Wait for it!

Why should I care about the ramblings of a poetaster who suffers from acute schizophrenia?

Every line he writes reflects the disorder. There is poetic catatonia or the complete lack of depth, authenticity, and emotion. Dull and moth-eaten; leprous, and bland as insipid coffee.

There is the clinging and clanging, and neologisms when he says I serenade Siobhan.

There is a misconstrued, twisted paranoia that shrieks, ‘Oh! A love poem! How can it possibly engender originality! It’s a mutton bone I must feed to my pet dragon who appears on the 7th page of the 7th book in my series of 777 books! Hallelujah! Jehovah Jireh! Yes, it’s Catholic and shares a similar world with the brute, masculine, (hackneyed, overrated, devoid of intricate metaphor, empty) imagery of Tolkien!’ Yeah, I’m sure the deacon will be pleased while he’s defrocking the cantor and taking sacramental joy in his shrieks which are songs of joy to the presbyterate.

There is a false superiority, clearly evident in his rag-and-bone satire that he thinks, says, ‘I’m on par with George R.R. Martin!’ I’m sure you are, and Sansa loved it when you rode up to her on your unicorn dressed in nothing but a thong made out of hyacinths.

There is thought broadcast that makes him prattle on and on about myth and lore and keeps him warm at night thinking he dodged Zeus’s bolts with impunity while Aphrodite’s dove formed an unholy union with his cock bettering the union between Jacob and Rebekah, only because it’s sealed with white blood.

There is thought echo which takes him to strange metaphysics in which the Egyptian pyramid symbolizes the stages to self-actualization, and Kierkegaardian stages of despair are actually seeds of consciousness watered by the bad energy that comes from the obscure chanting of the people stuck in Plato’s cave.

Well, why should I care about this weirdo who treasures the opinion of a bunch of shallow (but pretending to be deep) giggly girls, or a self-proclaimed 21-year-old (now 34 or 35) lanky drug kingpin who shot at the police in the middle east of all places and lived to tell the tale!

I honestly don’t know why. I think I’m doing him a favor.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

An old friend

An old friend or one who says he’s one,
tells me he despises ‘high’ metaphor –
as if metaphor were the Tower of Babel,
which one climbs and climbs, until
everything disintegrates into talking in
tongues – but he writes with such verbosity,
that I need a Thesaurus to only figure out that
what’s going on is going on.

And that’s not the point of poetry is it?
Ask me to talk of loneliness, and I’ll
give you a demonic room with crumbling wallpaper,
torn chintz grey curtains, and threadbare couches
with rusty nails sticking out, the dust asphyxiating
you while the television’s grainy screened, but people
around you are paradoxically dancing and revelling in
the same grimy place, smoking their joints, carousing,
cuddling and kissing, perhaps even fucking, oblivious
to glances from dilated pupils.

Ask him to talk of loneliness and he’ll say,
‘It’s a cacophonous Tophet where rumination
deliquesces and the recherché panache becomes
quotidian utilitarianism,’ which basically means
that it’s a shithole that deprives you of thought.

Well, he secretly admires me, and I, the size of
his lexicon, and we don’t need to talk of Autumn
or the Riemann hypothesis to figure that out.

I’ll smoke my cigarettes and drink my coffee
and he can sip his sherry while he’s eating caviar.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

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Sister and I

I’ve occasionally and sporadically
talked to sister, often light-heartedly,
sometimes nonchalantly, but I despise
her views on transcendentalism,
and letting nature soar through her,
creating some orgasmic clusterfuck
of something that psychologists
and people living in cottages
should know of, I guess I’m too
much of a stranger though I’ve
never shot anybody, her pretentiousness
is showy, a gaudy robed flamboyance,
that disdains hippies and yet
loves the beatnik, or the
sorrowed, “Shut the bloody coffin
already!” Poet, playing the blame game:
you did, you did, you did, and
it sounds too make-believe, and
might I say a little cultish, and her
imagined elitism, makes her just
an overrated perfume, a little
too sickening, castigating senses,
never invigorating, an elixir
of rainbows that I’ll never wear,
I like my black sweatshirt and
the occasional Brut, thank you,
so she can keep that aphrodisiac
and her surreptitiously subtle sarcasm,
and think of knowledge possessing power,
I’ve stopped reaching out,
trying to engage in conversation,
and if her plane emboldened
with the words, “Mystical passages
accessible to the creamy few,” in pink,
who probably have to prostrate themselves,
and self-flagellate while they
shoot a fairy, and then drink
a little Sherry, crashes, I won’t mourn.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

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