Poem: Monster

Possibly, I’m dead, mutated
into a ghost
inside your bed,

              like an evil spell
              crushing your confidence
              by meaningless blows—

              as yesterday fades
              with its fake promises
              of paradise

              and pig-headed politicians
              what’s real and fake.

I’m a shoeless
hunter on a time-rusted
motorbike with tattooed
hands, rotting

in a den of dopers,
smokers and drunkards

I breathe on a mirror
but I don’t see
my breath,

              only a face
              that I don’t recognize,
              It’s your face, smiling

              with promises of paradise
              and of peace,
              love and light.

As into dark
I plummet
from the breadcrumb sky
yeasting aloft
the greening
marbles of Taj Mahal.

I’m a hopeless
beast of burden,
the fungus
inside your mattresses— to stay alive.
So, I can flirt
with death.

Inspired by the dverse prompt: Let’s have fun, guys! Whatever takes your fancy: let’s have some fun with fungi.

Linked to Open Link Night #300


…So I Write

with sooty thoughts.

Not in control
of myself
I write

with pain
colorful memories
painting them black.

Love and light
are lost.

All that’s left
are regrets
that pinch

so badly
I get through

my days
turn slowly
into sleepless nights.

44 words

~Mrityunjay Dixit

Posted over at dverse

Rough Patch

My mental breakdown was 4 months ago. I had ‘flipped out’ as mother likes to put it. The pills make me sleepy during daytime so I’m writing this in the evening. Doctor says it’ll take a year before I can fully recover, before my misery can end.

My mind’s a mess, thoughts are scattered everywhere like things in a messy room and all thoughts are negative. I have lost my way and I don’t think I can live in this upside-down world for a year— I have occasional suicidal ideations.

I still don’t know what triggered it. I’m sure that lockdown played its part but how I started to lose my way is still unclear to me.

Crucial to finding the way is this: There is no beginning or end.

~Mrityunjay Dixit

Posted over at dverse

Crows Calling at Night

Widow cries salty tears on her pillow
as rain falls in the ghost town.
She hears the cawing of the crows,
caw-caw, the reminder of his doom.
The lonely room echoes with melancholic sounds--
weeping, raining and crows calling at night.
Sorrowfully--she thinks of his handsome face
but neither sleep nor any respite comes.

The form loosely resembles Chinese LUSHI style:

  • eight lines long of couplets – The first couplet should set-up the poem; the middle two couplets develop the theme, the final couple is conclusion
  • each line must have the same number of words, either 5,6, or 7.
  • a mono-rhyme is on every even numbered line
  • Caesura (a pause) should separate clauses.

Posted over at dverse: poetics-china-kingdom-of-the-poem

Inspired by Crows Calling at Night by Li bai:

Yellow clouds beside the walls; crows roosting near.
Flying back, they caw, caw; calling in the boughs.
In the loom she weaves brocade, the Qin river girl.
Made of emerald yarn like mist, the window hides her words.
She stops the shuttle, sorrowful, and thinks of the distant man.
She stays alone in the lonely room, her tears just like the rain.



I Try To Kill Butterflies

Butterflies ripping apart at my gut
Gut of a restless body
Body's senses connected with mind
Mind chained to abject misery
Misery caused by confusion
Confusion created from within
Within the reeling mind
Mind stripped off its thoughts
Thoughts of you and I together
Together within or without you.

Posted over at dverse: OLN

© dixitmrityunjay, 2021. September heart-to-hearts

Chilling Whispers

I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head.

The Song of Wandering Aengus, W. B. Yeats

Butcher Bob’s confession:-

I ran into her in the alley, I remember her young face but can’t recall her name. It’s like this with most of them. I was using crutches and I asked her to help me carry the briefcase out of my car, which she did, when we reached the car, I knocked her unconscious with crowbar. Then I placed her in the shotgun seat and went straight to my chopping blocks in the hazel wood.

I went out to the hazel wood because a fire was in my head. A burning sensation, hot and vivid. When I completely submitted to that fire, it was like I was reborn, a phoenix from the flames. But only for a moment. Because, the ingredients for ignition of the next fire were always present in the ashes, and the burning inside my head began again.

144 words.

© M. Jay Dixit, September heart-to-hearts, 2021 All Rights Reserved

Inspired by the dverse prompt: Prosery, The Song of Wandering Aengus and posted over at Open Link Night #284

Misery | misery tourism

My short story in verses: Misery got published at Misery Tourism

Thanks to the editors for praising it with the most amazing compliments I’ve ever got!

This is probably one of the favorite pieces about the aimlessness, confusion and general malaise of adolescence that we’ve received

~Editors at Misery Tourism

Dear fellow bloggers and readers, some of you have already read the first draft of this story when I uploaded it here on my website in parts, a few months ago. Please take a little time out to read it, not much has changed but it’s looking great now, all in one place and with a cool featured image!

He’s 20 and has a pot belly which keeps on growing seemingly each day.. Misery | misery tourism

To Be Gray/Grey

I slipped, bad
and now I’m here again.
In this dark pit—

My old house
once white
now a paintless grey
the Sun
cast a mournful fainting light
through the curtains, clean
but tired and limp.

Utterly lost,
stapled and mutilated.

I’m so familiarized
with swallowing compromises
with my rheumy,
unhappy eyes
so stripped off my manhood
that even my name
is no longer mine
to decide, grey or gray?
I am whatever you say I am.

I weep because I’m weak
as I feel the doom surrounding
me and stealing life.

Yet I muster up
what little dignity I find.
My nicotine-stained fingers
with ragged nails
ball up into a fist
and when I unclench, I see 
in them--crinkles of new courage.
It’s a beautiful kind of pain.

But I’m still stagnant,
my insides are crawling
with the fear of starting over
and it’s cold
trying to get out of this hole.
Or am I just another crab
in the bucket? That you pity
and try to ignore?

You always look at me with suspicious eyes
Never quite believing what I’m saying
And I can’t always find the right words
to express how I’m feeling.

You never even see
my significance,
I am the quiet charger of your mobile phone
and the carpet beneath your warm
dirty feet.

But this time, when my thoughts become black
I am not going to swallow
instead, I’m gonna show you
my authenticity.
Like grey clouds crying out
a thunderstorm,
I’m gonna make
you tense and shake
like a gray chain link fence
as my words will charge at you
like an angry elephant
finally finding the light
after being chained in the dark
and made into clown
for so long.

© M. Jay Dixit, September heart-to-hearts, 2021 All Rights Reserved

Inspired by dverse prompt: True Colours?

The featured image is taken from here

Poem: Mutilation

I embrace 
this mutilation.

The torment
has tore me in two.
It's in the air I breathe
heavy, cold 
as snow this silence 
submerging me underneath.

Can't feel my right hand, 
I can't write
There's no righting 
of this kind of wrongness.

Linked to dverse: Monday Quadrille

M. Jay Dixit, 2021

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