by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Monday, 24 June 2013

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


by Avy Varghese Aardvark  on Monday, 17 June 2013

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


by Avy Varghese Aardvark  on Saturday, 15 June 2013

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


by Avy Varghese Aardvark  on Thursday, 13 June 2013

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.


by Avy Varghese Aardvark  on Tuesday, 11 June 2013

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


by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Tuesday, 11 June 2013

because know

because aware

flit from points of light

across points of lightness

leap over puddles

of black liquid

where bob tiny heads

the drowning

to whom throw a self

as snake and rope

catch either to escape

because know

because awareness

amphibious insect

with laughing wings

razor-sharp fins

all can swim

red fishes of the sky

pass closed doors

see what lies

inside outside

because know

because awareless

all there is can be

priest of zero

bars the way

night or day

sky water black white fish fly

plain paltry


because know

because die

tongues of fire

pray the Nova

pray the Nova

pray the Nova


by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Friday, 7 June 2013

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


by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Thursday, 30 May 2013

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


by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Wednesday, 29 May 2013

it lay in the flowers


seed sap space silk


the tearing of veils


the falling into dust


pod-breaking must


leave all vulnerable


to the stirring mud


a host of life-forms


tangled entangled


lust curving limbs


fogging grey night


lust in blind tombs


full with the aroma


of woman’s mouth


her smile condenses


moist consciousness


rungs of dna ladders


swaying the bridges


pomegranate juices


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


by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Tuesday, 28 May 2013

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


by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Tuesday, 28 May 2013

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


by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Tuesday, 28 May 2013

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


by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Tuesday, 21 May 2013

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


by Avy Varghese Aardvark  on Wednesday, 15 May 2013

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.


by Avy Varghese Aardvark  on Monday, 6 May 2013

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

subterranean sweetness

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


by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Monday, 6 May 2013

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.


by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Friday, 3 May 2013

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 Avy Varghese Aardvark  on Tuesday, 30 April 2013

The Shechina
by ivory wings

still the Light
sight blinds


I inquire:
what is it
going on

in depths?
The Voice
of waters:

“I’ve cut out
the bestial

a new beat,

Did it hurt?
Forgive me,
it is done.”

Third morn,
two eyes
are awake,

and a Third;
dark womb
left behind.


by Avy Varghese Aardvark  on Sunday, 28 April 2013

There is a safe
place in that
even for daemons.

The unfairness
of it provokes

to jealousy
even the Saved.


There is a sickness
the Physician
cannot conquer.

There is a sorrow
the Comforter
cannot soothe.

There is a faith
the Believer
cannot endure.

There is a vision
the Seer
ends up blind.

There is the void
the Being
cannot swim in.

All that can be done:
upon the Tree be
the leaf ready to fall.


by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Thursday, 25 April 2013

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.


by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Thursday, 25 April 2013

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


by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Tuesday, 23 April

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
rosy self-flagellation

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


by Avy Varghese Aardvark 14 April 2013 

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?


by Avy Varghese Aardvark 11 April 2013 

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.


by Avy Varghese Aardvark 10 April 2013

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.


by Avy Varghese Aardvark  6 April 2013 

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?


by Avy Varghese Aardvark 30 March 2013 

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


by Avy Varghese Aardvark  27 March 2013 

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


by Avy Varghese Aardvark 23 March 2013 

Evening. Dread sky. See.

Swirl-vultures. Peck them out.

Eyes two. Red twilights.


by Avy Varghese Aardvark  21 March 2013 

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

below slumber-end

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

tomorrow negating

embrace the not

you us all luminous nought

jest an arcane knot.


by Avy Varghese Aardvark 11 March 2013 

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



by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Friday, 8 March 2013
in the beginning a mote of dust

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.


by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Thursday, 21 February 2013 

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

gender gush-waters

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

slowsome reddening

love spittle mingling 

breath in hot nostrils

blowing up forehead

a third-eye all-seeing

hush-buds collapsing

rising up flow-streams

pale and red or white

love soars from inside

thighs to pitiless skies.


by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Friday, 22 February 2013 

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.


by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Thursday, 21 February 2013 

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

bodiless frankincense-stars.


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.


by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Tuesday, 5 February 2013

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

navel broadcasting

code to my nipples

no voices no sighs

between us ripples


by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Monday, 4 February 2013 

“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.


by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Thursday, 31 January 2013 

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.


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”

(and teats)

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.


by Avy Varghese Aardvark on Friday, 11 January 2013 

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

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