Dear Rebecca

This is an image of a walkway shrouded in mist. I've used it to signify carrying on despite the season, and moving forward despite a terrible past .

It’s funny how interest becomes repulsion
as an amber dying sun becomes the ugly
grey twilight augmented by croaking frogs;
when I was somebody, inching towards a career
with good looks and a ‘healthy’ personality,
you stood there transfixed like a wood-nymph,
stunned by the sight of an enigmatic wayfarer
and you wouldn’t go away though I was more
interested in the honeyed leaves and the green
velvety moss covering the barks, though my gaze
drifted from you to the reddish-brown earth,
broken here and there, and the soft drizzle that
the sunlight sliced with a sickle of
mild wrath, the mounds that peaked like statued
ogres with rough edges meant to split skin and
crack the bones of those who dared climb them;
it’s funny how you loathed the sight of me later,
after months of prescription gave me
false peace like the tranquility of an almost convert
to Christianity, it’s funny how my still healing skin,
having fought rash and pain, my ungainly walk,
my paunch and my drug-induced lisp
made me the right candidate for you to heap all the hatred
that you’d bottled up inside,
made me the perfect person to tear asunder with
a knife of bitterness, breaking jugular notch and then
turning sideways to split clavicle, before returning
to split the entire system by making a vertical
laceration right through the rib-body,
and I took it all, wondering why,
but time and wearing the roughest fabric of
the outcast, vagabond, and the idiot has taught me
more than a few adages –
the weak prey on the weaker because they lack the
courage to defy those stronger who wounded them,
the strong don’t like the weak standing up to them
because the last thing they want is a dagger
gutting their bellies of insecurities,
the vagabond doesn’t want to care, but society forces
him into this shitstorm,
but trust me, though I’ve suffered,
though I’ve spent six years battling a slow
deterioration of my will and senses,
though a cruel Sovereign places me in
situations of the angriest grief,
I’ll find a way.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

A waste of time

This is a picture of nuclear waste. I've chosen it to represent doomed relationships that people cling on to for the sake of not being lonely.

So, I had a girlfriend nine years ago,
and we were the antithesis of ‘soul-mates,’
or ’till death do us apart,’ but we kept the
relationship going, adding layers and layers
of toxicity to a nuclear waste dump.

We’d say, ‘I love you so much!’ though we didn’t mean a word,
and we’d indulge in so much PDA
that made people think we were fucking like rabbits.

But the crazy part of the affair was that we never had sex,
sure, we got naked and explored each other’s bodies,
but we just never got down to the act.

I guess the truth is that I wasn’t physically attracted to her
and she thought I was prude pretending to be a player (which
was true then.)

Anyhow, the question I’m trying to ask is why
do we let ourselves get trapped in Sicilian Bulls of
doomed relationships, heated by the fires
of insecurities or false affection?

All those relationships are, are rose petals covering flick-knives
or a silky velvet drape covering a corpse
or a poorly written book that becomes a bestseller
or a shitty soap opera that manages to run for ten seasons.

It’s bullshit, and after I finally got a hold of myself, I broke up
and slept properly without hearing the phone ring at twelve in
the morning.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

We

I

Gaia once ruled here, using her aesthetic hand to paint mesmerizing forests into existence, inhabited by wood nymphs, fierce creatures, and ethereal songbirds who ushered in the morning with their sweet songs, but Industry usurped Gaia; slaughtering her using his strongmen, and brought in the age of nihilism, making his seers say, ‘God is dead, and meaning lies in a casket, six feet under.’

Then nihilism evolved into dadaistic postmodernism, and now, everything seems absurd like a man holding his decapitated head on a platter and somehow still breathing, like a marionette making the puppeteer dance, like a bald Samson crushing Philistines without a jaw-bone, like the scrolls of Revelation opened, only to bring humanity peace and prosperity, like Van Gogh stitching his ear back together under a starry night, like Sartre accepting the Nobel Prize, like atonal, avant-garde jazz giving you a soothing melody, like cigarette ash floating up, defying the laws of gravity.

II

I see you Industry, and I hate what you’ve done,
the gnarled oak lies broken facing the askew brownstone,
the smog wounds eyes with flick-knives of causticity,
the roads gleam with rage under the Sun,
bones break, and men lie with chopped off cocks
because of your bedfellow Banality and his brother Brutality.

III

cyanide & Chernobyl, sexting & piss stained matted grass, whoredom & boredom & Sodom, Netflix & chill in apartments with frill, gaudy facades & showy plastic roses, grimy sidewalks & spittle, skyscrapers & suicide, iPads & non-existent attention spans, guns & children robbed of innocence, stony hills & supermarkets, nightlife & decaying fruit, violence & no prayers, iron & rust, bark & ash, physical, emotional & spiritual death.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

For Real Toads’ 

Restrained

Perhaps I walked once on that tarmac pier
the south of Boston since I called it home
and still received the regular foul sneer
but then my slang told them we’re monochrome
just brothers, the established bleeding red
the acid does not hiss, the moon stills me
with her soft cadence, I sleep on my bed
hey, I’m no insect with lodged fruit! Let be!
But say it’s home because of ‘good’ degree
and I’m Cambodian, here for pure thought —
the lawn’s undoubtedly close-cropped, I see!
But even the path has close-cropped gross snot!
Perhaps I walked once on that tarmac pier
and bleeding red, sand-nigger die! I hear.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

For What Pegman Saw 

Freak

You said, ‘I’m glad I let you go, and dissolved our friendship,’ but what’s strange is that you’re the one stalking me; reading my posts and injecting yourself between my lines, thinking I write about you. The earth doesn’t spin on its axis for your post-millennial theatrics, and the stars don’t glint like fireflies in the sky for your drama. I put you out of my system a long time ago, but you creep up now and then like a lizard on a wall, showing your horrendous face and I can’t help but be mad. I’m giving you too much attention by writing this, but it’s better to cough up acidic bile using words than soaking yourself – like a sponge – in the green ditch-water of bitterness. You’re an archetypal narcissist hiding behind distorted feminism, false Me Too banners  and blame games. You cannot humble yourself and apologize for the hurt you’ve caused, but whine and bitch when you’re hurt, pointing at everything in your vicinity, saying, ‘He’s responsible; she’s responsible; they’re responsible.’ Now I’m a fault-ridden man who has made his share of mistakes and paid dearly for them, and though my attempts to get my shit together crumbles to shattered idealism, I’ll admit that I’m responsible for throwing my life away.

It’s strange that you contact me after telling me that you’re doing everything in your power to avoid me, and that you don’t want me around. So, I wisely did the right thing then and fucked off. Now, you’re in some deep pit, and you want my hand pulling you out of it, but I’m sorry, you closed that chapter a long time ago. I hate giving people advise, but please don’t use people after you’ve hurt them. It’s selfish and reckless, just like you cutting yourself and not seeking professional help for your depression is. You’re sadly all about me, myself and I with a universe of self-pity revolving around that core, and maybe you’ll have an epiphany or maybe not, but regardless of where you end up or what you do, push me out of that head of yours and leave me the fuck alone.

© 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)

Three simple sonnets

A simple man

I saw a blazing sign in bloodless skies!
And so I must obey! The shields they paint!
We won the war! I must erase the taint!
Both foolish men, and dirty pagan lies!
I fight for truth, and justice never cries
About men who hate blood and swoon and faint!
These idiots and their undue complaint!
But my son’s grief! That look! His sorrowed eyes!

No, I’ll not let inane fact govern me
And Licinius? Didn’t he warrant death?
They cheated Truth, they only claimed they’re mine
Now Jordan begs and I won’t let it be!
I must hear her and then that final breath!
I made the bloody sky and put my sign.

A simple law

I said he is immortal and I’m wrong
But didn’t he rescue us from tyranny?
If truth were told, he doesn’t need praise from me
But certainly, requires some potent song
And only fools attend the pagan’s throng!
The world is clearer now, can’t they all see!
But murder haunts my law and won’t let be!
I often wonder if he’s truly strong

My errors taught me I cannot revolt
Against raw power, all that does is kill
Poor Crispus, rebelling against the light
But look at him now hanging like a dolt!
Just for a horrid, thoughtless, carnal thrill
I said he is immortal and I’m right.

A simple truth

Is life a blessing or an awful curse?
I find a law in that inane, small phrase
As some say it is with each passing phase
when friends forsake, and painful wounds I nurse
I could allude, say that a hidden hearse
Awaits me; it was never truth that stays
That lifts anemic men to realms of praise
My name wasn’t written in ecstatic verse

I’ve tried to rage but dropped my fight to peace
I thought of love and looked at sparkling stars
I’m Crispus at the Emperor’s behest
What justice, fact is this? These thoughts don’t cease
And nothing changes that I’ve lost my wars
But no one answers the need for this test.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2017-2018)

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