the girl in the yellow dress peels a green-skinned banana strokes a tongue its curved creamy
the mark of her teeth is surrounded by smudges of red every bite
the boy in the blue shirt watches her through a window-pane winds a purple wind sighing her
she feels its heat she turns looking for nostrils that flare with flame
the window mists over with breaths and hovers a brittle square that signals stone-cold
hands linger on either side fingers search irises disappear ghost-trails
behind her on the other side of the empty road that broken wall its top-edge grows broken
she crosses climbs the black sputters a yellow dress with a million roses
he watches his face peels off rubbing against the film cinders floating down disintegrating
she glances back a flash of curved creamy flesh stabs failing blue eyes
you think forest wor(l)ds hide true unicorns?
tongues of fire licking the map make an ice cream cone?
you refer to sacred wor(l)ds feathers of extinct fire-birds stones?
you can read “breasts” and touch no nipples
you can say “fuck me” and simply masturbate
you can say “kosmos” it’s what’s inside empty heads
you can say “love” ride the beast with scarlet haunches
you can watch TV (the sacred book in a box)
migrate to England-heaven or imagination-hell
suck on sub-titles review the films saved on DVDs
call all this “knowledge” but there is never the knowing
you can say “know” but everytime you say it
the sky laughs at you light in you turns to darkness
you can say “Jesus” but what do you mean anyway except
that you’re in love with a wor(l)d that refuses your vice-syllables
i know what i want to burn all sacred texts
piss on the embers that hiss seething sub-texts
extinguish the pictograms that light up holes in heads
i want to return to the primal groan where i put
my finger up wet cunt snatch pussy cooter clam-lips
blue waffle moan the sigh the grunt are what i understand
speak not to me with the dead wor(l)d “love” the lie that is lived
spell with your eye-rays the smell of skin another sulphurous sunrise
first reverberate sound not wor(l)ds though wor(l)ds wish
to be rightful owners of all things in the beginning no-wor(l)d
there was Ruach self pleasuring self wor(l)d without beginning
and Rudra spurting becoming two until the third
comes delight-speaking into the void the trick bringing
to pass wor(l)ds melting away wor(l)dless go gentle into the hush
THE WOUND OF ABBADON
can’t stanch this wound
this place where i was touched
the intoxicated drop into an abyss
down within where the finger probed
sharp as a pike on which my head lolls
the church bells toll
can’t stanch the err-flow
the blood that is black and vile
the breath that is blue and cold
the feeling that i will never know
sharp edge of glass across my wrist
the church bells toll
can’t stanch remembrance
the dismemberment from her body
growing up as wise red poppies
searching inside their wet mouths
sharp tongues that explode sanity
the church bells toll
can’t stanch this inky ennui
leave aside the black squid embrace
these suckerpads at my erect nipples
the beating inside of crippled wings
sharp claws that clutch roses of pain
the church bells toll
can’t stanch the petty love
the knowledge of having betrayed
G-d and women and little children
agony of the voices of ants the bite
sharp incessant raining of sad needles
the church bells toll
can’t stanch the dissipation
the weariness of dissolution
the imbecility of broken faith
the arrogance of the daily grind
the oozing incision of G-d’s betrayal
sharp thorns the marrow of Abbadon
the church bells toll
THE TERRIBLE TEN
every man each erect nubile man
in to inch urn to turn traverses
geographies of the Terrible Ten.
the face of the first one puberty
grabs a tongue hypnoembryotic
stun-eyed he covets jagged hips
as the morning raag she sings
the second one fearsome slut
the adept loving to suck dick
a third one washes twists folds
him up as vesture to Lingaraj
she yields the sweating flower
the fourth slices off her swollen
head feeds her thirsty children
of copulation blood or herojism
the fifth one comes ennui-shade
life in the dark breasts of crows
black howls that fly back to void
the sixth station is an invincible
the shakti between her thighs
splays the cave he came from
the seventh one blackest one
redeems time in timelessness
she did exist before the Light
floats on waters the eighth one
opens flower-lips to the sword
stabbed she radiates all-purity
in speech dance music and song
the ninth one intoxicates to kill
an outcast offers you her arse
at the tenth one’s three gates
supplicant desire-eagles knock
she has mercy on him who is ill
always burning her hunger fills
the universe on men it feeds
devours men the Terrible Ten.
her little foot bobbing in the water
rag-bone tease for shore-dogs
her slumber a morgue reminder
grey eyes hold coins for ravens
liquid-white toes are a shiny red
five signals waning in her head
how easily everything is prised
apart can never be put together
and though grieving angels hum
a dirge of union over innocence
broken notes still only summon
a hyena a vulture the piranhas
the handful of tears salted dust
cast into a sacred river’s bowels
PRAY THE STARS
flit from points of light
across points of lightness
leap over puddles
of black liquid
where bob tiny heads
to whom throw a self
as snake and rope
catch either to escape
with laughing wings
all can swim
red fishes of the sky
pass closed doors
see what lies
all there is can be
priest of zero
bars the way
night or day
sky water black white fish fly
tongues of fire
pray the Nova
pray the Nova
pray the Nova
the ink-stain seer-crow stares and keeps on staring knowing nothing
he fills the all the membrane that rises to blackness of sky odourless
colourless flightless bird the slow skiff a brightening balloon inflating
this hot air or gaseous symbol in the periodic table a pretense moon
one face lit up by another’s light the other hid speared by scar-night
rotates while down below a curved cat is hissing upon a broken wall
a cemetery heaped with the dry bones of an army of dead musicians
the seer-crow wakens with the burden breathless the small maggot-life
up there in the thinning air the turning sphere climbing its ladder of toil
the knot had not been tied well when the bloody slippery cord was cut
whatever is now in this sack of pus paper skin or envelope absurd form
it is leaking kisses and what is decelerating is also scattering like clouds
colourless odourless tasteless senseless the black-browed game is joined
as gestures of naming that which is not with words that might seem to be
being or becoming prayer or curse-bell that rings in an ruined church hall
the conch that resounds the alarm when the temples’ gold is eaten by rats
the anklet that shines as it sex-chimes when she lifts her leprous white legs
the idol shaped in the dumb imbecility of its maker hides its abandoned face
everything is davar the word and the thing the act since coital-beginning
circumcising self-erasing eroding eradicating what was is and is to come
the bag collapses wrinkled sack that holds hot balls that pumps the semen
that courses past the veins beside the tightening blood stiffening the stump
here comes ejaculation that does not desire an egg steam-seed that just spills
there goes a one-winged butterfly a three-legged rabbit the ink-blot seer-crow
SONGS IN THE FORESTS
the maid with wide innocent smile sweeps our dusty rooms
having cut grated marinated and placed to cook vegetables
on the stove rice boils while a hot pressure cooker whistles
somewhere a woman in a red skirt has awakened herself
enough to have cast off her panties and feel the breeze
swirl round her ankles and up her thighs a tiny hurricane
in the newspaper there is the silenced voice of a Goebbels
slumped in a car blood oozing from the gunshot wounds
in his belly he is nothing now except a bold dark headline
hooded tribals through forests run guns sleek with sweat
when they disappear under the leaves with green friends
the smoke of the murder machine cannot find their songs
it is the same songs the maids sing in their urban caverns
gated by their smiles while their children sleep nightmares
in forest fires and on kitchen stoves pressure cookers wail
FLOWERS OF FIRE
it lay in the flowers
seed sap space silk
the tearing of veils
the falling into dust
leave all vulnerable
to the stirring mud
a host of life-forms
lust curving limbs
fogging grey night
lust in blind tombs
full with the aroma
of woman’s mouth
her smile condenses
rungs of dna ladders
swaying the bridges
wet sedative kisses
in petals that open
close over the earth
the juices drip soft
fills songs silences
stand at thresholds
whispers of desires
from burning fires
make breaths gasp
invisible hands clap
GOING IN OR GOING OUT
the search if I may coyote-like connote it
travels time to the edge of the in-invisible
begins crawling toddler pacing a-prancing
running squares within circles slow wheeze
suckling filthy cigarettes or varanasi chilums
green or brown harsh smoke in saggy lungs
returning as poisonous red centipedal crawl
rolling those harmless black millipedal curls
surgically a stomach slits a next one comes
joins the search in peeling of a ripe orange
the uncovering of whore-pink dead secrets
spitting out seeds white or black bicameral
annotations pilgrimage going in going out
RAVISHING THE DOVE
now he seeks not her mouth
having oft tasted raw tongue
rough as a cat’s well-known
as her nose frozen at dawn
thawing raging and thirsty
he squirrels down her ribs
to a navel her secret oasis
sweet sweat in a pale bowl
dripping on soft tongue tip
into dark curls that whisper
“linger finger rouse browse”
eyes burning nostrils gorged
he falls into the gash-rivulet
the deep cave of his treasure
a pink pearl atop the parting
wanting the planting strokes
wild churning of swivel-love
cry of the vulture devouring
ragged cooing of a dying dove
SEAS OF ECSTASIES
she seeks not a kiss but
more just rests her head
on the white water-bed
face feels fabric-fragile
the rough riiipp of a zip
a long lash of a tongue
roll in hunger-tight hips
flute me moth-soft lips
a-flame on a fire-wick
raised the incense-stick
drowning in pink space
white flood in wet throat
adrift on the sinking seas
fresh scars wanton ecstasies
the real life that imitates reel lives
society women in social networks
huddle to gossip paring their nails
living boring hours as sweet wives
a bit of a flirt some rich bitches will
be but but all of a sudden switches
it off realizing that hot chats can be
saved and she hides the red itches
sagging bellies and worn out titties
lil tykes shooed away as itty bitties
under the table with skype lighting
up the moustaches of aging mums
looking for a loving that saves them
the touching the smelling the being
together in smaller spaces allowing
their secret worlds to toms peeping
chattering as decorative monkeys
across timelines midnight houris
friending small talk clique cuties
block us hoi polloi lovey doveys
of no significance giggle gigglies
the superficial ticklies talk talkies
the chastity belt-wearing hotties
virtual reality facebook junglees
My bleakest closet is an urban beach eight feet by eight feet
with windows to the west and south that let no breeze in
while the sonic waves of brass clanging bells cycles or sirens
from cars that stink of Auschwitz or sprout sharp horns of little
autorickshaw devils merging with a screech of playing children
O sweep over me the bliss of death over stranded blue whale
sheer helplessness this child new-born G-d its darkest desire
carrying in carnivorous bosom sky-ears closed to its breathing.
ANOTHER USELESS POEM
This is yet another useless poem
emptying itself into the hollows
of pierced ears that do not hear
spreading cyanide bitterness
on forked tongues that know not taste
swirling as spittle in cancer-mouths
that grimace and cannot speak kisses
the buzzing of bottle-green flies
in the corner of an Indian street
around a golden shit-mound
the seething spray of silvery piss
watering stubborn life in the sewers
the startling song from the cage
of a bird of paradise without eyes
the striking out of a drowning hand
in a sea hungry though it swallows all
the shore of quietude farther away
in the broken heart of this useless poem
What am I to say of G-d or love?
Who am I to speak of the unknown?
It leaves me uneasy.
I cannot accept the Rod
that gifts red welts, breaks my spine.
O my recalcitrant back and lack
I cannot accept your Staff
that makes me a burden too heavy.
The sunset is upon me.
I drop into a shimmering Well,
empty sheen the reflections cling.
Wavelets of wet lickings.
SOFTENING THE BLOWS
this homeward road is a lonesome one
with the devil for travelling companion
and no word of G-d to soften the blows
where the pearly manse is none knows
it’s only a secret hush whisper-spoken
now-then by some that’s been broken
if you will forget thorns close your eyes
let their pricks turn into phosgene stars
let the hard stones flow a watery course
in each dark soul lies the spark of truth
in each disaster the red roses of faith
in each dismay that fresh milk of hope
trudge on though joy be that distant sun
trudge on drink in the cold light of moon
trudge on you’ll know the nowhere soon
by ivory wings
still the Light
what is it
“I’ve cut out
a new beat,
Did it hurt?
it is done.”
and a Third;
There is a safe
place in that
even for daemons.
of it provokes
even the Saved.
There is a sickness
There is a sorrow
There is a faith
There is a vision
ends up blind.
There is the void
cannot swim in.
All that can be done:
upon the Tree be
the leaf ready to fall.
i burn the purple forests you wear as robes
inhabited by the fierce animals of your sculpting;
i mix the ashes of your clothing with dung
and fertilize the furrows with blue charred flesh;
i am the harbinger of change and decay gray,
flame-thrower in war and rushing water that kills;
i break the laughing teeth of your existence
to wear your bones round my neck as trophies;
i thrill having silenced your labour screams
with the anesthetic of political domestication;
i have smashed the wheels of your sky-chariot
with the slash and stab of metallic phallic missiles;
i have crushed your winds seasons sanctuary-home,
exchanged quiet delight for the uproar of discoveries;
i have twisted the natural into fearful supernatural
pierced all human tongues with lies none may understand;
why do you stand there thus naked and unashamed,
stripped of all dignity, unperturbed by these aching wounds?
what is it you grasp inside your frieze of abandonment,
what do you find in the crumbling rubble of your architecture?
i have always been curious to know where you are from,
what exactly you are beyond the form you take, Serpent-dove;
i too have the wolves of words and poems to tempt little children
but you bring them stories and burn their hearts with Mystery-vibration
and you still stand there, each sinew hanging lax yet burnished
by lashes, in your bloody-wash I drink my own beatitude of destruction.
she hesitates at no stone walls wooden fences or metallic spikes
she traverses in her invisible robe prisons farmlands households hives
she slips into vessels a virus slipping past heavy-lidded pores
she fills nostril-tunnels with grey gas shhh hiss stealth-clots arteries
she is the last gene working within to dissolve bones marrow muscles
she judges and spits at the brigades of pig-whores with bloated pink bellies
she laughs at and pulls down the billboards hoarder of capital the rat-shit
consumerists whose marble tables are laid with alien delicacies the final supper
this Archangel Night riding her proud buffalo don’t you recognize her
parting the moonlight in her wake cloaked in white hospital bed-sheets
the brown earth drains into hollows where her hooves have gouged out
eye-cups where the comforted bodies are laid blindly softly into mass graves
she is there in the melee of politics turning white and green to saffron
she enthrones junta-lords mafia-kings makes wet the cunts of activist-nuns
she unleashes the furies of argument and mongrels of ambition the ripening
fanatics maniacs jokers riddlers cannibals anarcho-mystics crimson tides of confusion
and when she has slept with all her narco-lovers in their maggot-bowers
she raises her sated hips licks her lips rises with the locusts and flees to the moon
rises up a poem
a lumpen in the throat
tinman in the chest
a pudding in the dust
a heater in the night
sweater on the sheets
pungent spice of sex
rises up a poem
the fart of indignation
a clitoris of hope
the rant of nationalism
ounce of feminism
saucerful of sour milk
rises up a poem
the ooze of loneliness
mouse of solitude
retiring of the phallus
a breaking of a circle
shrinking to a dot
empty chamber pot
rises up a poem
the sign-out of a sun
masking of a moon
twilight at high noon
the fallacies of hope
snake and rope
the noose of illusion
rises up a poem
supplications like stern arrows and flimsy petal clouds rising to the sky
replies like hailstone-fists or baby-soft dew falling onto the rooftops
in the temples of bodies broken on the spokes of time
by the serpents of chance on the road to Jerusalem
in the garden of torment midst the blushing charcoals
or redding crystal stones appears the Stranger
Why do YOU not understand my words?
What do I have to do with YOU?
Why are YOU searching for me?
Why are YOU trying to trap me?
Why do YOU entertain thoughts in your heart?
Why are YOU so afraid?
What do YOU want me to do for YOU?
Who is my mother and who are my brothers?
Do YOU see anything?
Why are YOU thinking these things?
Why all this commotion and wailing?
What are YOU arguing with them about?
How many loaves do YOU have?
Can YOU drink the cup I drink?
Why are YOU bothering her?
Could YOU not keep watch for one hour?
What did YOU go out into the desert to see?
Do YOU think I came to bring peace on earth?
Why are YOU sleeping?
Are YOU betraying the Son of Man with a kiss?
Why do YOU call me good?
Do YOU have anything here to eat?
If I am telling the truth, why don’t YOU believe me?
Woman, why are YOU crying?
Now my heart is troubled and what shall I say?
Do YOU truly love me more than these?
Was no one found to return and give praise to G-d?
Will YOU really lay down your life for me?
Who do people say I am?
And what about YOU? Who do YOU say I am?
the guards at the walls of the city drive him away with blows
on the hill of the skull they gamble his garments and guffaw
they shut his words up in a book and his bones inside a rock
yet still when one is walking unknown roads he arrives here
the Stranger who knows not what happened to himself
asking for news of his demise to light the friendly fires
who breathes upon dry bones and quells terrors of the flesh
the marred face who brings brokenness to bread fish wine
pouring out into hungry window-mouths, wetting parched tongues
licking life-wounds: “Do YOU understand what I’ve done for YOU?”
fear him and his questions!
fear him and his questions.
fear him and his questions?
it is night and a red cockroach
wakes and crawls in circles
looking for riches in wet cracks
skirting wash in the gutters
wading through puddles of spit
or curry leaves, edible bits
climbing the windowsills of black
merging silken skin with stark
queryings of thought-antennae
scraping its feet upon edges
suddenly lifting off on a breeze
to hit the wall with a flutter
of wings that weaken breaking
the stillness so the swift slap
crushes head and writhing body
a slipper sudden thunderclap.
the Big Fisherman has again trapped
me and siphoned me out the sea,
dragged me into the deep dark night.
i was laughing and gambolled wildly
swimming silver circles around it,
his boat with its catch of emptiness.
i opened my liquefied mouth to catch
his salty sweat and spit of cursing,
a big man hauling at his heavy ropes.
then he turned at a Voice and let fall
this blanket of death with its holes
too small for me to squeeze through.
now i am raised midst flashing bodies,
flailing as the breath catches fire,
cast upon cold coarse wooden boards.
it takes only minutes to know i’m dying
bringing to land my essence of fluids,
the sifting begins, my eye glazing over.
on the still shore my drying ears leave
behind old waves, hush, a new Voice:
“Bring some of the fish you just caught.”
153. A charcoal fire. Burning. The Bread.
Untorn net. “Come, have breakfast.”
Dare you ask anything? Know. Be eaten.
is this a divine text outside of my self?
is it wet painting on a drying sheet of glass?
is it the chalk i use to inscribe, my vomit?
is it dank useless finger prints, my shit?
is it moisture of my breath, my sweat?
is it trail of golden liquid thought, my piss?
when i turn eyes away from my self
does my retina remain with the sky-police?
are these my words or yours or someone’s else?
were they taught me or told me as holy vespers?
were they squeezed into my mouth as bitter milk?
were they squirted out my cock as pregnant cum?
is someone eyeing me from outside my self?
does that gaze pierce my pores to singe my heart?
is this skin an envelope stamped with preset destination?
are these feet programmed to walk the plank of destiny?
is this sack of excrement a portal to the diamond sutra?
is the ticking of the heart a bomb that will erase karma?
is it a dance you lead or a tango tangled inside my self?
is it my essence or image kissing each other two in one?
is it the recitation of the alphabet that gives birth to words?
is it the emptiness of memory that strings along sentences?
is it the jumbling of paragraphs that brings order to senses?
is it the numbness of daily tasks that turns each dawn to dusk?
is it that if you are out there somewhere, in here i am anywhere
as a tongue and saliva of language joining writing all ever-where?
PRELUDE TO EASTER
on good friday noon the kids were dancin’
hootin’ wavin’ red blue purple yellow rags
glad-flag festoons in that new age church
celebratin’ as i sat and mournin’ eerie face
glowin’ strong grain of the rock-orthodox
on holy saturday i descended into the tomb
angel wings folded over him, shroud-sheets
the memory of everyone else’s success came
upon the white expanse an unwelcome stain
and i lay there beside him the second failure
a cold bed it was that froze my arse, a colder
body beside me inscribed with iron whiplash
thorns and a spear in the side hidden inside
i turned on my side and spoke to blank eyes
awake o sleeper arise from the dead to shine
grey wind the scuttling of leaves or two rats
the sunlight a slice of golden butter a breeze
a pebble of sorrow stuck in two throats gasp
the overthrown tombs broken symbols light
the silence frightening the birds taking flight
grating of stone on stone bright a zero-blast
burning like a halo it’s morn the hero, she is
silhouetted against a numb dawn the known
the night was done, dishevelled sheets mists
the body is gone, his form forever torn, gone
two books upon the cosmos-shelf
two trees inside the garden-gates
the sphere a spin spines bit-tilting
diagonal dance-grasp balance-act
the red wood quakes, red leaves
quiver-flee wisdom is wuthering
the scars mathew mark luke john
the way of age, the all-wounding
thus ardent sharing, cover to cover
touch absent in world without end
no cup, no-thing, the wolf, the lion
no incense, myrhh or gold to bring
only the fluttering doves of pages
far cooing far always-abandoning
two books upon the cosmos-shelf
the one story-full, an other a-void
Evening. Dread sky. See.
Swirl-vultures. Peck them out.
Eyes two. Red twilights.
TIMES OF EMBRACE
embrace the rot
the pus the puke the piss
allow for all this
embrace the ore
thirtyfive fortyfive fiftyfive
let die and let live
embrace the sand
go bitter waters to seep
embrace the star
flickering hope in lightning
doves ever darkening
embrace the leper
AIDS rape cancer infirmity
bridges to infinity
embrace the lone
the mud-buried dry bone
remnant of mine me i
embrace the now
blue-grey pasts forgetting
embrace the not
you us all luminous nought
jest an arcane knot.
i am that shapeless cloud
sly thief-fly appearing
with the silver machete
castrate the blue moon
i am that blue-black cat
balanced on the wall
tail-flag teetering tall
refuse to take sides
i am that serpent-fear
under curtains creep
under beds half-sleep
slice off the ill-heads
i am that vestal dragon
sleeping one eye open
hatching coins golden
eclipse the immortal Sun
air-nude under a Tree of Life
grows moist early dawn-pollen
two eyes that as skies awaken
arrow-sight that names
atoms, plants, birds, beasts
sleep covers a deep fathomless
the rib-twig apart fails
four eyes where two are blind
soft receptacle for a hard pestle
first beings without navels
the serpent speaking in riddles
all this is as was meant to be
knowledge-light set free
life to death a short journey
from obscure wood to planetary
wisdom, our coccoon-sex,
a next birth, water made wine.
LADDER OF LOVE
some say all love lies
between the thighs
of women doubting
wet desire whetting
some are gone there
but six inches higher
where at dark navel
an opening receding
rise lotus butterflies
fraying a rope’s end
dreaming the ladder
trace the movement
a little touch further
heart mudra tricking
out love’s confusion
up up the eel-throat
soft from the kissing
love spittle mingling
breath in hot nostrils
blowing up forehead
a third-eye all-seeing
rising up flow-streams
pale and red or white
love soars from inside
thighs to pitiless skies.
having fully locked oneself in
with the golden Key of Failure
one is supremely free finally
to laugh at the hounds of success
to know their toothless destiny
is to be devoured, suffer the grave
no longer space for pride of life
or lusts of the flesh tempter-devils
everyone melts to maggot-things
consciousness fails crumbling strings
and fears that force them to forge
idol-gods of after-life, the Fool plays on.
WAYS AND DOORWAYS
what’s this? a string of white
where lay the blackest night?
what’s this? more than one?
how changed dark to light?
what’s this? new wrinkles tell
of spoilt soil the broken spell.
what’s this? sorry muscles sit
locked frozen as bridle or bit.
what’s this? my joints stiffen
to half-missionary position?
what’s this? us-wine weakens
to water in humiliation’s urns.
what’s this? sparkle-eyes dim
the fiery-speak slowly ashens.
what’s this? Pan-flute droops
afore ends divine dual-action.
what’s this? pleasure is there
she leaves in failing treasure?
what’s this? two headstones
etched souls tales unwritten.
what’s this? we smile quietly
and walk in ways unspoken.
what’s this? earth our odor
by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Tuesday, 12 February 2013
every blade of grass all bowing billowing
in an infinitely equal breeze-caressing
us shy lissome curling quivering whispering
the restless urges sprouting uprooting
unseeing what is the moment of plucking
leaping open hollows eyes out-pulling
the daily withering red veins leaden turning
inside the batter of routine deadening
awakening to fools-gold muezzins calling
startling unsought for alarm-clocking
the moments of everyday treadmill racing
white teeth the white bowl peeing
emptying bowels stomach growling feeding
despatching infants to folly-schooling
dishwashing filling up a bucket diminishing
the dripping of water-light in-seeping
working toiling hot sluts who come sniffing
out wealth from anus-nostrils widening
doing this that waiting silently salaries tossing
coins bare groceries necessities brimming
return to nesting flurried feathers fur-singeing
smilng at adolescents new fates a-walking
falling into bed for relief letting women rotating
on a stiffening axis light above dimming
consciousness to enervation the green flowing
river-oars breaking on banks of unknowing.
the more her covering
O greater uncovering
or her, thus wanting
the gaze of disrobing
eyes like quickly birds
hopping and hoping
hemmed in, darkling
a terrible chattering
heat under that black
dark furnace framing
tense orbs liquifying
the sweatly wet back
slowly thighs flowing
glow delta flowering
a hint a whiff a peep
mouth in rose-sleep
code to my nipples
no voices no sighs
between us ripples
“Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! for ye compass sea and land to make one proselyte, and when he is made, ye make him twofold more the child of hell than yourselves.” Matthew 23:15
o come all ye faithful anti-christs intelligent as Yama
and fatal-hooved as his shiny black steeds
of flammable breath, cold coffin-eyes, red-tongued
tramplers of the papyrii of the ancient Evangel
turning spirit-words into hate-ritual parrot-algebra
(a+b) (a+b) = winning the world for Christ
“a third of south korea is now christian, buddha fails
and we must do this to idolatrous bharat too”
raise the billows of proselytizers from the under-world,
swarms of rats, bandicoots, nether-reptiles say
a is g-d and b the moth-species condemned of yore
to embrace the + nazi-sign over seasons
no more dialogue, blow festering winds of monologue
that kill for terror of plurality, a demonic singularity
rises as ecclesia, binding laving eyes wool-fingers kiss-lips
painting winter-dark the wild colours of the Saviour.
a poem is but a pin i pull
count up to three
let explode a sphere full
an orange circumference
soft mothwings burn
grey shadows on a fence
swaying on a black swing
caught in a circle
her skirt lifts white wings
i can spy pink-tinged sky
hid in a wet eye
rising to a waiting ceiling
where the paint is peeling
a lizard tail-less
hangs still useless clinging
a poem is but a pin i pull
count up to three
bloody drops a silver sea
by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Thursday, 17 January 2013
Someone vaster, beyond my self, without
Someone inside, expanding my self, within
A Stone sinks silent macroverse microverse
Its ripples dance upon soft waves of laughter.
CONVERSING WITH JO
by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Monday, 14 January 2013
it’s about perceptions, not realities for only percepts
matter nobody cares about who or what one really is
so if you perceive me as a bloated pig that’s the truth
and even if i am a cow-chunk of milk-giving meat that
is braised, well-done, medium, rare, minced, barbecued
much to the unhappiness of Bajrang-apes and such dals
now, a cow can be said to be an oversized sow of sorts
depending on whether or not you see through your left eye
right nostril or Third Eye or as in the case of my science-bent
niece “science disagrees – whether people call you a pig
or not, you’d have the chromosome count of a cow”
science, ha, what befools science is how something, one
with the chromosome count of a cow can behave a pig;
the very essence of her being wants to violently disagree
with the idea, but it all depends on divine surreal converse
and how the cogs turn in what might be essence of being,
statements that make no sense whatsoever to ears cut off
by a pope’s sword, restored magically in the garden of agony
everything is hybrid, irreversible flow that despises meaning.
so it’s a beginning all over
I turn to kind EverMother
spanning earth-sky and sea
her wet womb opens for me
haul burdens back up-slope
umbilical cord slippery rope
I bathe in the fecund muddy
my blood red softly rusting
flowing, golden fluid ripply
sigh eerie breath escaping
wisely the warring tadpoles
all swimming into darkness
to find the yellow sun’s cry,
to ooze as milk from moons
I turn to kind EverMother
a beginning again all over