In the soft descending  Godhuli, as the evening lays it’s ever blackening purple aanchal on a city longing to forget it’s heartache…men women beasts and ghouls long to forget time, death and decay by  dissolving their souls in the the tunes of Krishnas flute. A long sturdy ancient Peepal tree has been doing hard tapascharya and severe austerties to get a faint compassionate glance of Radha Rani. She who has stolen the heart of Hari ( ruler infinite universes ). A deep melonchalic dark cloud rumbles over my head and as the first drops of camphor cool rain falls on my anxious head. I remember the grace of my guru who took compassion on a sinner like me, who is lost in the hallucinating back alleys of bhog vilas and Kamini kanchan. Raag Malkaus plays as I ponder over my karmic fate..I have cried in 84 lakh yonis , womb after womb and death after death I have struggled tooth and nail to find moksha. As the tabla and sitar resonate the longing of ghosts of lovers who seek to be reunited in conjugal love. The holy Tulsi plant in my courtyard smiles at the misfortune of all souls who have not taken shelter at the feet of Krishna. A newly married bride comes out of her house and does aarti to say goodbye to this dying tomorrow. Oh my heart! Tomorrow we shall see what will become of me but for tonight let me rest at mother Kalis holiest feet. Akash Sinha

Air by Akash Sinha

YPF4

Air

A presence. Have you seen her brushing the stair-case?

Looking to find a certain no one sitting. On the marble step.

Sudden shivering of a Periwinkle. An Epicurean romance.

Wind is proof of man’s yearning for God.  Breath is the great necromancer.

Do you not hear my spirit bellowing? My Father!

My lover finds composure looking at gaps between wooden planks. She hisses between gaps of her front teeth.

She is a pupil of all things basic. Her teachers are skeletal teak chairs, simple functionality of a rubber band or the cold utility of a paper clip.

She is a gypsy girl who unburdens her curls every three miles.

All her life she sought the absence of history. In the hours before the crackling of light, she made her exit.

I only later found her hair net bun. It was festered with wasps with yellow abdomens.

Away from all density. She kept slipping into forgetfulness, almost deliberately.

Wind is a classless heretic which flutters underneath skirts and slaps arrogant sailors.

It prays underneath the ascending seagull’s wings and creates ghoulish flatulence in bankers.

Wind is sorcery. A naughty way to not let us settle. Wind is not your kin. Never trust the thieving wind.

Is any man, beast or ghoul safe from wind’s thievery?

By

Akash Sinha

Today

TODAY ( A tribute to Leonard Cohen )

This rotating domino in my cranium. This drooping head. These resigned shoulders. Hung in guilt. In conspiracy with gravity. In unholy alliance with the guillotine.
This me. A lonesome palm tree. This I. An isolated sand heap. Ravaged by winds and ghouls.
A sad lamp. Gazing yellow sickness. The squeaky glass looks inwards, half veiled by sooty curse.
An old lamp, sits in regal solitude. Serious, heavy and solemn like a contemplating monk.
An ancient teak chair. Fractured yet dignified. Rests on itself like an old army veteran. Strong and obstinate, sure of its presence in time, sits doubtless.
My faded cotton vest, bloating and deflating under my snoring belly.
These restless events in this settled lacuna.
I am immediately next to me. I am immediately next to isness. I am what immediately follows pure rest.
Them useless books. Their hardcovers swallowing jargon and junkyard. Those poor incomplete sods.
Who is what when nothing is?
I am the mad king who fights happenings. My madness has cost me my sleep. Yet I do not learn.
By Akash Sinha.

Prerequisite to Freedom

Do we want to be free?
There are prerequisites to freedom.
Feel the weight of iron chains on your red ankles.

To feel the churning puke, heat and violence. Have you wretched eneough?

To feel entrapment fully.
Buried in sterile plastic.
Do you feel the icy cold in the morgue box?
Are you asphyxiated eneough?

How much is enough?

Are your wriggling toad limbs tied well? Have you squirmed enough before dissection?

Is your larva squeezed enough? Under layers and layers of racial, political, religious identity.

How much are you willing to pay for freedom?
How many bones,coins and hours?
Are your poems fermentating in stale air?

How many flies should land on your lips before you move?

To flap just once around lilies in Eden. Bathing in peppermint sunlight, feeling the tickling wind on your velvety butterfly wings. To hover over green carpets and be washed of sin by the mountain brook. To gaze at the azure.

How many hammer blows will it take for you to resign your personal will?
And be finally free of yourself.

By Akash Sinha.

Today

This rotating domino in my cranium. This drooping head. These resigned shoulders. Hung in guilt. In conspiracy with gravity. In unholy alliance with the gullitone.

This me. A lonesome palm tree. This I. An isolated sand heap. Ravaged and raped by winds and ghouls.

A sad lamp. Gazing yellow sickness. The squeaky glass looks inwards, half veiled by sooty curse.

An old lamp, sits in regal solitude. Serious, heavy and solemn like a contemplating monk.

An ancient teak chair. Fractured yet dignified. Rests on itself like an old army veteran. Strong and obstinate,sure of its presence in time, sits doubtless.

My faded cotton vest,bloating and deflating under my snoring belly.

These restless events in this settled lacuna.

I am immediately next to me. I am immediately next to isness. I am what what immediately follows pure rest.

Them useless books. Their hardcovers swallowing jargon and junkyard. Those poor incomplete sods.

Who is what when nothing is?

I am the mad king who fights happenings. My madness has cost me my sleep. Yet I do not learn.

By Akash Sinha.

On Fire

Fire by Akash Sinha

  1. This rising fire.
    Born of sparks between my fingers and your nape. The combustion of a householder’s life is free fall into hollow blackness.
    Taste the ginger juice in our lip-lock and caustic liquid running in my veins. How have the years silently laid the bricks of our mansion?
    The furnace of all devouring flame boils time in the pot located in my perineum.
    Can’t you see this madness? The rising mutiny of soldier ants. Our city has been seized.
  2. The black arts

Self-concern is the root of all evil. The black arts are played through gambit impulses of self-preservation. Rain water droplets break on feverish tar asphalt roads. See the mad swirling ballroom dance of chance.
See my children, how enjoyable it is slide down in playgrounds. How strenuous is it to
climb. Hence, abandon yourselves. Delight kisses those who allow themselves to flow downward.

  1. Red Flames Revolution

Lament for your land. Brood over the pathos of our widowed history. Smell the bile and sweat in labour camps and hot factories. Smell the summer stench of cholera infected ghettos.
Rise!
Youth carries the baton of red flame revolution. Young romantic hands turn iron wheels.

  1. The dancing witches.

Yes, it is enjoyable to drink maple syrup on hedonistic hill. The witches dance naked in frolic mindlessness. But do not squander all your days revolving around LSD laced groves of vinyl records. The sooner you wake the better.

  1. Higher calling.

Nobel lion of Narnia beckons you for a higher cause. Your life was meant for something far greater than your petty prison self. Join the light workers and cathedral bells will ring again. Earth will vibrate with sonorous joy of angel Gabriel’s trumpet.

  1. Elixir of healing.

Seekers of knowledge, the elixir is not found in mathematical study of constellations. Nor is it made from green chemical fumes rising from the occultist’s window. Those who have found the elixir, have reclined in pure love.
After sipping the elixir tormented soldiers have curled up like babies in the lap of Jesus. Bless our wretched lot for we are drinking the dragon’s breath to forget horrors of war. Bless us with wisdom, we seek to quench our thirst by drinking lava.

  1. Homeward bound:

Return my brothers, come back home. Rest your weary backs against the trunk of old eucalyptus trees. Women wait for you in villages with unruly breaths. Their heavy, sad breasts hang putting gravity to shame. The dream-catchers long to meet you.

  1. Gliding Eagles:

Only the wild lovers of wind shall know joy. Those who glide carefree like eagles. Break the prisons and stables! Let inmates and horses loose. Freedom is a birth right.

By Akash Sinha.

Corona and existentialism

Corona will force you to face yourself.
Corona is a house of mirrors, look whichever way you want.
Close your eyes and you will again find yourself.
Corona is a loop. Run as far as you can.
Corona is the inescapable in us.
Corona is a recurring decimal. How will you outcalculate yourself?
Social distancing is fine and dandy. But how will you distance yourself from yourself?
Corona is the person you carry everywhere you go.
Corona is the person you eat, sleep and breathe with.
Corona knows all your secrets. There is no lying to Corona.
Are you stuck with yourself?
Are you freneticaly trying to wash yourself of yourself?
Are you trying to undo, un-live, un-be, unexist ? How futile.
In the end it wasn’t the Joker who brought the world down, it was the bat.
Akash Sinha