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.

What would you say to God if you met him? 50 word microtale.

Why did you start it all to begin with? What was the primordial itch? Your boredom made you stream cosmic Netflix and chill? Do you enjoy watching birth, love, sex, death, disease? In Hyper Dimension, Surround Sound?
Have mercy and give me your eyes, so that I can watch myself dispassionatly.

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.