What’s Real?

What happened to my little wobbly duckfeet racing to my mother’s bosom?

Mother gave me lumps of wet dough to keep me entangled as she stirred the evening broth.

What happened to wasted tuition hours killed under the pretense of drinking my milk?

In a flash those hollow ghost dream realms vanished.

What will happen to this present moment sliding like a snail into phantasmagoria of future?

As I write this poem I shed serpentine skin of newly decayed moments.

What will happen to oceans of hours that I’m yet to spend, gazing at stoic fishes in aquarium?

Nothing. They will all collapse into non existence. All of space time is illusory silver river in flux.

Then why do I get transfixed on it?

The only constant in all my experience is the knowing of it.

I must relax into super subjectivity of pure knowing .

By

Akash Sinha.

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 amphatemine rush drenched in sexual neon blue of genetial fluids in contraband techno clubs.

All this just avoid lonliness ?

Wabi Sabi

The heaviness of incomplete sighs gasping for closure and clogged black tar lungs. I wonder how zen monks make peace with Wabi-Sabi. Who can save this botox bimbo poem written for strip club readers ? Greasy old beer bellied men waving their voyeuristic tongues at you, crumpled unholy money pasted on their wagging tongues. I am a word hooker, a neon street walker, a prostitute with a faith crisis.
How is it that hollow air is both inside and outside psychedelic soap bubbles? Chewing gums stuck underneath school desks during dull organic chemistry lessons and boyish lightness of a gliding eagle are gone. Now I bear my own heavy bones without minimum wage. How can God juxtapose minty sunlight and catatonic skeletons of pure pain in the same oncology ward? He better have neat answers for me.
Akash Sinha