Akash Sinha writes

SLOW

Moisture always brings vulnerability.

Sometimes I like to curl up in soggy wet matchboxes.

Joy is found on thin layers.

Psychedelic colors on the surface of a soap bubble on a sunny day.

The luster of a sliding beam of light on a metal railing.

The tingling of shy wind chimes.

Someone is always quietly singing a lullaby under the lamp shade.

Someone always plays an oriental flute in the Bonsai pots.

There are wafer thin musky smells of adultery in long hotel corridors.

Six billion people are exhaling their griefs and fears as we speak.

Can the earth below take the weight of its compounded gravity?

Six billion people are inhaling elevating waves of vibrations trying to reach cosmic super consciousness.

Won't the clouds above get tickled by its feather touch?

Children are narrating stories through cup telephones.

While adults argue for hours in verbosity without communicating anything.

Old people are taking out their dentures and rolling their tongues.

To feel the hollow black holes in their mouths.

Cats are taking naps under the sun.

Dropping out of time's anxiety ridden static charge.

A mother is experiencing eternity.

Watching her new born sleep blissfully lost in self abandonment.

We must slow down, slow down.

Slower still.

Until life reveals its colored moth wings.

If only we could silence the motormouth in our heads.

The vacant spaces in our room's will tell us fables.

Someone is always calling us far beyond

to journey on towards everlasting light.

Hotel Corridor-- Auguste Chabaud

Akash Sinha writes

White Noise

Telephone towers streaming black tie conspiracy, clandestine widow moans, teenage pink giggles, corporate croaking, midnight sobs and unending white noise.

Microchip receptors sucking souls into pixilated porno kink, inane pop quiz, photo documenting banal boredom. Swiping cards in graveyard weak hours for overpriced lingerie and protein shakes. A generation trapped in double helix of credit debt and borrowed identity. Non jingling cryptocurrency in digital dollar pipelines fueling vampire cyber goths as wise counsel of the world. EMI sanctioned air conditioners to cool overbaked corporate grinders. Weekend amphetamine rush drenched in sexual neon blue of genital fluids in contraband techno clubs.

All this just avoid loneliness?

Akash Sinha writes

To feel the burn of the fag end of the cigarette,

When you oscillate between nether worlds and waking life

Smelling the sweet camphor of self-destruction.

How many recorded tapes did John smuggle from multi universes?

A man must regularly conduct Soul audits, like the good clerk among the disarray of his trashed room and pungent pizza boxes where ants march.

Emily used to hide Polaroid pictures in her push up bra. She was shy and every other college party made a drinking game out of her. She pasted yellow stick notes reading social anxiety disorder on her head.

Emily’s freckles and braces were sacred geometry. She was fond of crayons and rabbits.

Cough syrup soothed her soul, pink codine oceans drowned her feelings. Xanax bars were her best friends.

The misfits of nowhere town always rode bicycles every evening. John, Emily and the boy who never spoke.

On prime time television they sold us happiness, on news channels they sold hope.

But the darn infomercials made every thirty five year old want to blow their brains in nowhere town. Dear lord why were they so were long?  They made time go slow and botoxed blondes sold vacuum cleaners. Vacuum cleaners to clean up the muck on our souls or 30 day money back guarantee.

Dad is getting old now. Whenever I call him, all I can hear is heavy breathing.

My dysfunctional family is a breaking ice berg. All of us are drifting apart. Into mortgages, loneliness, and communication break downs.

Some mornings the pigeons comfort me. Maybe God will hear me out today. So I call him everyday. The call operator says due to call overload your call has been kept next in line.

Once an old lady knitting sweaters on a park bench told me “Son keep dialing God, it takes a helluva time, but my call got answered. He spoke to me."

Obese rodents peek out of foul drains, the whiskey bottles are broken, the heroin addicts are nodding in alleys and ambulances ply the street all night in nowhere town.

In this energetic noise rock arena, tongue pierced punks and back alley greasy sex parlours everything is circular.

In this town of bounced cheques and fat legal sharks there is an old Chinese man who has achieved perfect equanimity.

Free from craving and aversion he just cooks noodles all day. Illuminated and peaceful he never gets entangled in himself unlike his noodles.

But he is a nobody in nowhere town.

 

 Portrait of Père Tanguy -- Vincent van Gogh