Wednesday, August 30, 2017

A. V. Koshy

Swapna Sundari

A State Named Anger (17) (A Curse)


I'm dying

As if you care

You love (in) words

While I... wear and tear

Muse, when I die

You won't be there

May my mem'ry haunt you

more than you can bear

(17) Influenced by the name of a Metallica song.

Image result for haunting memory paintings 
Here But I’m Gone --  David Storey

Tuesday, August 29, 2017

Sirinya shoots

Akash Sinha writes

I slip into me

Reclining back to pre-big bang

Back to singularity.

When I close my eyes, behind the trailing soft white fog of the Holy Spirit, I see a Vedantic vermillion sun embalm my hollow lacunas. It feels comfortable.

Existence slows into quantum elasticity.

In the century old biting fog of December 

Some old stillborn awakes

Reminding me of wrinkled finger tips when I soaked myself in the pool of Virgin Mary’s tears. 

Seeking a thousand sombre sermons.

Each piano note leaves behind an ever growing ripple of tickles within my rib cage.

Carrying your personal cross isn’t new, lifting your own heavy self is compulsory reading. 

Only to be caressed by a Celtic goddess, gentle in understanding, welcoming of your own quivering vulnerability.

In some awakening quiet mist, flowing underneath temporal seas.

A garlic yawn of pungent life, home-made bloody broth inside a womb.

An old friend left his smell back in my courtyard, to keep me cosy while he traded silver nose-rings in foreign lands.

I remember water wells and red berries, which we stole from minstrels.

My abdomen sweetly aches holding camphor rivulets.

You remember how Noor Bano used to tie her piggy tails neatly every evening after she studied the shadows on the walls of the mosque.

Witch doctors from far and wide came with oils and amulets, but nobody could stop her from speaking in tongues.

Oh, how we nose-dived into oblivion in those roller coasters.

Watching the swirling red and fluorescent green of the carnival lights pass us by

Our youth was spent in weaving thrill

Our summer evenings were spent resting on the cool white marble behind the lake.

We spent our Novembers with Ouija boards and cinnamon

I know not when I found myself in the quagmire

When did silence coil heavy over the railway tracks

Leaving me to piece together the last few hours 

After my brother drank a neurotoxic potion to forget himself.

The heavy smoke over the gigantic station clock only grew denser, so much so, that by and by I found my cure in amnesia 

No more late night taxi rides around Victoria Memorial for me. No more. Enough is enough.
 Image result for noor bano paintings
 Noor Bano -- Ali Shaikh

Eddie Awusi writes


I saw his excellency
In a motorcade
Of scavengers.
His opulence
Greeted my squaloid,
With fingers
Corrupted with leprosy.
Though I saw no evil
And heard no evil,
Their faces
Wore manuscripts of taboos.
He spoke phonetics,
Impaired and acoustic,
His throat throttling,
Like a knocked out beetle engine.
 Image result for lemoris volkswagen paintings
 Plein Air-Cooled -- Lemorris