by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Friday, 28 December 2012 

let’s shovel it behind

another waste-year

with festive garbage

vile bodies moving

with no purpose

noise in inner ears

forever a manger

lost abandoned

muddied burnt out

that baby is gone

also a sad mother

frozen shepherds

nothing is changed

the planet turns on

a cursed dead-axis

a new year comes

more of the same

decay and despair


by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Tuesday, 18 December 2012 

John says: God above

is love; I’m nought.

The Potter’s wheel

marred the pot.

My broken cistern

fills with earth.

In heaven’s jargon,

Dogg of no worth.


by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Friday, 14 December 2012

the hardest thing to remember

that e(x)ternal timeless micro

moment i agreed to be in body

within a body a fused explosion

red fluid in a no-heart no-brain

i’m trying to remember my why

the tube the secret connectors

the beginning of the tickly-tock

the sea the rolling in the sphere

filling out growing fullness fatty

globes and scents my searching

mouth for nipples lips breathing

being washed awash in sleeping

waking toddling trembling eyes

all things new and obstacles few

but fear that quotidian left right

up down in out the binary blight

cells slough off or nagging cough

sans true memory only imagine

search high love satan g-d night


by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Thursday, 13 December 2012 

not for me the shearing-daily rope of hope of a next life

the long-reaching light-years night-trickle of after-life

the supernova hid ahead in that curve of a near-death

the promise of absence purgatory the nine pearly gates

the karmic defect promotion to cow or demotion to crow

the sacred angelic or demonic Bardo Thodol thresholds

the burial of slaves food-rot for kings encased in stone

the squirrels of suicide running from a fearsome stasis

throw past at me none of this do i need imagine tomorrow

this pleasant present second bereft of memory or foresight

this abandonment of remembrances black kisses of scars

this taste of meat spit-roasted red teeth steaming tongue

this sunset circling waning upon the wingbeats of intimacies

this voice of a faceless companion riding in unknown directions

this melody or cacophony or troubling silence plain ruminations

this flaming comet of serendipity tracing ice-floes on ballast of love

this that i am is that thou art the name i am that i am it is all i am

is now is now is now is now is now the tattoo of alphabets is now

to this that i am that thou art the name i am that i am now i bow


by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Tuesday, 11 December 2012  

the circling shifting transposing consciousness blues

of watching worming wearying worryingly in on yours

forging the aleph and the beth rungs of a broken Ladder

exacting a measure of collapsing ice or accurate flame

blazing from the excruciating tension of the sling of Mara

swing shout the giant keening Angel of Death the sword

and the children throwing stones with death-sure intent

sleepwalking or wailing upon pillows that fill graves billow

and destroy the maxims that puncture the wise Third Eye

with these words that we swear by the fecund generation

the condemned helpless sperm of our planetary white lies


by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Monday, 10 December 2012 

have you heard the Voice silver-drizzle when you found yourself cursing the wet

or did you hear the Murmur in the sewer where a child’s paper-boat holed drowns

could you wait for the black Roar above  the parched earth waiting blood sacrifice

would you delirious Listen fever-browed to the rare Black Swan shed weight to fly

have you heard the Whisper of light-dust tossed up if you kick stones as you walk

or was just a puff of Silence losing shimmer as you bowed the head oft humiliated

did you catch joy Cough insignificant teardots or sorrow in teacups tired of infilling

take those serrated Cries for vengeance and burn them in a pyre of full fat-loving

this is what a Shout of smiling gives and it is about transcending one for holy-many


by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Saturday, 8 December 2012 


the worst ones seek the foxes of flattery

the political poets love the smell of arses

or fantasy writers grow carrots for noses

the romantic fool flaunts tear-torn heart

as absurdists dismantle web-strings part 

the surrealist is dancing with the spiders

the gusher is vomiting up sad sentences

the devout tongue spits sick holy cliches

the morons also have something to say

and i, floating on air, watch songs decay.


by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Friday, 7 December 2012 


Just today a black sunshine day for a dangerous hour or two

return softly to the scene of your crime-forest of the blind

to pluck the brownest stinging nettles or thorns for a crown

herein bursts as straying songs ten thousand fear-veiled hues

sharper than the blue of loss sadder than these gutter-reds

I allow them hold me enwrapped in cling-wet bosom of knives

now taste the meaning inscribed in the ridges of a beaten soul

how loud it feels in this wool-warmed womb of toil-wounds

hard beats the little true light who glistens in the tear-hot eye

how still the morning dawns noon twilight and barking dog or fog

part ways and I am snake hanged upon hard beams of wood,

breathing into the unknown One that joy and hidden glory peeps

purple licking tongues upon the edges of my shattered panes.


by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Wednesday, 28 November 2012


let it fall easy

watch still

half in half out

black stone

silver water


storked upon


by sex-fish

lime moss-slime

licking sides


liquids behind 

fluidity ahead

flushes flashes

let slip beside

under over

around eyes

let the ripples

all undulate

as many hips

or sandy shifts

roll unfurl

as wet furrows

the tomorrows


in gripless palms

watch still

let fall easy

half in

half out


by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Thursday, 15 November 2012


what is project G_d about

changing the hyena’s spots

shedding the skin of snakes

stripping the zebra’s stripes

drying up the river’s thunder

collapsing the high pyramids

holing up in a camel’s humps

stamping brahmins into dust

gifting Solomon dark words

tarring the elder road to hell

what project G_d is about

moulding the hyenas to lions

leaving behind the moulting

sin-skin for fire horse-hooves

drop-sand in cities of the plain

soul-void filling sarcophaguses

sun-Ruach breathing over Void

promising castrated birds sky

stirring dust to blind the eye

piercing black tongues of lies

what Project G-d is about

hiding more than what is known

giving more than what is taken

dwelling us within Self is broken


Tuesday, 6 November 2012

beneath the Eye

the ever-still

arm-silent Pool

the wet Father

is not afraid

to call to Void

as the Beginning

it was now is

our quiet Friend



by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Wednesday, 31 October 2012 

 (this poem was read out at Urban Solace on 30th October 2012, a Tuesdays With The Bard evening celebrating “Bangalore”)


you were

and are

Once virginal


emerald breathed


Quiet as a cat


Full of sleepy


Who did you?

You caved in

to merchants

from up north.

You are


Aged ugly

Breasts grey

False hip



at all hours

to gold coins


in black.

I see you now

by filthy lovers


by customers

putrid hole

Forgive me

if I don’t desire

an hour’s dalliance

with fallen teeth

fetid breath

you pus-filled sore

O Bangalore

my unpitied whore.


by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Monday, 29 October 2012 


think of me as a voice without a face

the grain of rice boiled and flattened

soak me in milk or blood let it up-puff

add honey or sugar open-mouth stuff

did it turn bitter on a waiting tongue

or if going behind it slag your throat

didn’t go down well with you it didn’t

mix well with your saliva-slide kisses

gone down it has that greasy pipeline

falling to dark machinery twist-times

flake become porous slush slow-flush

through muscle-walls to womb-hush

voices from without the within zygote

takes on a face more tail than a body

a murmur learning the how-to-scream

dropped as a frail bird out the oval sky

a thud of the heart merged with a slap

on fat bottom of existence a cry-worm

clean it up scrape away yellow fluidom

let it be shaped a no-voice or no-poem


by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Sunday, 28 October 2012 

quieten yourself be still

as an altar-sparrow spill

a happy trill

get back to clean lines

O phalanxes red ants

or corpse-black



alligators crocodiles

elephants oliphants

under currents

bees smiling buzzing

moth-wings burning

waxen carpets

whales dolphins fins

our enveloping skin


termites and fireflies

pig  lion leopard lamb


spiders or succubii

fruit-bats maggots

worm divides

the teeming jungles

the shivering seas


clad in dragon scales

sad children of Adam



be still apprehending

less comprehending


shapes of singularity

strings without song

shattered ploughs

breath-repair arriving

all our senses waking


Ruach Ha-Kodesh




Friday, 26 October 2012

sleeping like a leaf

breathing a swarm of flies

sour swirling sinking

sleeping upside down

light as breeze on my chest

the weight of a heartbeat

sleeping within sky

darkness in leathern wings

i slip moon bars to hide



by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Thursday, 25 October 2012


sleeping as dust dead hay Ruach sighs his supine way

behind an eyelid a bone blind folded fetal fatal inside

someone a hawk’s awakening a cry upon a dark evening

a poem new a worm worming out a bloody side laboring

held aloft shine iron nail stab at brow ready to fail

Ruach flows as secret wine roll pearls dirty swine

when the wrung neck turns the deadly wound burns

so the worm grows a snake now the Lady stirs a lake

a red sky a hovering dove overseer the birth of Love

he wakes in sudden light a poem revealed as in-sight

a breath the bone the valley words a marching army. 


by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Tuesday, 16 October 2012 

it is the high jump event you’re taking part in

the objective of the spiritual olympiad 

you’ve signed in

you’ve keenly watched the videos of St. Paul

Rumi Kabir Meera St John of the Cross, yea,

you’ve been training

thinking of doing it that cool Fosberry Flop

but not before you’ve tried the Scissors

you’ve thick-soled shoes

you want to try out what can get you over

the uncertainty bar, that high love-rod

you’ve taken an approach

Eastern Cut-off Western Roll and Straddle

the girl-friend oral on those muscles 

you’ve set a tall goal

stellar words that flare does love never fail

or does it endure all as does ambition

you’ve jumped higher

shrinking to expand like a Cheshire cat grin

and disappear over that steady pole

you’ve crashed the bar

the sand in your eyes strain in your thighs

rise up to meet the glare of the Sun

setting in your snake-eyes


by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Friday, 12 October 2012 

this process of life is a slow death

penalties shot into open mouths

by opposing, oppressive forces

how can one be agile goalkeeper

at the same time sprinting player

midfields mush to minefield space

extreme ends slip farther apart

stretching stretched and taut

i elongate i daily procrastinate

that anchor of hope reels out

further under the dark water

i’m waiting for to strike rock


by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Saturday, 6 October 2012 

hiding something is very unlike a secret covenant 

the crook who hides is already a lie, lost fool

in the coldest labryrinth or forests without green 

the one who hides is invisible the pretence-path seen circumscribed

the lusts fulfilled but of no depth, knowledge unstable in all its portents  

but a secret lives as an embalmed treasure in a special cellar

but secrets are sacred altar-pieces of memory-crafted jewellery

 golden platelets whose fittings can always be hammered together

to invisible formulae by humble masters wrapped in smoke of frankincense

and myrhh, choired in epiphanies melting into the dawn chirping like sparrows


Wednesday, 3 October 2012

the veil of a liar

is the smile-lid

over a blind eye

let a sly liar fly

false dreams

sleep-dogs die

a lie in the honey

in a crack-jar 

dead folly-penny

the lie free-hides

spotless skins

stain love-brides

a lie in the riddle

secret whistle

the sting-thistle

a lie in wise-lair

yellow fever

kisses no-flower


by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Saturday, 29 September 

Did Jesus like us shit?

Let the know-it-all

Smith’s Friends tell it.

Was it the Holy Shit

Ayurveda spoke of,

the proper stool bit

peeled, full ripened


color, able to float?

Did Jesus like us piss?

How did it spill,

a healthy arc of hiss?

Was it an outpouring

of blessing for sand

and seed and reeds?

Did Jesus like us sweat?

Ha, if tempted like us

to lust, by G-d He must!

Did Jesus like us body

the robot-machine

tired, smelly, aching?

Was He programmed

to hate Himself, find

happiness inside pain?

Did Jesus like us feel

the grey blight of sin

and hopes falter fail?

Did Jesus like us fall

ill, taste real death

some words to fulfil?

Did Jesus like us spit?

It healed one blind

once, but otherwise?

Those Smith’s Friends

know it all, they

say He was like me;

but my doctrinal fixity

says He wasn’t any

like my mass, a putty

of turd, piss and spit,

sweat or sin-flesh;

He’s beyond that shit.


by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Saturday, 29 September 2012 


ask for much to get little,

this is how life works

by its every jot and tittle

ask for even less, shrink

like an ant dizzy upon

a breaking bowl’s brink

wander the jagged maze

without a silken thread

that a way out can trace

the sheep are wandering

evermore wondering

at the slaughter awaiting

the text leaves questions

layers of an onion

peeled or better eaten

by wolves unhappily torn,

or be left abandoned

by a Shepherd also forlorn?


by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Wednesday, 19 September 2012

all the noise cannot hide

big bam bim hum drum

lazy trudging fat pillars

silent toes, heavy form

all servile faceless skulls

bow rolling below a belly

in Tsang, Gorgon malice

slits eyes will and wonder

the bright tents show clay

pinkish flesh-curled nose

a serpent breathing flows

out a frozen glutton trunk

images replicating maws

ever full, always lusting,

into dirt waters sinking,

vomit inside bins drying

see the phosphorescent

feet he lights up forests

joins toad-men satsang

sucks blood of devotees

preserve the young men

and virgins in hot spices

if an idol celebrates how

to subsume sub-humans


by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Wednesday, 19 September 2012

hey little sparrow upon a twig of life

sitting like a flower in grass shaking

with the folding in the wood bending

what is it you fear?

is it worth your while?

hey little sparrow feel the twig sway

in the hollow of a branch and trunk

close your tiny eyes cling cling pray

what is it you fear?

is it worth your while?

hey little sparrow with two wet wings

blue beak let us sing sing shiverings

the night in the midst of day is crying

what is it you fear?

is it worth your while?

hey little sparrow the tree the temple

black shadows are the leaves of g-d

in whose arms you freeze in a huddle

what is it you fear?

is it worth your while?

hey little sparrow the worst is past

wary jungle begone the terror blast

be still the looming peace shall last

finished the red fear

worthy your little life

flit forth flash wings

free fall full tongue


by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Tuesday, 18 September 2012 

some times it is just like this or that

squeezing the poem out toothpaste

pulling it out the anus a roundworm

some times just like it is or that is

grating these carrots on metal gums

beating the egg till it is prick the stiff

just some like it this it is or that is

letting the blood out a puff of wind

putting into a pool a cock of sweat

some like just this time or that is it

plucking pubic feathers a soft feat

pulling out pearly sighs from navel

this some times that like is what is

bending over her the peaches part

the lips in our sun the behind winds

what some times is that is like this

the melons of time in inevitable sag

the path between a trail to the chin

that is some what times this is just

the eyes the bridge the open oreo

the trace the touch the entry slow

what times this is just some that is

the spilling the splinters the strange

how i am spun you the web arrange

some times it is just like that or this


by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Wednesday, 5 September 2012
G-d sits astride this gigantic

blue commode of an insignificant planet

G-d spits into this cavernous

ugly spittoon and the yellow fevers rage

G-d farts into this bleak space

and shimmering stars bubble up as gases

G-d pisses into this earthsea bowl

a doomed life crawls onto green banks of death

G-d shits upon this Satan-ruled realm

and sacks of humanity fade as filthy excrement

G-d executes judgment in all this

till there’s nothing left no water or air to grip

and our own painted images leer at us

from mirrors blackened by smoke of Abbadon

till the final ceramic plug is pulled out

everything is flushed down so Pralaya puts to sleep

all this the Genius of the sacks of humanity

abandoned condemned to pleasure the mind of G-d


by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Monday, 3 September 2012 

in that quiet cafe looking at the barest sun

someone came in tween me and my orison

an angry poet wearing supergirl underwear 

penis shrunk thoughtless who to do or why

 was the road long to Tipperary where ladies

in pink lave him a lay bitch business as usual

left turn he orders as his fat political bosses

clapped their hands from blue Dalit margins

O saffron rose the taste in my quiet teacup

whilst white worms flow’d o’er rims of clay

the daylight withered and the wine laughed

in my belly at the antics of that silly Falstaff

the shadow in the middle or political muddle

blind to freeform ore-making gookdegobble


by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Wednesday, 29 August 2012 

G-d Lucifer

Asura Deva

Angel Demon

Heaven Hell

side A and B

of an ancient

45 rpm vinyl

turns tables

Man is an edge

that flips coins

heads, it’s G-d

tails, it’s Satan

making up sin

or judgement


by justification

O Man rolls on

circular Rock

Akashic discs

spin on spin on


by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Saturday, 25 August 2012 

(dedicated  with love to all my students)

what i have seen even learnt well is that wisdom

never lay in me but in all who sought me out to be taught

wisdom was pearls submerged beneath the liquid skin of my students

and they imagined that i had helped them grasp what lies beyond our ken

now as i listen to their happy voices

the wine sighing in our older bones

i am redeemed

i only dived deep to bring up precious oysters i only prised hard

shells to eversky open they shine now as brilliant stars blaze meteors

and their terrible gratitude crushes me into the dust of everlasting humility.


by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Wednesday, 22 August 2012 

the be-aware dog

raises its pointed ears and pouts its licorice lips

that women behind veils want to bite suckle and kiss

the be-aware dog

flaunts its curly tail that friendly always wags

beaten with an iron hammer even it will not straiten

the be-aware dog

flickers dusky dopey eyelashes that lick cold noses

sweet belles can smell roses or warm muffins and woes

the be-aware dog

flops onto its back legs waltzing up in the air

belly opens tickles that makes stand on end its hair

the be-aware dog

barks old mantras at dawn or whines at sundown

looking for heels it may chase nice buns to bite upon

the be-aware dog 

hangs out a wolf-tongue that secretively tells tales

of human faults by way of sonic waves to distant whales

the be-aware dog

wanders bleak streets when lost to meet bitches in heat

finds love behind it in moments beside dirty garbage heaps


by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Tuesday, 21 August 2012
i ever learnt the ocean to be

deceptive in her wet viscosity

let the dying fish dancing flee

people come and people go

like water dripping through

slack fingers, let it go let go

shore to shore sad sails drift

flapping black a tearing wind

as weary boats sink spinning


a goodbye is best left unsaid

wild springs dry, irises bled

songbirds fall out skies dead

people come and people go

like water slipping through

strong fingers, let go let go


by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Monday, 20 August 2012

whether or not

g-d or mere men

help and forget

there is the fight

now even unto

death or defeat

and no shame

in the falling

in the failing

it is all surety

of a fainting

or dissolution

do you fear it?

there is granted

wings fins claws

soar swim cling

the empty sky is

white mystery

or absent feeling

the calming sea is

grey inhabiting

emotion’s eddies

the weary earth is

a mother-belly

fertile furrowings

let arise or demise

because between

fighting or fearing

there is no shaming

no sweat smells

only the breathing


by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Saturday, 18 August 2012 

politics is a deep cunt

the lust that loves differently

self-flagellation that communes

doing it with someone a grand show

that caring has something to do with orgasms

even orangutans know it doesn’t work easy like that

but then the species has regressed into a sickly condition

the rest of the story is engraved in the bars that hem in the human zoo

i sit in a corner fellatio a banana as clothed spectators stare and throw peanuts

john cage is playing in the background like a black cloud that will not lift off to mars

music bypasses politics the system the structures slip in between the bars vibrations that hum

every groove a mnemonic that leashes the ape in the direction of the sun a tune ready to be unsung.


by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Saturday, 18 August 2012 

i ‘m a celestial being

with hawk-eyes

dotting a fluid body

which is all-time

i observe everything

the muddy mixtures

flesh gore bones skin

ingesting defecating

i am my own destiny

feathers beak claws

all the smelly flaws

clay feet that decay

yet my eyes are wise

with perennial seeing

staring at the circles

sun moon rune-pools 

i’m always wide awake

irises shimmering take

in all views grabbing

vistas in lidless sweep

the body moves slow

sphinx-like wakening

the eyeballs glowing

hypnotic sly rotating

men walking like trees

look deep into my orbs

trace golden shadows

that vanish in breezes

caressing women’s hair

body of time despairing

of all touched and seen

images fade on screens



by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Friday, 17 August 2012 

this life is falling

sunny yolk bursting on

a trampled sidewalk

over a black edge

aborted baby goes

sewer water fills

a paper boat swirls

in the jungle ripples

sharks eat her insides

plunge into the night

departing eden light

towards death lone flight

who flashes the torch?

does a breaking egg smile

borne on Charon’s tide?


by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Wednesday, 15 August 2012 


visiting death in the morning rain

brings dew to the cheeks

the blinding realisation

that love and life end up a shell

within which is a breath

waiting to be extinguished.

watching a couple ready to mate

raises laughter in the throat

the blinding realisation

that life and love keep wallowing

in marriage ceremonies

till death doth lovebirds part.

all of us aboard that vacuum train

that sucks the breath out

that blinding realisation

prana moving from shell to shell

looking desperately

for a home and no final goodbyes.


by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Tuesday, 14 August 2012 


son, you simply cannot

let poems wander lost

in dead air as cut kites!

mum, i reply, wouldn’t

it be splendor to see

many colours set free?

son, you simply cannot

let a poem a vagabond

or half-naked fakir be!

mum, i reply, don’t worry

so let it blunder its way

to a warm hearth to stay.

son, you simply cannot

let the words resound

in your head, sing out!

mum, i reply, the birds

with broken beaks say

all sans written words.


by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Monday, 13 August 2012 

the elephant of time stands

still only the trunk of the present

sways and feeds the maw of tomorrow

with palm fronds as the beady  eye watches

memories of past births miss beats beneath a mountain of meat.

this is how the buddha stands

under the blank slate of the sky tilting

his weight of knowledge anchors the four pillars

covered with the wrinkled skin of ages disguised as sages

impermanence suffering empty phenomena and never mind nirbana.



by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Thursday, 9 August 2012

i’m stranger than you 

whatever they say

stick your love into

my liver pull it away

hold the trump cards

close to my chest

in my rotten innards

put me to a test

try twisting my arms

see what you get

a wicked grin charms

all yours the debt

you cannot go past

the skin and bone

to the foolish part

a home this stone

here beats the drum

of small existence

here too the thrum

of rich resistance

to love and emotions

don’t speak to me

i’m so still the ocean

speaks not to me.


by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Thursday, 9 August 2012 

i am perched upon a twig

seep blues fill this litmus

i can learn to walk in sky

drink in a voiceless mist

sing, bird, sing me wings

sea snakes bark up trees

flies groaning buzz breeze

somewhere a doe is dying

elseewhere a lion is crying

sad stick-insect shrinking

i am perched upon my twig

trapping it tongue and eye

perchance you feel me lick

a frog-princess rose petals

widen and take me in sighs.


by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Saturday, 4 August 2012 

I learnt to be a Christian of convenience discipled by the Thirteenth Apostle

Marcion Montanus Valentinus Constantine Arius Edward Irving J O Smith Sigurd Bratlie 

Joseph Smith dark founders share Gnostic blacksmithy these barbarians forged as one

say nay to circumcision shout down Kephas but cut off Timothy’s foreskin then to claim

“circumcision is of the heart” spiritualize the material confuse damn G-d All is well and rusts.

I learnt to be a Christian of convenience discipled by the Thirteenth Apostle

the man never followed exactly Jesus Christ taught “utter not a vow” but it’s alright

to shave one’s head and offer a vow in Jerusalem temple thank G-d raze every stone

it will be so again temples heretics dogs who mix Grace with Law proud building

the plumbline swings a moving hand writes mene mene tekel upharsin G-d All is well and rusts.

I learnt to be a Christian of convenience discipled by the Thirteenth Apostle

who when manic spilled ecstasies from theThird Heaven to declare love fails not

and depressed consigned all opposers to Satan for destruction of their flesh abandoned

them Anathema Maranatha Inquisition bell book candle rape torture witches and queers

gloating death to unbelievers golden goblet full of love and hatred G-d All is well and rusts.

I learnt to be a Christian of convenience discipled by the Thirteenth Apostle

until when the wind blew into the bleak chamber of my heart cast out black words

the chaff of doctrine, dogma, threats and promises of hell or heaven goads that prick

serpents of fear foxes locusts wolves bears leave the house swept clean white doves

bring warm fire in beaks friends forgiveness of vice fill me delightful G-d All is well, I rest.


by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Wednesday, 1 August 2012 

who are these skewered on twin ivory tusks

rising out the mud hanging limply wretched

these poets of vanity and the poets self-pitying?

let’s resurrect the rattling vessels grant them

an enema in the soft warm rain of sun rays let

them open their eyes to behold nude green wonder.

do not let them off the hook though just accept it

their nasal whining whimpering learning to breathe

bark babble babies of lost innocence buried being born.


by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Monday, 30 July 2012 

this body is 

and will be

the upright

the final site


an affirmation 

of the malefic

to scissor off

the umbilical 

cord of death



the pulley into

the reflection

of past moons

in dead wells

of matriarchy

this body is

will now be


pillar raise

mankind to

next space


a red planet

spin forever

where metal

cells merge

with organs


the second



here maternity

is mechanical

no possessing

till all gender

wars are over.

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by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Saturday, 28 July 2012 


derelict despised

disposed off

only too often

old men or women

drunk smelly shit

dirty black drifting

these straw sacks

filled with leavings

broken droppings

that rise up tall

as the buildings

that shit and will

one day collapse

into piles of human

wanting cast out

the old tv gone

kettle maserati

torn books die

plastic eternity

odds and ends

pick up, bend


waste of wastrels

yet hope of life

for living ones

new sinking day

one more run

of choiceless

paths for meals

that still stink 

and fill each one

with damn desire

go on go on go on

what obscure

dawn calls them

what celestial

will to survive

i wonder why

they cannot

just lie down

and die die die


by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Tuesday, 24 July 2012 

Moomad the Milch Cow,

she moos as if mad,

moonstruck or mod

chewin on raw cod

her udders a-swingin

big hips oooh a-swayin

she’s catchin her bull

right tween his horns         

in the mud of a field

full of steamin corn

Moomad the Milch Cow

is nine months gone

her silk belly a-tearin

calf skin a-strokin

quietly a-standin

green grass a-growin

Moomad the Milch Cow

she lows as if glad

moonstruck or mod

chewing on raw cod

her udders a-swingin

big hips oooh a-swayin

awaitin the next bull

to catch her a-buttin


by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Tuesday, 24 July 2012 

the sieve-world


here we are cast

as wheat  grains

after divine hands

have rocked us seed

into seed unto seed

sifted from the husk

blown by rare winds

ground by wooden

pestle, iron, stone

to hammer stone

the sparks fleeing

we are crushed

powdering under 

blows to softness

not fine enough


the sieve-world


we fall in the gaps

through apertures

falling together

drifting like snow

hills white flour

now the binding

tight by water

oil or kneading

in salt or milk

eggs and some

other ingredients

make a difference

potato, mint, cheese

all mashed  in well 

gentleness or force

rolled or beaten flat

the dough is ready

spread on a smooth

clean stone surface

the sieve-world


a metal pan sighs

with heat-red life

this bread rests 

there for awhile

toasts or rises

turns a new color

wears new spots

to be handed out


this broken bread

you i we all of us

can be fullness


al-Insan al-Kamil.



by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Sunday, 22 July 2012 

drenched in a world of warm liquids and wet apprehensive throbbings

I resisted the pushing and the thrusts to arrive dead under earth-light

and slapped awake I screamed at the emptiness of surrounding souls

tossed to the power of the air all around me smiling stupidly or sighing

leaving home was not for me but I was already evicted

at 10 a mother’s dream sent me out climbing three rails and puff-trails 

of toy-train smoke to a mountain school the refuge where I remember

I wept and turned to sea the melting icebergs of a night of abandoning

but all that was knowing that randomness rules all our iridiscent paths

leaving home was not for me but I was already elevated

at 16 the band of brothers embraced the dissolution of common cause

and community and the scalpel of growing up had inscribed deep scars

on youthful trunks and wounds healing with the release of a white sap

‘never give in’ or ‘the wise do not grieve the dead’ we find better things

leaving home was not for me but I was already euphoric

at 21 sitting on the seashore smoking hashish other horizons beckoned

the senses deranged and every grain of sand a world of fearful delights

and yet the desk the job the routine the salary the slavery the sojourns

Godward or better still Madras to Bangalore every nerve thrill strained

leaving home was not for me but I was already enervated

the ages passing as dragonflies arriving announcing rains and re-searching

the ways of the spirit through the organs of flesh or marriage and children

and the web of Indra in the threats and promises of Elohim’s mad disciples

only to find that truth is a pathless land and Im condemned to wandering

leaving home was not for me but I was already escoriated

the marching in time wearing the jackboots of ecclesia miltans the bishoprics

the rising of waters in the temple the wetting of ankles knees chest and neck

the bursting of the lungs liver and loins a lust for life paid out in 30 dirty coins

for fields where pharisees emptied their bowels and true friendship of sinners

leaving home was not for me but I was already excommunicated.

The painting of pictures in electronic patterns the standing at borderlands

without being still the whirling of dervishes or corruption of aching youths

the lovers the transgressions the night of the iguana the burning red house

or lightning flash from empty skies to asking hands naked feet naked eyes

leaving home was not for me but I was already enlightened.


by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Sunday, 22 July 2012 

I wouldn’t have strayed from safe ways O G-d

if I’d had enough religious sense in my head

and hadn’t fallen in with soul-thieves instead.


by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Friday, 20 July 2012 

 Now the Wildest West

simulacrum arrives

full circle, the Big O,

cartridge penetration.

The silver curtain larger

than life torn top to bottom,

the Lie is brought down 

in a hail of Sudden fire,

O reality, strange repose!

No one lives for ever

and the sure Saviour

clothed in celluloid

becomes Bane, black 

to break strong backs.

Here’s Bane’s vengeance

for all those Red Men

destroyed, driven to

drink and dice-throw,

branded, penned in

as long-horns; follows

then a Buffalo storm.

This, also for other nations

disembowelled, napalmed,

burnt by Agent Orange,

what goes around comes

around, turns the Circle.

Did you hear him whisper,

“Poision Gas for breath,

guns for a happy death,

live long, O long living

National Rifle Association

of Amerika, as you sow

so you reap as you sow,

didn’t the Bible Belt tell

you so? Apokolips now,

exterminate ’em all! Hell

desecrates New Genesis.”


by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Thursday, 19 July 2012 


fill them with exquisitely sculpted cartridges,

cold bullets packaged with mandrake ecstacy

drenched in rare hues human flesh can’t take

throbbing with hot electric purr and mystery

unicorn, cherry, mahogany, oak, tongue of bear,

beaver, squirrel, fairy, Goliath, steel-nubbed rod,

plastic, glass, ceramic, leather hold-on, strap-on

rabbits, touch switch, impulse pulse, stick shifts

set sail artificial seas of joy, lash, pleasure-waves

machine-craft me, companion of lonely pink beds

strawberry flavours, scent compare not to sweat,

silken flex of the natural wand, gland that wanes

or waxes in the softly palms of moon-ice maidens,

warm and wet and alive with fragrances that tell

tales inscribed within cells, not surface, no artifice.


by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Wednesday, 18 July 2012

look at the Past,

a trail of regrets;

look at the future,

the horses of fear.

the busy deep,

live now in it –

the white moment –


nothing exists yet

everything is new.

look at that past,

all sweet failure;

hope for a future,


wise men of the East

always understood

zen, advaita, tantra,

to be saved means

to live as present

to the Angel of

the Presence.


by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Wednesday, 18 July 2012 

the Almighty f^.^

what is it


a shout

i want you

i own you

i keep you

i don’t want 

to lose out

or lose you

so we cling

on to call it

making out


making love






till bodies

creak or




the almighty f^.^


by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Tuesday, 17 July 2012 


i’ve heard it mentioned,

different poets do it

in many-splendored

mix of mad metaphors

a woman is a perfumed garden

a woman is a bud who flowers

a woman is a boiling hot kettle

a woman is a faucet turned on

a woman is an anorexic model

a woman is a multiplex orgasm

a woman is wife mother whore

and having run out of

metaphors all i can say


a woman a whinnying mare

wanting awaiting mounting



by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Sunday, 15 July 2012 

There is a prisoner of G-d sitting in a wooden cage

counting out the bars of time

and once a day the angel Gabriel appears

to push under the locked gate to the garden

his daily bread, vinegar and Lamb shreds,

and he listens to the Luciferian’s mocking voice:

“Here you will remain unil you believe that only in prisons

can one come to the faith that one is wholly free,

be thankful, this then is G-d’s will concerning thee.”

There he sleeps crumpled up with the gnawing rats and gnats

for holy company, the walls are wet grey stones, the bars bleakest wood,

no peep-hole into morning light or moonlit skies,

only a pee-hole in the scaly floor and the passing pale pictures of history.

Those priests of G-d who embrace luxuries, how they

command, control, capture

the small sheep and intoxicate their souls with heaven,

maleficient, manipulating, misinterpreting,

crafting lies shaped as roses, crafting images that bind the meek.

He follows his desires and discovers the dangers of freedom

stronger winds than the flowery offerings of the pious

who with cosmos-rending shouts of victory beat drums

and bind and carry him to their G-d’s cemetery of misery;


here he gathers the wheat of wisdom, lights fires of mysteries.

Flesh and blood, iron and stone, prophecies and cursings,

G-d or angels, demons or humans, the little folk and fairies,

fish and chips, vegetables and fruits, milk of magnesia,

whippings, humiliation, captivity, excommunication;

nothing deter him who dwells within the quiet iniquity

of the City of G-d, nor crushes that different, alien spirit in him.


by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Saturday, 14 July 2012 

“Tie me to your central pillar,

O, dying house of Hindustan;

O patriarchies, O husbands,

O rapists, and O militarists,

O khaps, O panchayat lords,

O policemen, 0 pimp-priests,

I will not wander, anklets tie

me inside the cities, hamlets;

not for me, these new sights,

spring desire free, not for me!

I’ll be go-mummy,  sex salve,

cute Scripture-perfect valve;


I’ll take the fire-test like Sita,

wear chaste-belt for a Rama,

lock up a dream in my vagina.

It’s alright if my sweet sisters

are stripped on a black street

as I sail the malls bedazzled by

the Man’s money, Man’s mercy.

I am Victoria’s Secret, fuck me

weekly once, ah, honeymoony,

I’m sworn to preserving ritual

of religion, a communis feudal.

Lesbians, the dirty, nasty LGBT

kinks scare the shit out of me;

I ‘ll be shhH, selfish, bourgeoisie

with my rules, Sharia Rule One:

It’s wiser to be safer than sorry,

I will to see myself in eternity

as Men, and Men only,  sex me.”


by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Thursday, 12 July 2012 

tippity tap pitter pat

tipsy feet, little rat

out the hole

on the prowl

wrapped in grey

cape or cowl

zoom zwit carpet red

slip under baby’s bed

shoot out eye

gear up

tidbits spy

head up

run skedaddle go

up a teak table’s leg

leap up empty chair

shimmy up

recce done

gobble it

yummies grab withdraw

back on the chair

disappear in air

shuffle whiskers

nostrils quiver

cute rat clever

what’s for supper?


by Ampat Varghese Thursday, 12 July 2012

blind time spins a sworl

lazy eye of smoke in

an ashtray of grey skies


by Ampat Varghese Tuesday, 10 July 2012

clouds sunlight


hide or seek


little light birds


shy cheeks




across her lips

i remember

gold ring slid

cold round

a warm finger



later, your black

hair uncoiled


like a tide let fall


my lust


my love



by Ampat Varghese Tuesday, 10 July 2012


of The Christ

from the future.


of Henotheism

from the past.

you will go to

the Himalayas,

find a tomb.

I have left



you will freeze 

in samadhi.

i will warm sleep 

to be raised up.

when we meet at

the cross-roads,


I will bring bread

and wine,


and you,


and an




by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Sunday, 8 July 2012

an unholy, grey ghost is chasing you, riding majestic

on the back of a pig-bellied black buffalo with red eyes,

trampling his way through bleak  wet marshes, green paddy fields.

let go now each breath, O you, searching amidst the mist-forms,

laving in wanton exhalations of the great whore, ask her

to undress at twilight and lick every part of her body, perceive them wisely;

the pores hiding alphabets the nostrils flaring words

hot red tongue on your tongue neck strangled in hair

phrases and clauses flowering of breasts

nipples sharp punctuations comma the navel 

periods hooks

saliva of sentences and salt in honey

paragraphs stories tattooed on bum

thighs calves the grammar in ivory

twinkle ankle

skin as parchment a quill in the inkpot

beads of song left as sweat upon turgid breasts,

neck laced by skulls and heads throbbing drumming drumming

dhuk dhuk dhuk dhuk the in-out in-out hold breathe out-in out-in

chap chap chup chup chap chap sonogram pulsing hidden forbidden yes-no coition

here, pause … before the deserted cemetery or the smoking charnel grounds

are reached;  here, pause … arch your back and shout in triumph

leave her stomach neath, raise up, the blood-stained carnivore grin,

she sucked all of you in, you spent her, you spit songs into her skull for

unacknowledged listeners, hover as a spectre, go slowly, walk slowly,

the buffalo waits, hack it into twelve pieces with gleaming machete of love,

just as you Kali ploughed, just as you Kali ploughed, in and in and out ploughed

her scabbard of love,  leave her a-shiver, with such strokes this next beast to devour.


by Ampat Varghese Saturday, 7 July 2012

Go on! Write you

and you and you

on i, me and mine.

Go on! Radicalize

petty thoughts

as political views.

Go on! Wank wank


or under cover.

Go on! Defecate,

turn to manure,

words to roots.

Go on! Shriek scream

spill those voices,

Rise! Mandrake shoot.

Go on! Show, unbutton

or unzip and grow,

penis in rigor mortis.


by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Thursday, 5 July 2012 

Cannot write poetry

one must be torn in pieces by the lioness of life

Cannot write poetry

one must be happy and guilty at the same time

Cannot write poetry

one must be wracked by unbelief, walk on water

Cannot write poetry

one must be sick and warped, weeping by tombs

Cannot write poetry

one must accept hurt, lashings of love, the stripes

Cannot write poetry

one must worship God who shatters purple dreams

Cannot write poetry

one must have children and be fearful of the future

Cannot write poetry

one must let the senses rebel against soul, spirits

Cannot write poetry

one must watch and desire all yet lose everything

Cannot write poetry

one must stick to penning words without meaning

Cannot write poetry


by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Wednesday, 4 July 2012 

So, when there is never enough of G-d available to quaff as iced peach tea

there’s always hot S-x to chase after with all its devilish improbabilities

and when there is never enough of S-x available to quaff as dry white wine

there’s always another S-n to embrace with untold taboo impossibilities

and when there is not enough of S-n available to quaff as head in golden beers

there’s always the M-n to gamble with and his hindmost benefits obscure

and when there is not enough of M-n available to quaff as queer black cofeee

there’s always a G-n to spell blood and peace for udders fat with new milk 

and then returning

to the beginning 

the iced peach-tea of G-d 

the dry white wine of S-x

the head fizz beer of S-n

the queer coffee of M-n

the wet cheeks of the R–k to kiss

the wet cheeks of the R–k to kiss

the wet cheeks of the R–k to kiss



by Avy Varghese on Sunday, 1 July 2012

(inspired by Nitoo Das’ Aparajita)

Look, she oozes

without pain

for me

she does it


Look, desire is

blue or when

you can see


she is pink

Look, she widens

the gap

come nigh too

wrap me

wakening sky

Look, she suckles

on a pistil

that falls off


sleep shrunk

Look, she drinks

dew the milk

of tomorrow

future swollen


Look, she adrift

earths closes

darkened lips

a flesh-flaw

burning seals.

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