A Song of Experience- Nitin Lalit Murali

A lament rises from these dry bones, encased in
a coffin of a life gone by,
when I was young, my father the demon, said, ‘I am thine
and thou art mine,’ with a devilish, deceitful, duplicitous grin,
when I was young, my mother the angel said, ‘Stay strong and
surely, you’ll succeed,’ with a sincere, serene, simple smile,
when I was young, my brother, the stoic said, ‘Your scrimshawed
feelings are yours alone; don’t give them even a peak,
and definitely not a graze,’ with a stern, stubborn, sterile face,
when I was young, my sister,
the naïve said, ‘Yours is the world and all possibilities become
actualities if dreamt into existence,’
with an innocent, introspective, irreproachable charm,
when I was young, my lover,
the impassioned said, ‘Kiss me, you’re the heart of this (heart)
and soul of this (soul)
and never will I ever abandon all that’s you and I,’
with a feverish, furious, ferocious hold,
when I was young, my second lover, the kind said, ‘Paint the colors
of your heart on the canvas of
my being and grasp me tenderly under the sliced moonlight,’
with a peaceful, placid, peaceable touch.

Time drifts and I’ve drifted with it, but not elegantly.
Age carries, and I carry it, but not gracefully.
Life rises and falls, and books meet dust, and this room smells of mildew,
and by and by I’m fading, falling, slipping, sliding.

I’ve learnt much and seen so much more.
I’ve touched much and felt so much more.
I’ve tasted much and heard so much more.

Love eludes me now, whirling round and round, setting everything without on
fire with her dance, but never thawing the ice within.
Lust possesses me now, echoing and echoing, setting everything within on
fire with his voice, and ever thawing the ice without.

Cheap motel rooms and cigarettes; one-night stands and ashen hyacinths –
These I know, these I know, intimately and intensely.

Perfume and cascading hair, with eyes like brown tourmaline –
Her I’ve never kissed, her I’ve never kissed, intimately and intensely.

The smog rises and obscures my window, the world’s full of blurred
objects and abstract shapes, and a simulacrum of truth is all I know,
everything is now a hazy imagination, my vision’s blurred,
the smoke rises, and I exhale, the sharp liquor burns my throat,
a fatalist’s escape, and I know I need the real, but I also know
I want my delusion.

A lament rises from these dry bones, encased in
a coffin of a life gone by,
now that I’m older, I say, ‘Life and death sing the same song in the
same key to the same wind, and what happened will happen again,
and there’s nothing I can do but cut through weeds of paranoia,
despair and angst, knowing I’ll never fully heal.’

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

Read more of Nitin’s writing at Fighting the Dying Light

G E M I N I- Eli Kyoko

You say, my newborn face dwells only in the frames of your ancient house,

and my purity was left in my mother’s womb and arms

So now, you try to cleanse me with your precious soap,

Scour… Scrub… Rub…

and then you conceal me with lotion, some powder, more perfume!

And yet some more, make me sore

Chafed. Excoriated. Distorted.

But I am the one who chokes on all the bitter pills you have to swallow

I am the one who burns your cigarettes as I varnish your thoughts,

and engrave your soul within my poetry

whilst you hide along its dusky alley

I am the one who can assemble your back like a jigsaw puzzle

I know your true colors, your soft spots

I know how to get you down on your knees

I know how we collide in the dark

For I’ve memorized the pieces and the layers of you,

and I’ve traveled the twisted lines on your spine too

I reside within your core, within the crevices of your bones

I am the scabs on your wounds, the callus on your fingers, the dust in your hair,

your best keeper

I am your shadows and I linger like the smell of cigarettes on your damp skin

Oh, my dearest self!

Stop excavating your flesh for my corpse

‘Cause I’m never ever gonna be away,

So—

Eat me whole.


Read more of Eli’s writing at Moonlit Pieces

Blood Moon- Diana Korlaet

the Sea of Tranquility

named by an imaginative soul

yet not a sea at all

a burnished, basalt hole

sunken eye watching humanity toil

a pockmarked director of tides

conducting diurnal rhythm

as we squander, as we spoil

heavenly, cyclic conductor

my monthly crimson hymn

whispers to your balsamic phase

 a veiled face reflecting

in your lakes of saturnine solitude, of sorrow

floating weightless in Mare Fucunditatis

childless in my ferrous scented tomorrow

 

Visit The Wandering Armadillo to read more of Diana’s writing

I’d Like To Believe- Nitin Lalit Murali

I don’t know if I see woolly greenish-yellow pastures
like a parakeet’s breast, and peaks like broad, inverted
icicles, or red, bloody flick-knives of grass that have
martyred cowherds for their faith, leading up to
enormous arrowheads dripping with white venom like
froth, embodying hate speeches and propaganda.

I don’t know if I walk on beige, velvet sands –
nature’s cushion, while ringlets of blue peace
gently wash my feet, or on hard ground like
tourmaline made stubborn by callous hearts,
while poisonous blue little pythons seek to
drag me away into the abyss.

I don’t know if I watch the glassy purple chested
Hummingbird seeking a pink cotton candy flower,
flying neither too high or too low, but finding its
equilibrium, or if I watch a small weapon with a small
bloody scythe we call a beak, and razor-like wings
sucking the blood out of a flower and making it
anaemic, like viciousness masked by a
golden Bauta of tenderness, or getting
one’s way no matter what, even if it meant trampling
someone masquerading as white-prophet selflessness.

Does beauty still exist? Does hope triumph?
Or does depravity engulf? Or does hate have no bounds?

Do I see a pyramid of self-actualization, starting at bare
survival and ending at transcendence? Or do I see an inverted one of
self-indulgence, starting at pure corruption and
ending at bare survival?

Questions go unanswered, and the voices, they haunt.
Things are better unsaid, only because expression kills.

Meet me at the crossroads, where the asphalt glints,
urging me to make my choice, and the spiteful sun
pours his wrath on me. Know me at the ramshackle barn
with battered stalls, dead pigs, dying cows with their
ribs showing, and hay scattered. Draw me to an old, brown
cottage with its rustic charm, nestled in breezy reverie, where
the cold, crisp air kisses and faith isn’t something that only holds
the stars together, but something incandescent, burning within
and fueling hope. Love me until I believe and see again.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

Image courtesy of Pinterest


Read more of Nitin’s writing at Fighting the Dying Light

The Day I Welcomed Darkness- Eli Kyoko

The day I welcomed darkness,
I lay by the window watching the sunrise of memories deliquesce upon my morbid mouth
Smelling the peaches of no surprise,
I let it swill unto my deforested cavity
I’ve been expecting its infliction
Prepared the table with a cup of coffee and cigarettes,
Urged to change the warm comfy sheets and placed some pillows embroidered with my embrace

I knew this isn’t a one-night stand
It has planted the seeds of tragedy in my skin
I watered my body and the ink ripples within
Set to crack into a tree, set to blossom into spring
I long for equanimity up in the moon, my hanging coffin

And it summoned the storm, its dark circled eyes revolving on top of me
I could taste its kisses pulsating within my flesh
Tremors and discordance wrap around my ears,
The metempsychosis of buried bruises appears
Apoplexy and seizures
An intimate crusade occurs
Like forbidden romances,
Destiny prances in my universe
On the day I welcomed darkness,

A long lost lover has finally come home

In the deep,

Inside of me.

 

Image courtesy of Pinterest


Read more of Eli’s writing at Moonlit Pieces

Meditation- Kindra M. Austin

Shall I ascend to solitude,
eagle high
enough to spy
myself?
Put my metal parts to practice, and
train my reason to speak in
comprehensive sentences?

I presently think in blinks of
tainted photographs
flicking—
our lives a fucking flip-book filled with phony animation, as
though we’ve never been anything more than a
pair of paper dolls pretending to breathe.

The surgeon lied. I am not bionic;
should’ve demanded a synthetic heart
instead.
Mine is afflicted with fissures, and
I feel the blood leaching like so many earthworms
smothering my organs.

My body is not a temple, but a churchyard—
your burial ground, and there’s no space reserved for
me. So ascend I shall,
eagle high
enough…


Kindra M. Austin is an indie author (her books can be found here), a founding member of Indie Blu(e), and a writer/managing editor at Sudden Denouement, Blood Into Ink, and Whisper and the Roar. A Sagittarius Valkyrie from the state of Michigan, she likes craft beer, and classic big block muscle cars. You can find her filing through the souls of the slain at poems and paragraphs.

Mind That Kills- Introducing Devika Mathur

It’s my mind that kills me
with red black weapon, moments
and moments of death,
in my ribcage, broken and violet
often I am a dissolving piece of cracks
and a faded memory.

I count the moles of the dark anxiety
cloying sickness of stinking stress,
in the hollows of my unseen body parts,
it arises like a burning candle,
flame or vapid dreams.

One swollen teeth, two falling jaws
Appearances floating, matchbox inside
and there I am with my broken tainted lips
broken wings,
and a broken end of all

The guts often kill my empty breaths
an ornate skull of stark allusion.
I still cling to my twig,
to my bed, to my eyelids
to my pillow,
singing a happy-birthday song
until it’s my birthday
until, my arms spreading
and becoming strawberry meadow again.


Devika, a fierce soul who tries each day to deal with her anxiety levels is a poet lover, coming from the vibrant country of India. A lover of Oxymorons, Devika has been published in various journals where she speaks what all her insane mind could write.

She writes for her blog My Valiant Soul