Prison Cell Paranoia (part 2)


Some bolt of madness comes from a demonic source,
and I’m swirling and swirling in inner chaos.
‘He wrote this because he hates my writing.’
‘Did she call me a narcissist using subtle, vague imagery?’
‘Does she want me to suffer because she’s never forgiven me?’
and then this amicable, passionate man is possessed
by fear, self-loathing and an extremely raw pain
and he lashes and lashes out
and becomes an egotistical, violent, atonal cacophony
of screeching and off-tune violin notes and glass breaking,
‘Fucker, I’ll show you!’ He screams in silence while
his fingers race across the keyboard like a blade across a neck,
‘Bitch! Whore! Harlot! Die! Die! Die!’
And with dopamine levels flaring up like pyrotechnics
and anger spreading from viscera to lungs to head
like pain after you’ve climbed a steep slope
and a double-forked tongue of bitterness and hate
scraping the computer screen
until its scars hide the alphabets
and eyes with needles in them
blurring vision and causing seething agony
he lashes and lashes some more.
He then pops antihistamines and anxiolytics,
but the pills don’t work and only heighten distress
making him feel like Charles Manson in that rare prison interview
or the devil himself shivering with rage
in the depths of hell
and the aftermath is a wicked hush
like the sight of brambles
in which a rat lies impaled
or the sight of a coffin
in which a once cocaine-addicted
now looking like Barbie blonde lies
and then the guilt roars
like a pit bull snarling at the gate
or the sound of a chainsaw
and submerged in aquamarine torment
drowning, flailing but failing
he weeps, but the tears don’t fall,
he squeezes his pain
like a stockbroker his stress ball
or a teenager the pustule on his face
but it doesn’t explode, doesn’t shatter
and left feeling ugly and vile
like the sinner outside the Temple
beating his chest
and crying for mercy
he silently sobs
looking catatonic the whole time
and he thinks a dry apology will fix things
but souls lie six feet under.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

7 Comments Add yours

  1. The yuletide collective
    supermarket subconscious
    shaken, awakened, splintered
    asunder… all broken with
    one penetrating blow.
    Thanks Nitin. I was starting
    to succumb. Let it snow ❄

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Nitin says:

      Haha. Thank you David! I actually wrote another post called welcome sheeple, but it accidentally got deleted. It addresses the collective consciousness present on Facebook. I might allude to the season and how it automatically affects the sheeple when I rewrite it. I’m glad you didn’t fully succumb!

      Liked by 1 person

      1. The Sheeple deleted!
        Was a Cyborg declaring,
        “All will be assimilated …
        and have a festering season,
        politically corrected, or else
        it is high treason against the
        All Knowing Machine”.

        Liked by 1 person

      2. Nitin says:

        I’m scared now
        because AI watches me
        even in the mountains,
        tracking me down
        as I wheeze up
        the slope with
        my paunch
        and ugly cotton candy lungs,
        it reads my mails,
        prompting me to send
        an appropriate thank you
        or I’ll do it
        and drives me mental
        with an invisible intrusive
        thought sentinel
        a bot that keeps guard
        and is always on the dot
        urging me to use my phone
        deleting my need to be alone

        Liked by 1 person

      3. In a Nanny State of Nanobots,
        I have become
        uncomfortably dumb.
        A stateless person, pursued
        by Google facial recognition.
        I turned inwards outside,
        with nothing left to hide,
        from the Father of Creation.
        As Bob Marley sang ‘Exodus’,
        to an Artificial Intellectual,
        lost, and stolen generation.

        Liked by 1 person

      4. “A paunch, and ugly cotton candy lungs”.
        Nitin, I resemble that comment.

        Liked by 1 person

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