that sets post-sexuality in motion. A magnum opus. A monumental achievement. – The Wire

Raw and uncompromising with a bleaker nihilistic undercurrent. This micro-novel gives no room for closure or hope. Move over Bukowski, and please take a note, Mr. McCarthy. This is the second wave of unadulterated nihilism without Camus’ absurdist ideologies. It places you there, and then we’re done. It’s a gunshot to the head. 9 words giving you a sharp dose of reality. – The Verve

I don’t have a problem letting my kids read this masterpiece. The beef-eating Sadhus might explore sensuality and violent, torture fetishes but people forget that the shallow semantic is also intricate. An all protein meal never works. Eat your veggies kiddies – The Culture

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)