This cat is jinxed.

This life is dead end, it is a meth relapse, a squashed cockroach, a missed bus, a used tampon, an underwear with holes, a dead man’s loan, Heisenberg’s uncertainty principle, an abandoned mental asylum. This life is the empty eyes of a catatonic schizophrenic, it is fungus on paralyzed mans back, a letter to god with no address, a contemplative stare at the bottom of whiskey glass, a deaf mans symphony, the last drag of cigarette on a cold night, This life is a million fake ” it will all be OK” said to a kid with leukemia., this life is a limping dog , an eyeless old doll thrown in the basement. This life is yellow colored jaundice piss. This life is Dukkha. This life is mine. Akash Sinha

Jupgugo

The morphine drips, in my veins, No spring or mother’s bosom can now rewind the clock. In green fungus walls I stored my memories. Remember that night when mother gave you cough syrup even when both of you had tuberculosis. I collected clocks, stamps, yellow old photographs, pills and poems thrown in the waste bin. I pondered long and hard on my deathbed, the problem always was choice. I dreamed of homes in absinthe bottles, meadows and transcendentalist novel tree homes. After all we are all hypocrites and liars. we speak in tongues and trade in coins and self deceit. On the waterfall of near death experience, I wish I could again touch, the winter sunlight, mom’s shawl, and smell cheap tobacco. But all that is slipping now. No dear reader this is not a poem about regret but a song of new journey. The drummer shall keep playing the eternal beat, but some of us shall break free from time’s metronome and dance to our own tunes. That’s it, I’m finally dying. Oh what I see, white blinding love filled light. Akash Sinha.

A Christian prayer from a Satanist heart

Oh sweet Mary, thy flute sends shivers down my spine. It calls all the aching and lost children. I once heard a girl sing Ave Maria, in a cathedral with painted glass windows of bearded saints. Our lady of peace, an old drunk plays the harp, shedding tears of blood on his lost years to the bottle. Sweet mother you stand in white marble stone, holding infant Jesus in the everlasting summer of thy bosom. Send thy sisters of mercy, to all men who lost the lottery or their brothers to suicide tonight. May new grass grow on each grave, may your love pollinate hearts. Let this prayer remain incomplete. Akash Sinha