Welcome Sheeple, welcome

This is an image of a cracked wall. I've used it to represent nonconformity and a stand against societal norms that cause so many people acute distress.

Welcome Sheeple, welcome to a place where pensive fires forge poet beards, giving them an authenticity that no hipster lounge bar shot can replicate.

Welcome Sheeple, welcome to a place where we delete an, ‘I’m so depressed,’ status message, written for a hundred likes and replace it with a black parade of fury and melancholia that sweeps away charlatans in a vortex of mad poetry and razor-sharp prose.

Welcome Sheeple, welcome to a place where gargoyles mounted on chipped off pillars roar with disgust at any histrionic poser who steps on the debris they face because it’s sacred ground for the loners and misfits who dance artlessly with no reason for treason because they bare their souls and wear emotion like new blue, red or black skin.

Welcome Sheeple, welcome to a place where Layne Staley still lives, pink-haired and skinny, and grunge is the norm, coating cheap motel rooms, smelling of fart and tobacco with the color of reckless, raw angst that screams, ‘Fuck society! End Hierarchy! Find Liberty!’

Welcome Sheeple, welcome to a place where Popularity is the new ‘faggot,’ bullied by Insanity and Idiosyncrasy, and Nonconformity abolishes selfies that don’t look like mugshots because this land is arid, riddled with brambles and despises the tattooed synthetic, AI manufactured flesh-and-bone nanobot who crawls over every surface, incessantly taking pictures and feeding them to the cult of Like.

Welcome Sheeple, welcome to a place where prescription pills and abuse and bullying have created a tragic optimism, a fight till the end though institutions, tyrannical patriarchy, and power whoring have hung, drawn and quartered us, outside the gates of the Temple like Gentile dogs.

Welcome Sheeple, welcome to a place where we castrate already neutered thought that relies on the support of ‘theories’ created by logicians, and rely on off-beat creativity that dances to the rhythm of odd-time signatures and the jazz of craziness.

Welcome Sheeple, welcome to a world distorted by altered perceptions where identity finds its birth in a void, free from religion, gender, ethnicity, caste, and creed.

Welcome Sheeple, welcome to a nation free from the rat race and hackneyed political debates and base sitcom sarcasm, but rich in individuality, solitude and the never aging gold grass of satire.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

Room 101 – EP

So, I left the city with its industrial roar like the low growl of a mythical beast, straight out of a fantasy novel, and moved to the mountains for the raw, crisp and cool breeze and petrichor and starlight sky, not obscured by smog like a faint red haze, picked from the pages of Revelation and Jehovah’s wrath.

But my idealism soon crashed like a car careening into a bus, and I’m desperately salvaging the remnants of a dream. I believed solitude would soften me, and the sight of the fresh green would strengthen me, but I find withdrawal asphyxiating like too much hookah pulled from a pipe, leaving the lungs singeing. There’s an acute, harrowing distress present even here, while I smoke my cigarettes and look yonder at the small illuminated cross, and the little luminescence of the small town in the distance looking like Christmas lights on a felled tree, chopped to bits.

And staying in my room isn’t very different from isolating myself from the indifferent city with its women who come and go talking of Michelangelo, and the same dull taking of toast and tea that I so thoroughly despise. I happen to like coffee, thank you! So, thoroughly dejected I’m listening to Paul Desmond on repeat wondering if there’s more than the buffet this hotel serves, more than climbs that feel like acid eating away at my lungs from the inside out, more than bloodshot eyes obscured by my photochromatic glasses like a pus-stained bandage covering a rough wound.

Even reading feels like hacking through some brutally dense forest; the words producing severe stress and migraines, and sentences crawling into my mind like worms because I nudge them in. So, I’m writing today and possibly tomorrow, until I’ve got a hold on the melancholia that trails me everywhere like a shadow, and rip it apart, exposing its entrails and hang it like butcher’s meat on a wall of things I’ve conquered.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

Room 101

I live in a room that’s both my last meal on Death Row and the Gas Chamber. When it’s the former, I embrace this illusion we call ‘free will’ and enjoy a sumptuous meal according to my desires, but I’m soon dragged away by the guards of tyranny, and a brutal genocidal force, and I’m strapped in the chamber, my fear echoing, my heartbeat an odd time signature that you can use in a Math Rock song, and I’m soon left writhing with apparitions surrounding me, threatening to engulf and envelop me, and as foam drips from my mouth, and my irises disappear, I’m slowly fading, clutching to pillars of delusion that only seemingly held me. Delilah defeats Samson thoroughly here, because he’s denied his strength even after he’s tortured, and his eyes are gouged out. This room’s both pleasure and pain. The unmitigated dark pleasure of the ebb and flow, and twisted secrets kept when I’m with a woman – personifying and venerating her, giving her a place outside restrictions, smashing Time and his infuriating ticks, tocks and chimes. But it’s also the pain of watching her dissipate within seconds and replaced by a deep-seated primal fear of watching dimensions split and cacophonous syllables spoken by a horrific deity slowly inching their way into my mind, scalding reason, and overwhelming and overpowering me. This room’s both catharsis and oblivion. I find here, the catharsis of downers, alcohol, and jazz – the juxtaposition of a slightly loud piano and a gentler alto saxophone, and the ephemerality of sex and fluid, of women entering and leaving, but I also slowly find that with each transient nirvana I’m granted comes a plethora of soul-sucking thoughts, ripping my heart from its place and placing it out of reach, showing me just how vulnerable and insignificant I am. I find that with each orgasm comes guilt, because she isn’t here to stay, and will waltz back to her life the next morning while I’m fox-trotting out my life in click-bait and endless cyber repetitions. This room is many things, but despite the moans and sighs, the false lull of pharmaceuticals, and the chaos and quietude of a mind, it lacks love.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

Originally published in Morality Park

Pensive

You and I walk past brownstones, the color of rust, the melancholic artificiality endowing us with Plathian muses, making us wish for something more than facades and magniloquent odes lacking the depth and authenticity that only despair forges in the fires of harrowing experiences using a hammer possessed by death-spirits.

You and I walk beneath amber sunsets on potholed roads where buskers cut their fingers on sad but sharp violin strings, and the music’s an ode to obscurity. The call to oblivion is so strong then, and the waspish ache within makes us rage at tyrannical gods and hate humanity like anti-Bodhisattvas. But then a numbing that even an anti-psychotic can’t provide coats our hearts like the paper leaves of Autumn cover the mossy ground, and yes, there’s beauty in not feeling anything sometimes.

You and I perceive existential angst in ways that leave us devoured by madness, but also empathetic, and it’s this dichotomy within us that makes us unique and sets us apart from the half-baked crowd. It’s a roaring silence and a darkened light, but these hackneyed oxymorons don’t really give it justice. It’s the Big Bang of the all the lines we write, a sudden jolt of the consciousness leading to streams and streams of macabre yet beautiful thoughts like black rivulets under the gentle glow of a crescent moon.

You and I know tragedy intimately like Gnostics directly communicating with their gods through mystical experiences. But, this wealth of pain has taught us, even though it severed us from the magnetic throng – ostentatiously attracted to or bitterly repulsed by one another. We’re freaks and vagabonds, misfits and pilgrims with causes augmented by throes.

You and I connect in ways that supersede the yes, no, and okay though the weight we carry differs not in intensity, but in form. We grasp the deeper semantic that forms the undercurrent of good conversation, and we let it carry us to the shores of honesty, which is why we can pause talk today and restore it three weeks from now with the same ardor, and I’d like to believe that’s something precious.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

For Mia

Real Toads’