by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Monday, 21 March 2011

You want to Write? Just be certain

that your enemies will be those of

your own household, the Prophet

never is honored in his hometown.

Better that you were born a corpse,

and, if breathing, wish that Mother

tied a millstone around your neck

and drowned you in the village well.

You learnt to write on sand, read all

the signs on the bark of trees, lines

unfolding in the ripples of the seas,

voices shedding tales like snake skin.

You quaffed the flaccid soup of New

Wine to angrily smash red bottles

full of the heady Old, fast defiled

Stone tablets too heavy to carry.

You hunted for the Pools of Clarity

that form after that endless Thirst

unquenched by Hail of Questioning

all that Viral Doctrine, a Poisoning.

There, holding the Prana, diving

dark, the big Fish you swallowed

churns empty juices, disbelieving

the Force that swims you to Land.

Spat out with Words no other has

to Spell out and Sentences to be

handed out whose Semantics are

convoluted, you remain, Betrayed.

Sit under the Tree, away from Sun,

there is none who understands, no

no one to help, and with your Holy

Hands, the Paraclete now summon.

Who is this who comes, rejected,

a giant Tower of Fire, or a Pillar

of Smoke? I, I speak in Tongues,

mighty to save, if you can savour.

Yet, when the Black Veil is drawn

across the drowning Chariot-Sun,

there remains only the despicable

Man, writing from Dusk to Dawn.

O, his stories, none want to know

his woes, the laughable sorrows,

they would that he never express

in ink what he saw in his distress.

You want to Write? O be certain

that if the Word becomes Flesh,

then having in-scribed, all Flesh

becomes Word again, dissolved.


by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Sunday, 20 March 2011

I am haunted, hounded by this Ghost or God

in the rustling of daily falling green leaves;

a forked voice in the Garden is hissing softly

“You will never be good enough, never ever,

all your dreams I will turn to bloody nightmares,

all you attempt will slip like water into dry sands,

all your love be well despised by those you love!”

Thus I became the whore-wife of a silent ghost

for I would not receive the whispering, nagging

of any who’d hardly listen to these soul-songs

or smell the paper flowers bloom in my mind.

Yea, all I did or do are ever writ only wrong

in the lines of my palms or on my forehead.

Yea, all I did or do are always deep hurting

or wicked, I endlessly flee, none pursuing.

How am I to grasp a husband of vestal virgins

that please him in ways I could never realize?

How am I to sleep beside an unknown husband

who condemns? Damned I am for being myself!

Yet, I’ll love him as a darkened squid or octopus

for which there can be no reprieve, forgiveness.

And I can embroider my love-threads as seaweed

on the wind-ragged cushions of waves or clouds.

And though I feel only the chill of a ghost in me

who in the rustling of daily falling green leaves

shuts me out, shuts without my medley shouts,

a living tongue that sings all for him burns out.

That which was never good enough ever, never

yet, ghost, I will remember to eat and to drink

these cold symbols of a broken body, silent ink,

perhaps when I’m good enough, He’ll descend

so becoming hounded, haunted by a ghost, end.


by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Saturday, 12 March 2011

If everything mysterious Above is freely wisely openly gifted,

then all must Below be freely gladly with open palms received.

So let there never more be tremulous squalling complaints

crawling around like the Serpent or her speckled babies,

slithering soft short squiggly spear-points that sigh and sting

in this dense garden of a vacuous vacillating vague misty Mind

enveloped by the eviscerated ageing eggshell of a holo-Body,

easily understand why Kabir and the Buddha self-extinguished

in places where no birds cheeped but tongues hung weighted, heavy

as weary boughs upon spectral trees in hazy dead equatorial calms

or sputtered crack crack crack crackling in arctic icicle glass tones.

See, there is only the sedentary serendipitous languorous awakening

of monkey dreams upon the insensate leafless Twig of Sensual Being

hopping up lightning forking higher limbs towards Orbs of Awareness

Up up up till cavernous shifting shadows of upright apes are seen

flitting like flies in and out of dusty, still, decrepit lunar craters

reflected as the sum of a microcosm of pulpy pulsing grey lines;

we are all being surreptitiously sutured, subtracted, skulled together

and compasses are geometering externalized longitudes or latitudes,

rearranging the Fault-lines of Becoming drifting across coasts, inland,

our Earth quakes trembling like a child to rich Tsunami symphonies that

queer the belly dance of copulation to coagulate human detritus, debris

mashed, rehashed and renewed by that primeval Old Dragon wisdom;

If everything mysterious Above is freely wisely openly gifted,

then all must Below be freely gladly with open palms received.

Did you not want to join this yellowing merengue?

Did you not rejoice when you were pre-Science?

Do you laugh as you ride with radioactive Angels?

Is this the way the Charnel-world ends?

Is this the way a Species makes amends?

Is this the way the Winds and Tides birth a New Moon?

Is this why and how upon the face of the Beast is painted

as across the crumbling facade of ancestral hollows

an enigmatic effeminate smile or fading eunuch grin?

If everything mysterious Above is freely wisely openly gifted,

then all must Below be freely gladly with open palms received.


by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Friday, 11 March 2011


The perfected Law

of Liberty crafted

to seal Communion

is:”No demanding”.

If this none do not

know, all the want

is eat and swallow.

Suck on it and blow

it all out a window,

misshapen melodies

to poison the Wind.

“Fool, change for me,

while I scamper free,

it is you who follows

this Rainbow Tree!”

So dream dim Lovers

who evoke servitude,

lose companionship.

True, it can be sold,

bought in Temples

where trade in souls

is, pale comparison.

The scales are tilted

if the price of Love

is sought to be paid

by One who’s no slave.

It is hard for Solace

to find a home among

Foxes, Birds, Snakes.

The Prize of serving

angrily, fiercely too,

is a reaping in turn

another’s Ingratitude.


But I will live to sing

from broken chords,

hark! broken strings,

wily wastrel frauds,

cross the dying Seas

turning to dead salt,

spit, spit out a seed-

fruit, eroded. I halt

at new Oases, behind

my bejewelled trails

all are disappearing,

night-sands covering.

It takes higher wings

to be just Presence,

give to take nothing

even from Absence.


By Ampat Varghese Varghese · Wednesday, 09 March 2011

“If I were a cat, and had a pillow

and there was any sun

this cloud-covered day,

I would sleep.”


not always,


a hidden cat

behind a sun

smiling upon

a cloud-pillow

is the poem



by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Wednesday, 09 March 2011

I stroke distant faces. Hearken! Fear

comes to cauterize Time’s callouses.

He spreads black oil on blue feathers

of my little birds sold unto perishing.

He kindles the dark flames, and quietly

fevered poets drink to drunkenly devour.

For who are they who sense the Destroyer

who sets sail upon Rage in a red Trireme?

The waves are awash with silent dirges,

hissing oars splash tales for albatrosses,

gore-songs, fires, wrecks, flailed bodies.

Why do I stroke your faces, Friends?

It’s because I can see through mists.

I smell it come, a hare-lipped Enemy

who will burn the Earth with sulphur,

leave all desert, mangled, tormented.

“Yes, and it is just reward for all that

was done to Me, a final abandoning.”

I am beyond being ejected, rejected

floating, drifting, juggling, bubbling,

wandering as weed on weary tides,

feet gashed by poisoned she-sharks

living out their thrills of first menses

in the gushing of the victims’ blood.

I’m with the Devourer who’s coming

with the Promise of IT IS FINISHED!


by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Monday, 07 March 2011

Oh, this infinite Stillness-

vulture circles round me,

but will my Eye see it as

that Dove from that Ark?

Why does it rain Stillness

in heavy drops of water?

The Sky is green, above

or below me, all bleeds.

I am dancing in the ripples

of ever-returning Stillness,

it falls over all as Sadness,

Time sand-papers pebbles.

I am dancing in the rivulets

of Stillness, I need webbed

feet to step across, or into,

such Puddles, Glass Doors.

And there on the other side

lies Stillness, different still

from what eluded my Will,

efforts to abandon the ride.

So, just as the Hours hold

still Stillness, I sleep there

or here, in the in-between

Shade. Silent. Still Waters.


by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Monday, 07 March 2011

Too much sorrow is suffering

to hope what none can know

the knife that dices the flesh,

the pieces boiling in the tray

the fire that blazing beckons

the chains that still the train

the wheels that are off rails

the sleeping on hard stones

the exclamations of entrails

the breaking of brittle bones

the strength of melting snow

the feast of gods and priests

the peelings of ruptured skin

the wondering in the woods

the feeling of having been in

the grey choir of hid wolves

the stumbling at a threshold

the going away, a falling out

the way of sinner-vagabonds

who know what none do hope

too much, suffering is sorrow.


by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Friday, 04 March 2011

(dedicated to my brother Allen von Bat)

I can never do what the Doctor tells me to do, I always do what he tells me not to,

Lest I perish.

Doctor says ” Do not Smoke”; I fill my lungs with the bad grey-ringed breath of death

Lest I perish.

Doctor says “Battle the Bottle to Be”; I enter it like an ancient mist-laden yellowing Genie

Lest I perish.

Doctor says “Avoid Sweetmeats”; I cannot keep away from Rich Red Meat

or pale White fleshpots of Egypt, daughters of Moab or the Three Witches,

Lest I perish.

Doctor says “Catch eight hours of Sleep”; but I cannot waste Time. Stay Awake,

Lest I perish.

Doctor says “Take your Vitamins, eat your Vegetables”; but I curse Vegans and do Pills,

Lest I perish.

Doctor says “De-stress, Life is Balance”; but the Earth is twisted upon her own tilted Axis

and I am not exactly a Circle, Square or Triangle; my Sea of Tranquility wanes, waxes,

Lest I perish.

Doctor says “Listen, or things will not go well with you”; and I reply “Why do you prescribe

extreme limits for a Body that is hand-made parchment upon which sanely Love I inscribe?”

Lest I perish.

Doctor says “Keep your Feet on the Ground and your Head above Water”; and I think, “Yes,

this I will do, I can hang upside down inside this Cave full of stalagmites, exactly like a Bat!”

Lest I perish.


by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Friday, 04 March 2011

Ring Road

skirt the city

straight out

left around

the red light

speed down

Horamavu Main

sprint ahead


railway crossing

straight on

Gandhi statue

straight to

Temple Arch

swing left

under it

straight run

to dead-end

left turn

zips to right

straight shot

road runner

one kilometre

Banjara Bakery

sweep left

Pink fake

Jaipur house

on the right

bypass the ugly

turn right

on a mud road

an electric pylon

signals left

into the gate

where await

three dogs

three friends

and soma gold


ten years old.


March 3, 2011 at 11:23

Come, devour at this Stone Table

whereon is laid my Sylvan Feast,

Appams, Stew, or harder Breads

fasten to tongue my hidden Yeast,

slip into red white flesh and spots

of black, sweet-soft Dragon Fruit,

or lap up the tiny Swiftlets’ Spittle

that makes virile as secret sieves

sift Fiery Spices from Curry Leaves.

Bowls vessels platters, Instruments

of Pleasure, goblets of Blue Crystal,

Rivers of Desire, Righteous Ferments,

all Urges as Herbal Tofu are pungent

or stink of Engines of a Filthy Creation

that turns upside down, this Omelette

now rises puffy, realigns Brokenness.

Never eat in order, count the courses,

whatever comes my way is the Cherry

Blossom Meat, Sliced-up Fish twitching

at dawn, dusk or in the middle of a day

with Bleu, Epoisses or Vieux-Boulogne,

or the Absinthe, green glowing gentler

than the night in the eyes of my lovers.

See, now I’m sated, slash my stomach,

spoon out the Haggis, be my plunderer,

go lower to my Rocky Mountain Oysters,

here you can taste Pomegranate Sauce,

aha, Caviar Pearls burst upon your teeth,

Asparagus breathes, Almonds sing Death,

I do not forbid you fruits of the Ahuacuatl,

the sap of a Red Banana at your doorstep

and silken leaves to cover nakedness after

Fragrance of Basil and the Sin of Chocolate

are betrothed for this Fig Tree to re-flower.


March 2, 2011 at 19:45

Come. Closer to me. Look at me.

I am. Wooden Shelves. A Trinity.

Empty me. Suck it all out. See.

The Vessel of Noise. Sit empty.

On this lowest shelf, Nappies,

unsoiled or turning turquoise.

A Doll whose leg I ripped out,

a Grey Shark without a snout.

Two coloured Tops a-spinless

waiting for Threads to un-reel.

Here, a floating tossing Bottle

has a worn Nipple as throttle

on the middle shelf my Chillum

Holy Smoke that highlightened,

Little Yellow Pills that ill erased

sad End of Days talk-embraced,

Dots Crystals Stars that rippled

Flowers, cries of Bees crippled

all flowing as Gin Wine Cognac

Liqueur Absinthe Lust amnesic

on the tallest shelf black Bibles

Zen Tao Yoga Mahikari Sibyls

Rasputin Sphinx Christ Buddha

Basement Tapes Grateful Dead

Alpha Women Eye Widespread

Deva Asura Angel Ape-Siddha.

Come. Closer to me. Look at me.

I am. Wooden Shelves. A Trinity.

Empty me. Suck it all out. See.

The Vessel of Noise. Sit empty.


February 26, 2011 at 17:31

These disinfected dispassionate doorways welcome the distressed,

pale, plain, empty, ready for an instant or delayed verdict,

let it be fearful or desperate acceptance of needles, knives, ointment,

or the quiet wondering if there still is hope or its vasectomisation,

or when the transparent golden fluid is bottled up and dispensed,

does the silence construe it as the laconic drip drip dripping of Grace?

Is there a reminder of lavender rain falling like kisses in a disturbed spring upon waiting brown skin?

Do I remember the emptying of love with hisses like that into her, softening injections drop by drop?

Ah, these memories of firsts, serving, servicing, gripping, giving and losing vitality,

being carried away on the swelling breasts of ominous, thrilling waves of Chance

from the blazing nakedness of living rooms or kiss-soaked kitchens to dim attics

where ugly ubiquitous Eastern deities with outstretched red tongues glare from pagan frames

surveying the fleshy mounds of subjects nailed to wheelchairs or tied to metallic beds,

supine as dry spiders enwebbed in plastic threads after the full, fattened bladder has failed

or the boiling bowels have spoken loosely loudly with an acerbic, alkaline, artful stench

and the plastic tubes and silver needles have stopped up life’s orifices and wanting pores!

Pain has been moderated with other mendicant pangs;

Hurt, by Sister Morphine, or sharper incisions by fangs.

Wait, at the Pharmacy, or in the Lab, in Casualty, at the Cash Counter or Operation Theatre,

hear the wailings of the newborn and the screams of the women who excrete through wombs;

this is the Valley of Decision, here beginneth construction of Humankind between Heaven and Hells,

here rises everything that breathes, all is hoarse with longing hot breath-inflated energies of fucking,

ghosts are released to roam in white-caped corridors as cattle insects reptiles birdmen or bitchwomen,

all is wrapped in swaddling hides of sex or infection for the last lowering, melting into chocolate mud,

Reason plunges off high cliffs into richer, darker, hair-fringed crevasses of milky confusions,

bucolic pregnant-bellied Bodhisattvas smile stupidly upon all, secretly compassionate, Self realised.

Did I see the Veil, white as the coroner’s sheet over the Body, lift?

Do I fathom the exactitude of the Veil being torn from bottom to top?

Is the bitter pharmacopeia of mortality concealed in quaking pillars?

Is this the fountain from where spouts the Blood of the reviled unregenerate

impatient unrepentant unfulfilled excommunicated implausible love of Christ?

Do I believe that All of Creation, moth rust excrement sweat harlot thief,

yea, all will soon taste of this antediluvian wine, the sweet red wet wine

swirling in the mouth of the Beloved, escaping as butterflies from her lips,

the pleasant musk and myrhh-laden lips of that eager waiting lisping Virgin

I kissed at 14 to receive secret foretaste of life disease death, and Beyond?


February 24, 2011 at 8:05

I’ve lost most everything

when I’d sought nothing,

and now I’ll rest content.

Twice in these twelve years

I’ve been pierced by arrows

at the centre of this divine

strength, mortal weakness.

Whose barbs these are

I think I know. Abaddon

wants All.  “Your Faith

surrender or abandon,”

he rails. “It’s my Grail.”

I stay. Still. I will go on.

How do you judge Deeds

and yet forget Intent?

That’s why I stay silent,

learn to rest content.

Of those many I’ve loved,

a few remain, the others

are not to be found here

as Job’s poor comforters.

Wounds bite like frost

in the taunts of those

whose love was close

up, now they are lost.

Should I blame them now?

No, they are but ignorant.

Just as I’ve been laid low,

soon, they’ll also be spent.

I’ve lost most everything

when I’d sought nothing,

but now I’ll rest content.


February 23, 2011

May I spread my questions as Food

before You ,whom I know as Good?

Did I deserve too many Wrongs,

all of which I turned into Songs?

Am I evil because I embrace Chaos?

Am I evil because I experience Loss?

Do You like the Wine of my Poetry?

Do You hate my stupid Complexity?

In my wanderings, have I strayed

too far off from Your Sylvan Glade?

Do You see me obscured by Clouds

of Unknowing, a Clown of Crowds?

Am I but moonlight without warmth,

someone empty, full of False Charm?

Am I entombed in Two Dimensions?

Am I chanting of False Foundations?

Why have you fenced in this Sheep

of Yours? How do I earn my Keep?

Is all my Light engulfed by Darkness,

is all my Joy to end only as Sadness?

You’ve put doors and bars in place,

You’ve halted all my proud Waves!

Why are the waters hard as Stone?

Why do my Limbs reject the Frozen?

Is all so I learn the Laws of Heaven?

Is all so I see Your Love’s Dominion?

I am standing at the Gates of Death,

And, still, I await those Joys not Met.

Cut me a channel for Torrents of Rain

lest I dry up midst the Terrors of Pain.

Will you allow this Wild Donkey be free,

to graze in peace beside a Lion happily?

May I spread my questions as food

before You whom I know as Good?


February 22, 2011

When will I find You?

Why do You hide?

Are You far from me?

Are You not inside?

Who are You really?

Did we grow apart?

Did I run from You?

I remember the Waters,

I remember my Floating,

I remember my Knowing,

I remember the Pulsing.

I remember the Slash,

the failing of The Cord,

I remember that Lash,

scream, a Vocal Chord.

I remember being Uplifted,

I remember being Spanked,

I remember being Washed,

I remember being Warmed.

I remember my Suckling,

I remember my Milk-teat,

I remember the Desiring,

I remember the Sleeping.

I remember All as Well,

I remember it Souring,

I remember the Losing,

I remember our Dying.

When will I find You?

Why do You hide?

Are You far from me?

Are You not inside?

Who are You really?

Did We grow apart?

Did I run from You?

Did You turn away?


February 22, 2011

I have sought God and Godliness

and discovered flaming Forests of Uncertainty

I have sought Art and Aesthetics

and drunk Poison of Incomprehensibility

I have sought Love in a Rosicrucian Bridegroom

and gambled in Brothels of Incompatibility

I have sought the Best and also always the Better

and fallen into serpentine Snares of Deception

I have sought Nature and her Seasonal Charms

and listened to the subtle Lore of the Subterraneans

I have sought unknowing the Sting of the Scorpion

and lapped up healing at the Fountains of Living

I have sought and I still am seeking, sojourning

and driving through the riddle-Darkness of my Body

with my eyes shining wetly, brightly, open-ended as Lamps.


February 19, 2011

Always wait until the last moment

when a Swan turns into a Raven

and imagined Friend to Stranger.

“Life is very long” and Experience

shortens the breath, ties in knots

anyone who returns to Innocence.

Remember, regress to your Birth,

it was bloody, the cord was cut

and you suffer that sad Memory.

Yet the Parting or the deadly Bite

you feel when a Body of Promise

moves away from you is Holy Gift.

So what have you to give another?

Placenta Love, the richest protein

thrown out, able to serve nought.

“Life’ is a stronger word than “love”,

it sails across the Red Sea even as

Pharaoh’s hot hate-chariots drown.

“Life” can bear anything, it accepts

every Hand of Rejection eve brings,

“Life” can ever sing-song song sing

and claims of “love” prove Nothing.


February 18, 2011

It may be that you do nothing

wrong, yet you are criminal,

tormented, tortured, lashed

for crimes unthought of, pure

judgement lies in the unseen

where there is not humanity,

only Divinity that interrogates

with its burning lamp inside a

monstrous abyss, unconscious.

And so I sat down yesterday

and made a list of all whom

I have hurt or who have hurt

me, an endless list that grew

wings on either side and tried

to fly away so I could be free,

but the snares of that Hunter

nailed the paper to the Tree.

Life is a net, a cobweb strong

in which one flutters all along

till life-juices are slyly drained

by a Power with a white belly

always bursting, giving birth to

my horde of punisher-demons.

What is this freedom so elusive,

that though I crawl on my knees

or beg forgiveness, do penance,

withdraws itself, dons disguises,

disdains reply or gently despises

self-flagellation, abuse of a soul?

I’m lessened by these ablutions,

prayers to the primitive deities,

is this Silence to be a daily trial

that’ll purify me of my vanities?

It seems to me that this Silence

will silence me and then nights

and days will merge into Ocean

of  Being, Beauteous, Boundless.


February 17, 2011

Now I find myself alone, travelling,

many dust-devils appear, besides

my wailing wheels begin to grind

to a halt; time to trade my metal

for a camel and hunker down on

its protecting, furry leeward side.

The red sand-storm has exploded

skrying me, on angry eerie wings

comes a time for a mask of God,

seal my eyes and ears, withdraw,

as a rodent into a hole, backward.

This howling necessity is worsened

by the stillness, these particles lash

and I am crouching, a whipped rat

watching for a moment of dawning,

an elephant-God’s vehicle is parted

from the Deity, and the Wrath falls.

Put on the air-tight goggles, wrap it

around your head, don a gas-mask,

let me force a way into asphyxiation

in the red spectrum, I will yet reach

the green of the sky, familiar fields.

And those sand-angels of ashen pallor

mocking me through yellowing teeth,

I let them all ooze through my fingers,

snuggle closer to my camel’s stomach

listening quietly to a gurgling of water

and the thrill of a lost bird-song trilling

the Oasis of Life across these dunes.


February 16, 2011

Observe what it means to be Dust:

Let me blow out the wind, specks

that slowly encase, encrust others

and they lift up their hands awhile

to understand they’ve been dusted!

Come, now it is time to wash me off,

I am ready to be swept off, deleted,

erased defecated flushed out faded,

a taunting laugh affirms the ill-being

cast away, an organism sheds mites.

Now, I’m the Widow with two pennies

and none to watch out for me amidst

the rich who flourish in Art’s pyramid,

processions of dead utensils in golden

slumber or condemned servants, wait!

The building of those well incarcerated

are monuments of royal folly, shapely,

geometric edges or corners hide suns

and my stately stares, the mummified

Pharaohs lie still, see that I have seen!

As humble as a flea I must be to escape,

Destiny ties me to mirages large as seas,

Dreams or Fulfilment, all my dusk-mirrors

are shattered within gunfire of exploding

glass, I fly across a sunlit desert, FREE!.


February 14, 2011

Let me not visit the past

now, or how it drained

my 12 years, rags, pain,

useless hindsight, wow!

I am just sitting alone,

reflecting on the gone,

all that I’d swallowed,

that I’d once hallowed,

it was all but the Illusion,

the Lie that percolated in

coming home as a punch,

and I didn’t have a hunch!

When life flows outward

through a mouth or eyes

that spell or tell, spilling

through fingers, or sighs

who remembers to feel

something like the chill

of horrors yet to arrive

to trample you into swill?

But it’s best to leave it

all behind, like flowers

upon someone’s grave,

abandon ghostly bowers.

What remains? I am here.

Still. I reflect. Silent. Hope.

A Mystery stirs in the wind,

Life shapes a riddle to read.

I will not fear though I walk

midst the shadows of death,

You are with me to breathe

upon the empty dried bones,

I’ll put on flesh again to LIVE!


February 11, 2011

I am diving in and delving and drinking and drawing

through me the dark new red wine of this stranger

Sea of a Bounteous Ancien Love, ah it is beginning

to flow upon a softly thirsty tongue as a New Song

in whose tones lie no shadow of any Cureless Curse

bearing down as Carrion on the uneasy cruel heads

of mine enemies, you who arose to devour my flesh;

Instead, see, I now spread over you a prayer-shawl

and shower yellow bouquets of blessings over it all,

you can laugh as God breaks my spine or thigh-bone

or scatters my dreams as petals into a burning pyre,

but the Worm has been vouchsafed Mystery Future.

So, do not seek to ride the Storm-clouds of Vengeance.

seek to break none, buy none, bribe none, blind none,

I am Balm of Gilead, my portion is the Potion of Peace,

I have desiring broken the Dagger of Desire and found

One I had loved long since and lost awhile in the Spiral.

But now smiles ray in from far beneath the New Horizon

or Rising Sun as yet unseen yet warming and I am high,

unfettered to thaw, to roam my translucent green skies

where wait my many 12-gated mansions sprinkling Light

and many-coloured fishes awash in Tides of Endless Joy

surprise me with iridescent underwater bursts or flashes,

yes, now you too can come, swim a happy tune besides

me, swing in or out, up, about, revolve, re-love, resolve

the wondrous ways or waves in my Rainbow Sea Infinity.


February 10, 2011

when it all comes down

you will  hear the THUD.

when it’s all collapsing

into grey mud, THUD.

then their words come,

hammer my ears THUD.

we knew it would be so,

you deserve it, a THUD.

now that you’re upside


let the nails hammer deep

into old wood THUD THUD

let the blood flush freely,

flowing over a new THUD

i will take all this calmly,

i see i must love THUD

for i came out the womb

forced out feeling THUD

and i’m now living it rough

once again, the big THUD

do you know how it works?

or will be? always a THUD.

it always flies in the blue

and turns to milk THUD.

i say, let it rain let it rain,

a full fresh crop –  THUD.

the grass is greener, then,

on the other side of THUD.

but here i’ll remain unafraid

for i’ve grown to love THUD.


February 9, 2011

All my desires are come

to the final resting pod.

Witness within how it goes.

A hid lust that ne’er arrived

how is it fastened to me?

With steely “thookam” hooks

slipped into live musculature.

The Silent Babe is ready to hang.

An undeserved guilt burdens,

a certain judgment is passed,

a condemnation is unleashed,

and happy people just laugh.

this is the way the Light enters

this is the way the Light enters

this is the way the Light enters

into a thankful well-broken heart.

One comment on “POETRY – 1

  • Wow, this is amazing. Twenty-five poems on one page, that is half a book!! I just wanted to comment on “So you want to write”, but after reading 4 or so, I am void if words… Impressive!!

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