by Avy Varghese on Saturday, 31 December 2011 

I tell myself this is how it ends,

the year, in exploding sounds.

Why this dying of many suns,

flaring out in empty unison?

Whence this uproarious vanity?

Whence tomorrow’s certainty?

 Why the hate and bitterness

wrapped in festive colours? 

What you run to is bleak fear

that besets all tomorrows.

Here, in this golden goblet is

but a ripple, passing away,

and beasts and humans meet

at crossroads, in valleys,

look out, above grimy concrete

fly twelve dark-winged ravens

destruction sure in angel-eyes

over all that has been, will be.

Feast, I cry to dancing hordes!

Frolic, till teardrops turn dry!

Our peace will come if emptied

each one embraces an enemy!


By Avy Varghese · Thursday, 29 December 2011

we begin

living lips

as above

so below

time in us

hold us in


out of sight

out of mind

awash rain

ascend dip

dusk musk

dry autumn

leaves turn

over shuffle

as above

so below

living lips

we begin


by Avy Varghese on Wednesday, 28 December 2011

talk of bad religion

or good literature,

what’s there to say?

both lay conditions

that constrain,

to set at liberty?

somewhere a letter

is released fast,

unknown arrow-head

multiplication, division

addition, subtraction

clarity, also confusion

sounds grunts groans

the first words,

and disjunct sentence

line upon line, precept

upon precept till

the verdict is passed

and in between caress

the flesh, mutilate

the mind, dance crippled

let flow be staggered

or rush and fall,

a comma, semi-colon

sometimes exclamation

after the questioning

to breaking the hymen


life is full of interjections

wet or dry junctions,

and then she passes on

as paragraphs or titles

or small footnotes

until it crawls, full stop


posthumous fame

or forgotten by

everyone, forever.


By Avy Varghese · Tuesday, 27 December 2011

find words of fire 

and fevered lava


poured into pores

oil-wells of bodies

this is the only way

eyes can enter into

caverns, or fingers

can pierce the pink

past the doorway

of future peoples

and an everroiling

game, procreation

a bindu beginning

to splash galaxies

and then is spittle

or final lights out!


by Avy Varghese on Monday, 26 December 2011

inside the manger i can find

love and g-d, except that

when i’m outside the lowing

love seems to me black silk

the sky like skin, or isn’t it

the dark skin like sky-night?

each star could now be one

leading back to mangers

where dogs lie or cattle die

denied hay and wise men say

the twinkling of lights is day

but i know it’s only shiva-play!

across that black skin of sky

a thousand eyes laughing

ring in the death of christmas

clouds caress a void-expanse

fists unclasp, forget to grasp

the angel song that rang once!

now echoing in out of mud-rain

the flowering of life’s refrains

we catch and keep within ears 

never let it out as sleep or rise

of sun ascend descend ladders

as snakes try to teach G-d love.


by Avy Varghese on Sunday, 25 December 2011 

when i am sated with Christmas days

the cookies are devoured so too cake

the carols sung and the ribbons hung

and rice and flesh and fruit and salad

have filled the mouth with rare tastes

all starred, and searing eager palates

it’s then that i want you in a red skirt

an inviting fiery skirt up to your knees

i wait as you to cross your legs thighs

and like wine, your brown form flows

long lines and curves that you know

i stare to look up the letter V a book

i long to read and love in black eyes.


by Avy Varghese on Saturday, 24 December 2011

Zoe is not just the body, she is much more

a chant over the darkness before the making of Man

intelligence pregnant with forms that are not fixed or cannot be

Her content is fleeting but her progeny many

Her utterances deceptive as only oracles can be

Her forms manifest only to dissolve like many smiling Buddhas

None can trace her chemicals or minerals

gaseous or confusing is everything that heralds her

Zoe resists categories, hides futures behind double doors

You touch her teats swollen and hard-pointed

the essence lies not in milk, in right paths or left-hand ways

The invisible remains invisible within the visible, the arousal of the day


She seethes intelligence in pores unkissed

not to be perceived and yet pheromone-spread

like thighs wide open willing for embedding participation within

And whenever generous she is a giving forgiving mother

Zoe is also a taking talking whore who brings war and peace

for in her fetuses of gods are forged, human heroes tomorrow.


by Avy Varghese on Thursday, 22 December 2011 

it’s that now moment

awareness wariness

whole that has been

waits ever not to be

it’s the peeping tom

that keyhole stalker

that moment caught

that bliss it brought

it’s a living metaphor

exit a past or future

or the usual familiar

snapshot disappear

to catch a tiger’s tail

or hide behind a veil

to slide with a snail

let go, sad or stale

my being should win?

or it’s new beginning?

is it about becoming?

or just still-standing?

it’s that now moment

awareness wariness

no whole that’s to be

or wait ever not to be


by Avy Varghese on Tuesday, 20 December 2011 

strange are the ways of G-d

when i look into the still waters

i’m a white-mantled shimmering sheep

when i turn to the green pastures

the other sheep smell a bad creature

they think i’m a goat, smutty pig or donkey

the fat-butted ones butt me nosily

i’m a in-yellow-eyes demonic reflection

they fear i’ll skin them and sell the mutton

maybe they hate me for i have learnt

happily to bleat and to dance and to sing

of which jealous sheep know little or nothing

there are no wire fences around me 

iron fetters that bind or clouds to blister my sky

i fear no creeping Shadow of death in the valley

my Shepherd taught me to wander free 

across hills, gardens, seas, underwater cities

we whirl and we twirl and we tango like tumbleweed

till fast falls the eventide darkness deepens

and Shepherd and i retire on sore feet to the inn

where await us cattle, Ma Mary, the next Cycle begins


By Avy Varghese · Tuesday, 20 December 2011

light comes in

bars or not


breath Goes out

my butterfly

of what’s been

and is without


ten digits red



a leaf, a sprig

a flash of rain


 scent of mud

cloudy brain

mix, my breath

with what may


captive brevity

melts my day

in through bars

flow the light


 out from eyes

all ways bright.


BAvy Varghese · Sunday, 18 December 2011

they can shit on us

they can piss on us

but they don’t want us

to piss on them

to shit on them




















all want to


the wired




we say




by Avy Varghese on Sunday, 18 December 2011


my heart is broken

there is none to help

I will lay me down

on a bed of stone

let the wild rivers overflow


the Sun has scorched me

I am but burnt husk

I dis-appear

inside smoke

let the grinning ashes blow


hungry animals have torn 

I am left bleeding smiles

to retreat quietly

into hollow mud

Mother Earth enfolds me


I’ve loved without surcease

I am thin, a disease

I thirst enough

my love fallow

yet let mortal despair cease.


life has been cruel to me

let G-d be unseen

learn to squeeze

the heavenly juice

from the wayward mulberry.


By Avy Varghese · Saturday, 17 December 2011

The art of forgetting

is easy to practice

let the scales fall off

your eyes as snow

the Elephant’s quiet

be on your brow

the Cuckoo’s egg be

laid in another nest

the burden cast upon

the Saviour’s breast.


by Avy Varghese on Thursday, 15 December 2011

I knew the Squirrel

before she found

her three stripes.

Happy she was 

then, before

being sacralized.

I knew Hanuman

before Vanara

were enslaved.

I knew Ravana,

10 heads are 

better than One.

I knew Ekalavya

before Drona

castrated him.

I knew Karna

before blue

betrayed him.

I knew Achilles

before anger

made him fall.

I knew Jesus

before they

made him God.

I knew Siddhartha

when he was 

simply humane.

I knew Ramana

before ants

swallowed him.

I knew the Sun

before a moon

learned tricks.

That movement

from primal to

civilized – death.



by Avy Varghese on Wednesday, 14 December 2011 

Now, I see, that to look back

is seeing ahead, and things

that have passed by are too

things that must pass us by.

Looking backwards or forwards 

are modes that seek confusion;

for then it is about action, done,

or what must still be or undone.

Flit between forgiving, forgetting

passion under sheets, begetting,

children’s smiles and tears, fears

of hearts that might stop beating.

This world arose, petals dropping,

caught upon thorns hid, sleeping;


Sky lightening in frames of grass,

future and past reflected in glass

Life is a sine wave arising, falling,

mathematics is wild geese flying.



by Avy Varghese on Tuesday, 13 December 2011

I awake and ask this Sorrow

sitting in me burning hotly,

“O what shall be done to Thee?”

A Wind opens the kitchen door;

I throw Sorrow off pure as

white-crystal salt o’er a shoulder.

She returns, a death-black Raven

to peck out my eye-lights,

and sings to me with funeral caws.

A Wind opens a carved Ark-window,

out she flies to feed on corpses,

people live the rot-disease I know.

I think I’ve got rid of her for once, 

sail on, but my driftwood ship hits

bleak rock, here I teeter slovenly.

I send out doves, they flutter sad,

feathers dampened by the cold

red waters of seas of disillusion.

A Wind sweeps my Ark, rise high

the waters, and Sorrow follows

her dank wings flapping brokenly.

Here in the blue-robed Sky I surface

to breathe the Wind, wheeling free,

compassion rains down so endlessly.


By Avy Varghese · Saturday, 10 December 2011




the size

of a











solar system







I am.


By Avy Varghese · Saturday, 10 December 2011

God may not

love me

nor does






by Avy Varghese on Saturday, 10 December 2011

I’m dreaming of a Black Christmas

cold, penniless, exploited, half-dead

in the swoon of an atomic winter

The angels are thrumming Death Metal

dancing on the heads of the pins

to wrack our tender-meat voodoo souls

The sheep are braying like asses in the night as

the shepherds tell lies from a Book fired

by anguished people left with mushroom dreams 

In the corners of a world pillaged by white armies

children are being born in sewers for mangers

and crucified by napalm and cluster bombs at dawn

Yet the chiming malls will fill well with good things of cheer

fat Santas pirouette and shake their prosperous rears

and you and I outcast in the smog can gaze but never grasp

And at the centre of the Holy Table sits a Black Christmas cake

crowned with the poisonous raisins and cherries of life’s carols

where the gifts of sorrows, suffering and pain are the Wise Magi

I am one with the endless sighs and spittle of the weary reindeer

back-broken beaten almost to death under the burden of carrying

gifts for all and sundry whilst having none nothing for themselves

Yes, I’m dreaming of the Black Christmas with those babies that never

wanted to be born but were forced outside their mother’s wombs

condemned to be bloodied and torn by the wolves of the Black Forest.


by Avy Varghese on Saturday, 10 December 2011 

What is it?


Breathe in

Out- breathing

Breathe out

Smooth as satin

road so silken

hurried in passion

released at loins

Ragged in storms

thick as a carpet

waving as fronds

in the sleeping night

Puffed into the nostrils

churned in the lungs

twanged on the tongue

a kiss within the hiss

Smacked through lips

poised at the navel

rise-fall the stomach

burning within breasts

Draw in slow, expel fast

hold it still in hour-glass

Lord-Jesus-Christ, O have

mercy, breath is bondage

to the world entirely Devil.


by Avy Varghese on Friday, 9 December 2011 

know it’s time to sleep now

after the soap, wash it up,

and under blue-red blanket

my thoughts awaken, peep

from the darkest crevasses

of the love-mind, the rind

of bitter love-feasts peels,

curling into familiar forms

smoke-like rise smell of sex

your own or hers, it’s morn

or even or twilight, the husk

is beaten away, flower torn

passion without attachment

is a great strength it saves

from deep hurt, love-spent

nirvana’s found closed eyes

“we are the fucking saints

of today, we shall live on

tomorrow, through waters

and flames, on on on on”

“God is a feeling you get it

makes your eyes so damp

in the moonlight and trees”

until all is hidden, eclipsed

dreaming of naked selves

and snakes, nights pass 

as brush patterns, small

gnawings, love-yearning

relief, enter the showers,

the waters wet, my body

jerks, the cold aloneness

is true cleansing, love-lie

the man with the sun-eye,

sun in his chest, his hair,

his shine, his mother-love

sacrificed, sold, cindered

finally, here a warm breath

mingles with another’s lips


love tips










by Avy Varghese on Friday, 9 December 2011 

when the Minister of Misery comes

cloaked in robes of gold and roses

carrying implements, rack and pain

the hooks will be snapped into place,

the back that’s strong will be broken

and so the arms that did lift weights

hang helpless as your body is raised

when the Minister of Misery arrives

on the Midnight Express teeth white

in the red light of flesh that’s eaten

by carrion, the skeleton will swing

high, a cool breeze embalm a sigh

or the shell of a Spirit, shattered

soul-ashes fill a Ganga, scattered

when the Minister of Misery comes.


By Avy Varghese · Thursday, 8 December 2011

know not your purpose

seal not your fate

open a door to the sky.

pick not the red cherries

eat not blue berries

drink juice of ambiguity.

chase not the bumble bee

spill not her honey

let desires extrapolate be.

flee not harsh battlefields

fox not the generals

stay home to tend flowers.

speak not of humiliation

seek not redressal

be who you are or will be.


by Avy Varghese on Wednesday, 7 December 2011 

I was naked 


exploring a mall

newly-built, tall


people bought

people sold

no-one bothered


except at a table

where I sat still

a soft woman laid

her legs in my lap

under the sheets

had to leave it

the pleasure

and walk on

all was well

for everyone

dressed chic

with cameras

in putty hands

and money 

in dirty fists


just climbed 

many levels

or went down

and out with

suited people

did they mind?

some did, but

i wonder why.


by Avy Varghese on Tuesday, 6 December 2011

Only when you’re crushed

do you taste the tears

of the others in the dust.

Only when eyes are burnt

by the rainbow, you see

deserted woman or baby.

Twice now, in quick success

I’ve touched with breath

the sorrow in those breasts.

Twice now, I’ve hesitated to

go down, extend my hand

to one bowed, two excluded.

Not that there is anything in 

my broken hands to give,

but just, perhaps, the touch?

Who knows, so I’ve thought,

but those ones you wish to

help will turn, snarl and rend?


It’s better to watch or weep

in the crevices of my brain,

and quietly go my way again.

Only when you’re crushed

do you taste the tears

of the others in the dust.



by Avy Varghese on Sunday, 4 December 2011 

What do you fear, dog-mouthed mere men

looking for the drug-rush of the eternal?

Throw away, surrender the shackles of seeking,

dispense with the bleak underbelly of doubting.

Do you find you cannot kneel in obeisance, pray?

Do you have the expenses of many sins to defray?

Are your sluggish ways as deadly soft as the jellyfish?

Are your roars of pain like honey-drops in a petri-dish?

Do you worry? Do not. One of the holy four creatures are we

with Human face and all that we will be is written

in the stripes, the wounds, the searing, the plaintive nails,

metal burns away the blue weariness of the desert-flesh,

wine washes the floors, the red ritual in the Temple of Loss.

Learn to be flayed alive and still rise, the Mount ascend,

converse with spirits evil and good, let G-d descend.

Is there One in whom all is contained and none are ever lost,

star-spit, water-will, flower-light, minerals, stones, angelic hosts,

satyrs, unicorns, leprechauns, worms, wandering djinns, orcs

and the homeless drunk lost in sores weeping rocking self to sleep?

Container and contained are one sheet of lightning lightening all,

that which plummets must plunge incandescent fearsome fireball

firing as fuel this Planet not yet the expected House of Prayer,

destruction is the disguise tomorrow’s horned species wears as robes.








by Avy Varghese on Friday, 2 December 2011 

It’s going to be tougher for You

to raise this one from the dead,

I’ve been in this cave 13 years,

my stench has turned to stone.

It’s going to be tougher for You

to raise this one from the dead,

here are no women who weep

for me, best to leave me alone.

You may wake beside my bones,

there’s none to roll it along and,

anyway, you have Peter or John

clinging to you, I do not belong.

So whose voice rends the grave?

Whose prayers free wrappings?

You’ve done your will, now just

leave me alone in peace to rust.

Hello, is that you Lazarus, sitting

stiff beside me and a-wondering

why I’m not blessed like you? I

putrefy, unworthy of a-raising.


By Avy Varghese · Friday, 25 November 2011

Are you full yet,

maw of God?

Pleased to crush,

a man of God?

Toss a butterfly

into the flame?

Memories erased

of the Name?

A lion broken by

jaw of ass?

The flower-token

turned to grass?

The wine returns

as water clear

muddied by One

yet held dear?

Are you full now,

maw of God?

Pleased to crush,

a man of God?


by Avy Varghese on Thursday, 24 November 2011


Dear Lord Jesus,

re-member now

this foolish devil,

i love you … still.




Dear Lord Jesus,

“You know all”,

more so that

this slow devil’s

nature is to love,

but not obey.


Dear Lord Jesus,

you well know

this devil’s flaws

are oily claws

on insipid water,

don’t toss a match

on this fissile mix,

rather, let wine flow.


Dear Lord Jesus,

in India where

this devil and

others like him

play laugh love

cheat or bleat,

a Bishop Heber

stamped us vile,

pray, let us live.


Dear Lord Jesus,

tell a devil why

sin isn’t avidya;

what you reap

is what’s sown,

soul of karma;

save me from



Dear Lord Jesus,

re-member how

this devil drowns

in gospels barked

on streets, dogs

of dogma hunt me

down, babel-bulls

beset me around

an altar i’m upon,

tied to gold horns,

re-member there

a love-devil…still.


by Avy Varghese on Thursday, 17 November 2011

How colonial butts taste so good

to Sri Lankans, some Indians!

Because, they shit dollars-euros?

Or paper tastes Mcdonaldian?

Will the Native always be so naive?

Try his black-brown skin to save?

Is this all in the Name of the Lord

who never feared the Grave?

Was it Him told off the fox Herod

and silently mocked Pilate?

Neither King nor colonial Guvnor

nor High Priest could stand

up to the gaze of His Third Eye,

pyring their thought-sand!

He still prays for Native slaves

who suckle on white teats,

or wag tight bums, tits and hips,

wave hands to rock beats;

they call it Praise and Worship,

fallen for the trick-Beast?


All that’s West are Pretensions,

sunless Almighty-visions 

spat out of setting colonial moons

contaminate East-Nations.


by Avy Varghese on Wednesday, 16 November 2011

The sad spinster was pretty,

white as the grave,

said she was Christian, took

more than she gave,

smiled like a Dobermann,

circled like a Pom,

easily angry, upset, silly,

barked up a storm.

I saw her black on white,

the empty parrot-life

textbooks had taught her,

she cannot be wife

or lover; a harsh repression,

rejection, lost hopes

of completion swing a body

on gallows, hang-ropes.

Where knowledge is limited,

or constrained or dead

end, lives the sad spinster,

with shaven, bald head,

clothed in grey, fading attire,

false words left unsaid.


By Avy Varghese · Tuesday, 15 November 2011

tiny woman, old and crumpled

under a dark lamp-post,

twinkles in the night.

a ten-rupee note, to defy

the onslaught of Yama,

flames her happy grin.

walk on and then look back

to see if she’ll be run over,

better put out her light?


by Avy Varghese on Saturday, 12 November 2011

The woods were lovely, dark and deep

and men did come and men did go,

whose live streams these are I think I know.

Into the valley of death rode 600 or more

but I go on forever where houses rose 

as stately domes decreed in the villages; though

the mule I am doth think it very queer

that everything flows between or over

rocks and pastures green or muddy shore;

so miles to go before I sleep and you too

press me suddenly strangely to your heart

where it tick-tocks without fear a widening gyre.


By Avy Varghese · Friday, 4 November 2011

G-d made me small

5 feet 5 inches tall

so I might grasp all.

God made my eye big

reaching out, in-sight

says to capture it all.


by Avy Varghese on Friday, 4 November 2011

The final despair

is to “know” God.

He does not answer

prayer nor petition

except to prove

a Supreme Will.

Then, to let all see,

there’s no will free.

All human happiness

returns a wilderness.


He has thus decreed

Man cannot succeed.

Why then still a hope?

Why then this prayer?

Perhaps, just perhaps

there is a God of Love

outside of this tyranny

or prison forged above?

Somewhere, somewhere

for someone, anyone,

perhaps, the God of love!


by Avy Varghese on Thursday, 3 November 2011

So curious that the one

you thought is a friend

transforms into a fiend.

A cliche stab in the side,

the mugging in the dark

alleys of the backbiters.

So easily some speak out

Christ’s love, yet leave

a vampire-bite in the neck. 

They want everyone quiet

and meek or mild for their

White death to penetrate.

Here, in India’s multifoliate

colors, the pale skin turns

a thousand unhappy hues.

That mind is fixed or static

like an ECG wave that trills

an end to a sick civilisation. Amen.


By Avy Varghese · Wednesday, 2 November 2011

I know Him who I love-long for

as a bejewelled child-bride.

Yet, He rejects me for others,

my breasts cannot satisfy.

He left me in my silliness and still

is the dark room where I sit.

My kohl-rimmed, red cuckoo eyes

are droplets, cold black gems.


By Avy Varghese · Tuesday, 1 November 2011

surprise the cats

shock the rats

seduce them blind

make it strange

amaze the sky

miracle the touch

razor-edge a feeling

rape the apes

piss in the ocean

penetrate it now

disappoint men too

awe-pair a drink

stifle the rainbow

coy the slippy hip

astounding births

port-end rebirths

disrupt the flow

destroy the nations

peace is a sword





by Avy Varghese on Tuesday, 1 November 2011 

Do you understand the Lord of Death

when he comes by on a black buffalo?

Have you lifted your hands in welcome

to him and felt his warm breath cover

you rustling through darkening locks

of hair? He will lift you up and let you

sit behind him on his plodding steed

of three score years and ten. You go

outside the city, enthroned on a beast

and carried away to the hills. Lift up

your eyes, from there comes my help.

In the liquid rising sun I meet Him who

holds the keys of death and life. Buffalo

becomes a White Horse and that Lord

of the Sepulchre becomes Lord of Life.


by Avy Varghese on Monday, 31 October 2011

I’ve a wound in my side where

either God or Devil pierced me;

I don’t know which, or whose

sword it was sliced me in two;

experience the Lance, a dance

forged in fire to damn or salve;

I bleed sweat as pus and blood,

a burn and pain that is a flood;

when it’s all poured out, I wrap 

a wound in a plaster of silence;

morning and evening and again

at dawn or dusk, twilight pains;

the lesion does not close itself,

two figures laugh, mocking me;

in the gold-adorned point of Time

I embrace halo-suffering for free;

what God or Devil can slay any

one, even fool me, who quietly

decides never to scream aloud

while the Body is on the rack?

O my traducers, you won’t hear

it cry, complain, curse or swear;

I breathe in the ice-mist of Yoga

to disappear in the red moments;

I’ll appear again, I’m the smile

that dies on the face of Jesus.


by Avy Varghese on Saturday, 29 October 2011 

i allow you to steal this poem any alphabet any word any line any

image any thing even jot or tittle you can even use my pen-name

sinuated taping pagans uninitiated anapaest id uniting uniting id

i want you to be happy steal this poem it may get to erehwon yet

when you steal know what it means to let go of possessiveness

just be possessed by desires that are turgid pregnant leviathans

or open maws, every artist is always a thief but some try, look

airy spunk pariah yank us aria spay hunk more right than others,

fucking new Pharisees a cut above the rest in Vodafone panties,

Booker delights, sinners flashing geyser flames without heatheads,

green something pooped out a dying cow’s arse-eye, tin-medals

on hollow chests, a podium hides sagging, milkless teats behind

naiads ban bias and an a bad an sin  “We need protection, each

word our own, each distortion special unique smelly fart no one

to emulate simulate or dissimulate aid snoot aids onto iota dons”

“Verily, verily I say to you, take, eat, steal this poem, body, blood,

broken for you, you have sunk your fangs into the open jugulars

by night and fled into your caves and cliques, sly nights of fame,

mammals that exit into shadowy webs, give of slick loose faeces

to those who Dalit-like come roam unsay rummaging for crumbits

to eat.” Nay amours broken yellow beak of life,singing myna sour.


by Avy Varghese on Friday, 28 October 2011 

a lot of gas in the air

in and around a word

that’s never been 


it’s a word they bandy

about in season or

out of season, lawdy!


i prefer it as bawdy

or incorrigible, not

if you find it never

let it be spoken of


everyone is a thief

they grab it by tit

or buttock or kiss


careful or they will

find you for finding

her and simply kill


the bastards

who hunt it

to defile it



by Avy Varghese on Saturday, 22 October 2011 

(collaborative work with Anoosha Gopinath)

Awakening, the lips opening almost,

red spread on the dread of morning.

A little push, awakening, the tender

traces of withering fingertip, centre.

A provocation, anticipation, a rising,

an opening of the eyes, a pink flush

in chocolate meadows, then tasting.

Breath, gentle or warming to scent,

falling whispers on petals, coronet.

Shuddering of dawn, windows slam,

a Serpent’s Eye, the crying, hissing.

A tongue lays back the hood, torching,

arresting, pulling back, poised attack.

God, lead us through green forests,

ambush, foil all who lay nets for us.


by Avy Varghese on Saturday, 22 October 2011

(collaborative poem with Anoosha Gopinath)

The trembling mind is a wind-caress

the ready body accepts as gift,

where do our thought-wrinkles lead?

Is anything endless? Does it stop?

Or is it only an explosive shoal of fish

nervously nibbling at secret ports?

Little golden fishes like fingers dipped

in choicest butter lick and let their

mouths be filled with melting pillars.

Are they pliable waters entering cavities

flooding with fulfilment of being alive,

these corners of our cruciform chambers?

Pressed down inside, spilling over the rim,

I will dance for you, making you cry,

as my soul touches yours over the brim.

A velvet darkness joins the hardness

of stomachs joined to one another 

at the navels where pink lotuses bloom.

This is the arch, this is where we watch

with numbed minds in eagle-existence,

as thick as skeins of existence or blood.

st sebastian 1

st sebastian 2


by Avy Varghese on Friday, 21 October 2011

‘The idols of the heathen are silver and gold’.

But the idols of Christians are more manifold.

They worship a Book, use a proud whiplash,

“The paper is white, but that text is black.”

To curse other books that propagate ‘doubt’,

they cry “heresy” or flee to mental hideouts.

They use it to explain mathematics or science

and when it falls short, they blame the design.

This Book they worship was never meant to be

the Prison of Thought they’ve made it to mean.

When they’re done reading it at dawn or dusk

they bow down to riches, cars or wanderlusts.

Christian idols are never made of gold or silver.

the forms are masked by dollars, euros, power.

The Book is just a story, many stories to ponder

about the poison of scattering, or how to gather

in One all that’s broken, forge the New Creation,

the New Heavens, New Earth, and no more Sea.

This does not come together unless those pages

flutter as dove wings, brood over darkest matter.

Then in that Light that gently effuses, He who is

No Form nor Comeliness, the Next Purusha, rises.


by Avy Varghese on Tuesday, 18 October 2011 

“All existence is contaminated, myself most of all. Great is my distress, unlimited.”

“Baa Baa Black sheep, Jesus helps fools”

“No one knows it but God in heaven and he will not comfort me.”

“You must be born again. Have you accepted Christ as Saviour?”

“No one but God in heaven can console me and he will not take pity on me.”

“And Judas went and hanged himself. Watch what you say.”

“I shall work on coming into a far more intimate relation with Christianity.”

“Get down on your knees, confess you’re a sinner, you need some chastening.”

“They are happy not to know his identity, for then they have only the book to deal with.”

“Halleluia. Bow down to this Book. Read no other. No truth outside of Canon.”

“It is almost as though the Christian must be puffed up because of this proud elevation above everything men commonly call misfortune, above that which men commonly call the greatest evil.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re right. See how wonderfully holy we are, high above the heathen hell-bound.”

“Despair is a Sickness in the Spirit, in the Self, and So It May Assume a Triple Form.”

“Stupid heathen, here’s some good news for you; rejoice in the Lord always so said St Paul.”

“Despair at Not Being Conscious of Having a Self “

“If you didn’t listen to  false teachers (you’ve itching ears) and rock music, you would be happy.”

“Despair at Not Willing to Be Oneself”.

“See how I can spout verses to you; in everything give thanks for this is the will of God.”

“Despair at Willing to Be Oneself”.

“Man, crucify yourself. Only then will you understand that all  we say is true.”

“So to be sick unto death is, not to be able to die — yet not as though there were hope of life”

“Can I be Job’s Comforter to thee? With my frabjous fundamentalist theology?”

“No. The hopelessness in this case is that even the last hope, death, is not available.”

“If you always quoted the Bible whether sensibly or not, just like me, you’d be free.”

“This view will doubtless seem to many a paradox, an exaggeration, a gloomy and depressing view.”

“If only you would become us, a legion sheep-dragons who  bleat.”


by Avy Varghese on Monday, 17 October 2011

(collaborative poem with Anoosha Gopinath)

Spread out those arms like fins, let the razor-birds

slice the translucent membranous light to enter 

pores that open as silent air-sighs or flowers,

a touch so light it makes you break down and cry

for the things that move you; watching a new sun 

being born, every ray a snakeling of fire looping

through the hay of day, evaporating, lap at edges

of bays, power reflected in beads that form on bodies

weak, helpless shining balls pulled down by gravity;

and in the dust the curves are calling out like gulls,

fishes penetrate the caves and come out the nostrils,

life is a fragrance that comes and goes, a happiness

shortlived as teardrops or seeds that missed the eggs,

enticing as a woman clad in nothing but an urge, threads.

Edges and Curves by Avy

Untitled by Anoosha


by Avy Varghese on Monday, 17 October 2011 

(Collaborative poem with Anoosha Gopinath)

A wanting spotlight in the sky duplicates itself in the waters below

where waves angry as mating tigers rip each other’s faces, broken

glass screams wind like a helpless woman, wails, or horrors unseen

have you by the hips, white steel, a throbbing turns bleating, enters

the ribs, the pump in the heart threatens a blast, slow down warns

the system, rings tighten around nozzles, what flesh hardens stone?

The thrusting melts the living again as water and air, ice floes congeal

as eyes, tongue, throat, breasts, navel, garden, thighs, toes, wingless, 

weighed down, sinks the fire as fading evening stripes, muscles trapping

the elements ignite the embers again in a special place, here, forever

broken waters convalesce as a mirror within one impaled as an other.

Three Eyes by Avy


by Avy Varghese on Saturday, 15 October 2011 

I am the one who breaks

pots, let the pans clatter.

I’ll let separation seep in,

a bloody lake, emptying.

In the frying pan, a sun

is spluttering, splitting.

In the corner, toxic gas

is cooking, a cat hissing.

On a window sill, ironing 

out empty skies, sheets.

I am washing my eyes out

with tea to rejuvenate me.


by Avy Varghese on Saturday, 15 October 2011 


to mention these words






carve out that list

in your thick head

to teach yourself: 



don’t put your hand in my pocket

don’t feel secrets I have in there

never look deep into my eyes

three seconds is so dangerous

slash and burn the dirty writings

know so well they’re condemned

if you’ve read them now and then

you know so well they’re useless

sit back on a throne of judgement

and mutter under your bad breath


to mention some words






carve out the list

in your thick head

to tell yourself :





by Avy Varghese on Friday, 14 October 2011 

O my senses be awakening, let it sex

O my senses be a high five, let it sex

Pay the price for the big O, let it sex

Pay it behind the screen O, let it sex

Moralise after you’ve cum O, let it sex

Don’t let your wifey know O, let it sex

Keep the chillun safely safe, let it sex,

While old man the Daddy-O, let it sex

We love this vain hypocrisy, let it sex

It’s lively rich aristocracy O, let it sex

You can fool a lot of people, let it sex,

But all the people know you, let it sex

In the morning and the noon, let it sex

At twilight or in the dim light, let it sex 

look under under the clothes, let it sex

peek beneath below the skin, let it sex

if death be holy happening, let it sex

if death be a ripening bud, let it sex.


by Avy Varghese on Wednesday, 12 October 2011 

Someone is hunched over the writing,

just a someone, hoping and coping,

thinking this is how I’ll be Some One,

when someone reads me, it’ll be so.

Someone is scritch-scratching on paper,

a painting a doodle a pencil-sketch,

thinking this is how I’ll be Some One,

when someone sees me, it’ll be so.

And both the ‘someones’ in misery,

go plodding on collaboratively,

while everyone who is Some One,

is appearing on colour television.


by Avy Varghese on Sunday, 9 October 2011 

You can call me dirty Judas or half-burnt Yang, 

or will you realize that I was only doing the will

of One who loved me enough, damn me to hell!

He was the One I loved too, the One g-d tainted,

nailed to a shaven tree, and all who did it to him

now sleep in the backyard wilderness I sleep in.

See, I only did what was asked of me, the required,

there was no Peter, Paul or John or TomDickHarry

who would have obeyed as I did, when I heard him:

“What you are going to do, do more swiftly

than you seem to intend and make quick work of it.”

So it was, I loved and betrayed that One might be glorified

and the Other might be hidden and the motives emtombed,

as every true act of obedience of a true lover anywhere is,

a subtle fragrance so few catch, the congealing of the sap

that makes the Thorn forever one with the Rose of Sharon.

I never refused union, a sacred alignment with Supreme Will,

when all refused to take it in, I alone took the Cup; and so fill

me again with that fullness of vinegar I was granted to drink.


I also spat coins in priest-faces, I too chose to hang on a Tree

just as he, the One I love gains Glory and I receive the Infamy,

two halves still meet in love in the centre of a Whole Ever-Holy. 


by Avy Varghese on Saturday, 8 October 2011 

(collaborative poem with Anoosha Gopinath)


Across the wall, spy on her hanging out clothes from clips,

wind in her hair, drops on her fingertips,

her outer raiment rainbow-hued, inside she wears only white,

the colour of an angel, colour of sorrow, wait for the world to end.

She bends to life her bucket, espy the bliss of breasts locked by chains,

wants to be released, to touch and free,

but when she straightens up, see, it will never be.

Inside the wall, she listens to shadows climb in, curl in,

encircle, tangle thick hair, nooses around her neck

undulate serpentine, cover the face, shrouds.

She melts as silhouettes with the curves of the ocean,

a wandering ghost among restless thoughts.

Is this what forever lasts? she muses. Inky waters drown

ruthless tides. Rise euphoria, rise above this night.


by Avy Varghese on Friday, 7 October 2011 

(Collaborative poem with Anoosha Gopinath – image by Anoosha)

Give me blood, and I’ll give you untainted lust,

hold me in your arms, I’ll gift reasons to cry;

yet, don’t be so sure it will be so when the dagger enters the flower.

Close upon you, the flower pulls nervous close,

make the thrusts with unknown liquid power,

be careful with the shears, careful with the tears, containers break.

Though she takes, she is strong, stoke her gently,

kiss her fondly, let her know the lure-depth of self,

the tunnel of faith ending in molten silver, just a tale boiling over, rain.

The end is to come, but there’s no reason to rush,

let it all wash away, the fears known and beyond,

we brand within with logs of fire and let smoke nether tresses.

Signs of possession shout across sky and valley,

the echo, haunting, call-beast again, whispering

in the hollow soul, sigh closer, whisper wanting more, wasting none.

And all the wanting is in vain waiting behind the window pane,

all the mind wanting is in vain-flesh behind the window panes,

wet on the inside and the outside, wet without ploughing or sowing and planting,

wet without roseate-heads tossing above the musky waning earth or mourning clouds.

She needs a guide, get out and make her sing to the music

Without the fear, the shiver in the twilight, touching sears

she finds, leads her to unconsciousness alive again, smiling hold

it here, drift to blackness of lips, of skin, of closed eyelids drying, blood be raining.

blood be raining


by Avy Varghese on Thursday, 6 October 2011 

(collaborative poem with Anoosha Gopinath)

How do you make the water sweat? Knead it, knead it, knee-deep, knead it.

Hold it, splash it, make it run, place it under your soul’s sun!

Evaporate, flow up sky-pipes, evacuate, flow down chins, down into valleys of sin.

Make sweat, make weep, in your cold powers, drown deep!

Falling, flailing, in despairing laughter, limbs awash in salty water,

try to breathe, she lies in gasps, she makes moans, makes want more.

Now breathe, let me not sleep, now breathe, let me not sleep (wait for me)!

I call you with the vowels of satisfaction, do not make waiting, we have but a few moments to save.

In them, in the sleeping at arms, water, sweat of tomorrow.


by Avy Varghese on Thursday, 6 October 2011 

the first look is the hook,

the friend of a friend,

pretty profile photograph,

a poem or a painting

as autonomous identity,

you “like” it, and more,

curiosity is a whore,

take it to be-friending,

will she, won’t she,

does it feel like bait?

from “like” to love or hate?

then the chitter chatter,

chimpanzee antics, kiss,

a sharing of roses, neither

plastic nor paper, all well?

chat, inbox, comment,

anticipate effervescence,

the late night trysts,

the ganging up of eyes,

girls versus boys,

women versus men,

friends versus predators,

refined versus uncultured,

petty fights, ego blights

minds on minds meeting minds

in the minefield, seinfeld,

heights, peaks, learning curves,

loss of interest, palliatives,

a vague sense of loss

but, look here, another

one awaits, appears,

disappears, the light is busy,

or turns into silent haze,

all human tales are alike,

look into another mirror,

is it you? we meet again?


by Avy Varghese on Wednesday, 5 October 2011 

if you’ve lived long enough

like me to know the ravens 

who will put out your sight

or the vultures sitting still

on an ancient, withered tree

waiting for the final curtain;

if you’ve known the hyenas

with muted laughter, their

heckling grins and patches

that are feral feasting eyes;

can you hear a sleek multitude

of carnivorous insects, plants,

spores humming festal tunes?

wait, don’t flee, come, leech on

my tired body, set free my soul

into golden dung or dust where

rightly it belongs to mote-scorn;

none of it, none of you can paint

my heart red or tie ropes to my

spirit or drag it down from up, up

and away where i am for eternity

stranded, where there’ll never be

a whiff of uncaring human oxygen.



by Avy Varghese on Wednesday, 5 October 2011 

chronological evolution

out of the slime

and into the black

still your two lovely

legs, one swinging

over a chair’s edge,

or both crossing 

in hypnotic motion

shaven silken

if your two lovely 

legs do not turn

into a pair of wings

that are stately

as arms streamlined

to take flight or fight

and if only one leg

transforms itself

into a half-wing

you’d be a freak

unable to walk or fly

you’d be dinner, meat

for the neighbourhood

stalker, raunchy  t-rex.


by Avy Varghese on Tuesday, 4 October 2011 

The facebook cyber pundit,

I heard he’s on the loose,

his life reads as a whodunit,

the nut bolts, and screws.

A virtual chick or chicken

in the bush is much more

than a real fleshly pickin

that stands out the door.

Ahh here it’s a mug’s game,

all windows look the same,

the way into her privates,

is by chatting up the lame.

You can signal morse codes

green light on, half-moons,

or switched off, the roads

to aeiou, the signal moans.

It’s a kind of love for sods,

it’s a kind of magic toad,

kiss it in the letter space,

splash on it, a thick load.

Who are you to speak thus?

Who are you to laugh, full?

Who am I? I know the drill.

Am I not your secret thrill?


by Avy Varghese on Sunday, 2 October 2011 

Oooh, I want to be more famous or, at least,

as weird as Dali’s moustache or Mona’s lips,

I want them to know me, woo me, play me,

lay me on feather beds, touch me, rave me,

I want you, cock-tail me, squeeze the buns,

accept I’m holy, smell the scent of my anus,

Ooh, whatever I do, I do iwant to be famous.

Ooh, I want to be cuddled and mollycoddled,

don’t critique my style or my crappy doodles,

take my sweet expression, sacred confession,

roll it on your tongue, stick it down our throat,

my purple lollipop, suck on me, baby, suck me

in, baby, out, baby, Ooh, whatever I do, rebus,

Ooooh aahhh, I want to be somebody famous.

This is what I live for, this is my high frisbee,

and if you can’t see how suave I am, O how

champagnee and sophisticatee, (I was born

in a slum, but) see, I am dressed in art-black,

I can quote all the right links, enjoy the kinks,

sleep with red kings and lace-pantied queens,

live in a palace, take society to task , tell me

I’m doing good, I’ll be embalmed, preserved

like the shark I am in a jar of formaldehyde,

Ooh, whatever I do, I want to be magnified.

Oooh, you can have me naked, my butt for free,

photograph me, puncture me, or just tattoo me

on your bust or your penis, it’s all masturbatory

enough, you can also watch me pee or I’ll bathe

Jesus in piss so that you can be quite panicked,

give me plastic credits for that shock therapy,

my fee is your veneration, oooh, baby, I’m free,

Oooh, whatever I do, I do it, do high and mighty.

Do do do da da da da do do do do me so-do-me,

do it to me, baby, I want to be famous, check

my epiphany, crosscheck my alibi, let me kiss

you and you can pay my alimony, flashdance me

register me, webinar me, showcase me in a box,

take me to far biennales where every mad night

we can drink, smoke, talk bullshit till all believe

that they’ve caught the drift and a midnight sun

rises, turns you to stone in your grave, until then

 Ooooh, the Ooomph, I do it my lust to be famous.


by Avy Varghese on Sunday, 2 October 2011

Here I am, where I see all

and nothing, here I am 

stream and rolling song.


1979, travelling too fast, hit

a light-burst beamed across

four of seven strange seas.


Touched soft promise,

I thought and learned

a walk on land of thorns.

Never lost heart, Aiwass,

till the journey of pricks

collapsed, tarmac ended

in netherland, locusts

ate my eyes, honey glued

my soul as moth to fire.

Here I am, where I see all

and nothing, here I am, 

bud and scattered petal.

This is not, no, a road of return,

no road forward to destinations,

no road to success or prosperity,

no road to time or sky or undersea,

no winding tracks for dead shepherds

no leylines to tie terrestrials to mystery

no road not taken or mistaken for an alley

no highway of the flesh as holy

no road to perdition’s nine orifices

no road to joy or failure or starry orbs

no road with passers-by on it 

no road with good and faithful companions

no road with highwaymen or mendicants

no road with motel-love or fuel stops

no road of fog or smog or night or noise of parallels

Here I am, watching yet blind

Here I am, sun-dust as sand

Here I am or so it feels,

and here I am, or am I now?


by Avy Varghese on Saturday, 1 October 2011 

Whoever goes to God 

must take the route,

the Tunnel of Woman.

First, 2 voids mingle,

the Snake swallows

her luminiscent Egg.

Then the Spirit wafting

over the broken skin,

enters in, entering in.

And a progression,

from Fish to Turtle

to Pig to Man-lion,

begins. The swollen

genitals of Vaman,

the accursed Dwarf

spurts three unholy

steps – ahh Creator,

Preserver, Destroyer.

It is only the Middle

watching Beginning

End in an envelope.

The 3 next avatars

are merely Human,

war-pigs, un-gods.

The misery of myths

stews in their loins,

Mother Goose tales.

Then comes Buddha,

the Compassionate,

a precursor of Kalki.

The womb churning,

Kali is moaning, up

and down, taking in

the thrusts, the heat,

wind on the waters,

the Cunt of Breeding.

Incarnation is a way

to God, through the

waiting woman chute.


by Avy Varghese on Saturday, 1 October 2011 

The folly of youth is its arrogance

the imagining discovering beyond what’s already been

that there’s little that’s new doesn’t seem to sink in

so we dance round in circles or squares and we wear thin

all that’s acquired is only more pride

some money, some juggling, a house and a bride

and reluctance to accept that not much else lies inside

Squeeze the lemon, the sun in its skin is bitter

Squeeze the lemon, the juice within is vinegar

The folly of the aged is their arrogance

the rediscovery of the wheel of time, time and again

the reciting of stories, highs and lows, orgasms of yore

that’s there’s little we saw with new eyes doesn’t seem to sink in

so we totter and dawdle and crawl or stumble back into the cradle

all that’s acquired iss only more pride

a house left in ruins, no memories, a doddering bride,

and reluctance to let go of whatever we gathered inside

Squeeze the lemon, the sun in its skin turns brown

Squeeze the lemon, the juice within is dried down.


By Avy Varghese · Saturday, 1 October 2011

made a mistake, fool,

spoke a secret, story

lost on souls, no spirit

must be wasted, read

the mind before night

closes, torch the eye,

turn this world, braise

me on the inside, dry

the sea or ink the sky,

all will be well always,

when i know, how to

and why be silenced.


by Avy Varghese on Thursday, 29 September 2011 

If you write it all out and away,

the face will shine as noonday;

no more shadows under eyes

to look up suspicious at skies;

no looking for great big prizes

in words that forge applauses;

no immorality behind a screen,

no moral mask, no lying sheen;

no wandering in angry thicket,

nor standing in lines to picket;

no worries of state of the world,

no pride of knowledge, unfurled;

no despising the ones you meet,

no hurrying past on fugitive feet;

no condemning condemned ones,

no remembering of wrongs done;

this heart is pure, the eyes clear

of sadness now fulfilled in cheer;

then, come to me you weary ones

to hear this song that I have sung,

and if you think you’re so high above

such silly lines, come, let’s make love!


by Avy Varghese on Wednesday, 28 September 2011

Fartist the Artist,

fire it up, fast,

play it as coolth

make it, last

words are orgasms

short as breaths,

people’s validation

multiple deaths.

Be a roadside flower,

be true, fragrant

and if you’re wilting,

it’s no dead end.

The angry cul de sac,

the grinding of teeth,

the bitter scrotal sac,

the bowing to weep

won me something

in the dust and sky,

something to ring

bells, make me fly.

Fartist the Artist,

slum on slog on,

pieces of paper

form to be torn,

but the laughter

of little children

dispels the dark,

reveals the lark.

Fartist the Artist,

hey, can you sing

such a child-song

hallowed, within?


by Avy Varghese on Tuesday, 27 September 2011 

Said the curious Cup

to the saucy Saucer:


“Let me rock

upon your navel!

Does it tickle?

Does it rouse?

Feels like gravel?

Does it travel?”


Rocking in the morning,

Rocking at noon,

Rocking in the twilight,

Rocking with the moon.


Said the Saucer saucer-eyed

To the Cup with honey inside:

“I love you spilling in my navel,

I love the rims you and I travel,

I love you turning upside down,

I love us spinning round and round,

I love my hand on your handle,

I love your burning as my candle.

I love my heat and your wetness,

We love us falling off the edges.”


Said the Cup, with ragged breath

to the silent Saucer, still as death:

“Let’s rock on till scratches appear,

Let’s rock on though cracks we wear,

Let’s scritch and bitch,

Let’s shout and twitch,

Let’s creak and croak,

Ember and stoke,

Undulate, precipitate,

Turn in or out, indicate

bites on the skin

and scars within,

the slippery chase

and its surcease,

till opening lines

write strange exits.”


by Avy Varghese on Sunday, 25 September 2011 

She is Doe and he is Lion. The slightest noise or quiver of leaves in the breeze makes her tremble and run. How is a vegetarian, timid and fearful, to love a carnivore? She runs because she feels beforehand that he is already devouring her in the undertow of the winds that trim the green canopy above her. On the run, she finds another animal rising up from the earth to accompany her. Another grazing animal with quiet teeth and hungry eyes that seek to possess and bind. They lie beside each other slumberingly. A thought arises in her mind: Can Doe sleep beside Lion without being eaten alive in the fires of the night? 

Doe leaves with the other grass-eater for softer pastures. But Lion rules her mind, keeps her awake in her dreams where she senses soft paws with unsheathed claws close her eyelids and a voice whispers: See through my skin. Lion rules all. Day and night. Waking and slumber. Desire and fulfilment. Dawn and Dusk. Sweat and Musk.

How am I to return to Lion, she wonders. I can do so only when I sense no danger in him, she thinks. Let Lion come up beside me as closely as this other creature I am so placidly grazing beside, she wishes. Silently may he come, she hopes. Steadfast may he linger, she dreams. 

Doe. Lion.

Once upon a Time

In the ForestNight

In the LayMeDow

In the ForeheadEye


In the Blue Throat


In the Waiting Navel


In the LoinSurf


Once upon a Time.


by Avy Varghese on Sunday, 25 September 2011 

Deva Sharma lived in the village Mahabuddhu somewhere north of the Vindhyas. Pot-bellied, he also boasted a long nose which he wrung often since he was prone to constant attacks of common cold. People in the village who remember him tell me the wringing of his nose led him to resemble a certain god who, it is claimed, removes obstacles for devotees who believe in him.

As Deva Sharma grew increasingly famous for his trunk-like nose and pot-belly, people north of the Vindhyas, as people in those regions are wont to do, began to believe that he indeed was a chosen representation and vessel of the god. Indeed, so said the villagers, going to Deva Sharma and telling him the desires of your heart would always result in those desires being fulfilled sooner or later.

This magical power that he believed he possessed pleased Deva Sharma no end for it gained him prominence and fame. He was fawned upon and attended upon by bevies of frustrated women, fat and in their forties, whose husbands gambolled about in secret with young nymphets. There were younger women too who sought darshan of Deva Sharma enamoured as they were by his hairy chest and the way he flapped his feet when he sat down in padmasana and spouted his secret mantras for those who wanted obstacles in their lives removed. Deva Sharma also wielded influence with politicians, traders and merchants, priests, artists, musicians, danseuses, bhajan-droners, kings, governors, ministers.

The janata, wonder-seeking hoi polloi from every corner north of the Vindhyas, often gathered for his satsangs where he croaked out songs in a cracked voice that was considered divine by his cronies. His pots of gold filled up just like his belly filled out as he feasted on ghee-laden sweets prepared by chefs sent to serve him from the palaces of governors.

Now, in a certain nearby village called Mahabuddhi, to the east of Deva Sharma’s abode, dwelt an old woman named Nayi Duniya. She had found a girl-child whom she named Lal Ladki (a strange white traveller who had passed through her village years ago had mentioned the Lal Ladki in a story he had regaled her with when they had become drunk together on a heady local drink).

The Lal Ladki had been abandoned in a garbage dump where crows pecked at the carcasses of dead bandicoots and rotten vegetables. In the nether regions north of the Vindhyas, baby girls were often customarily cast aside. They had little value in the world of men. But this one was saved!

The grandmother had once been abandoned likewise but a compassionate nanny goat, the villagers told me in hushed tones, had found her, suckled her, given her a warm furry stomach to cuddle upon for years, looked after her in a secret corner of the village until she could fend for herself and live by herself in an isolated hut at the end of the village.

Over time, the old woman began to be considered a witch. Words she spat upon those who insulted her in the village streets always came true. The village headman’s scrotum had swelled up like a football after she spat a curse upon him for laughing at her bent spine.

She was called Granny Black-tongue. Granny Black-tongue had saved another girl like her and named her Lal Ladki; she delighted in the six-year old child.

Now this silver-haired lady had long heard of Deva Sharma and nursed within herself a secret desire to meet the famous guru. Did Granny Black-tongue desire to have some secret obstacle removed from her life? The villagers whispered in my ears that she nursed a secret desire to become the guru’s consort.

“A kingdom ruled by a man is only half a kingdom; when he has a woman as divine consort beside him, the guru’s kingdom has come in full,” muttered a man in a dhoti who stank of sweat in my ear.

Thus it was thus I saw

that litter of desires

so hidden, so bright,

they closed my eyes

to a kitten of delight.


by Avy Varghese on Saturday, 24 September 2011

Dogg was barking up the wrong tree. Again. He did not see a tree, but an electric pole. The wires were, as always in India, exposed to sun and rain and curious rats. The pole was shiny with sweat. When he looked at it in the sunlight, he saw a pillar rising into the sky with the twists and illusory trails the Great Indian Rope Trick unraveled in the air when the snake had wormed its way back home into the hole of the Sky.

Up there lived a Spider and Dogg had determined to grab her for a bite. He had to travel sideways, edgeways, four legs adrift along thin strands of silver frailty, slipping up or down or spinning upon honey-sticky wistful lines of smokes rising up chimneys or factory towers to where he wanted to reach. All he saw amidst the twisted wires was the grin of the Spider with her swollen white belly dented by her navel. If he could get up there and prick that balloon, just there, at the centre of that inny, he would be able to feast on her lil Spiderlings. His name would have changed from Dogg to Herod.


all he did

was dangle,

in the tangle.

He hung

out there

up ahead

a piece of

wet cloth


to be



by Avy Varghese on Friday, 16 September 2011 

I’ve watched grim warships with gargoyle

prows lay anchor in the Norwegian fjords,

seen devil-commanders covertly unleash

a murderous Lie in illiterate homesteads,

a century ago! The mad mongrels of bleak

visions from blackened Bibles tread water,

slither over ice-lands, o’er Europe’s shores,

to snap at the heels of angelic children who

do not discern the Vulture swoop disguised

as the Dove of Pentecost! Such marauders

knew not Hebrew, Greek or Aramaic, and a

pagan tongue trills an emptied, Holy Word,

frailer tone than skin or bones, mad fakirs.

The seed of seers dries in air as worm-webs

and at the dewy centre waits a Black Widow,

the poison-Bride! She spits out arrow-shards

of Dark Light to enthrall thousands, helpless

hands high for holiness, dying for the sheen

of Eastern pride. “The man is now become as

one of Us”; Unholy Perfection, self-justified.

For the Vikings, all are despised, condemned,

and behind their Veil of Money lies a Dynasty

and a Secret. Submissive hordes of believers

bow down before a human idol, prophets and

priests, without robes, serpent-manipulators

and their hidden tomes! Hold, wait, ships are

rising or falling on modern seas, the clothes

of the sectarians are seen-through, sky-clad.

They spy on Asia, Africa, the Latin American

peoples; they sojourn as Sword of the Lord!

Return in rags, for here stands a dog-human

who by discernment escaped the sly snares;

traps they laid for me are eternally smashed,

a curse they laid on me is returned to them,

“It is Finished”. See, the walls falling, falling,

failing fast as cries of children falling to death

upon their Mount of Holy Ambition. “You shall

be as gods”, ruthless, abhor all love or mercy,

serve blind the Beast of Pride, merchantmen,

soul-traders! Ah, Brunstad, not a single stone

remains standing and every stone you hurled

at sinners catapults back to your doomed City,

it is no more, left emptier than Babylon! Would

that you had known you were but dust, would

that you had learnt this from the Master, that

Mercy triumphs over Judgment. Ah, too late!


by Avy Varghese on Monday, 12 September 2011 

So you feel you can heal yourself,

spewing red Vitriol of Bitterness?

Far better to savour a stab of pain,

the blackest thorn will melt as rain.

Look into the Face of the Betrayer,

that lover, or friend, or family tree.

Look, carefully, suddenly you’ll see

you cannot win sin-reprieve easily.

Why flaunt the frown on your brow?

Why curse others who are so slow?

Think you can outwit Demon or Devil?

Believe you can stem the Tide of Evil?

All the screams of sorrow or discontent

cannot woo the Zephr of Contentment.

But to do good and be kind, forget not,

thus hindrances are brought to naught.

What then? Light up the Face and Eye

with a Divine Smile now dazzle or daze

those who ponder with wonder-light

the sure refining of God’s Instrument.


by Avy Varghese on Sunday, 11 September 2011

They come in droplets,

dribble-tribble tribals

selling a root-culture

as artists’ underwear

stained with whitey’s

spunk, punch drunk

on euros and dollars

and starched collars

while the casino gods

dry upon totem poles

and the ancient eyes

plucked out, now vie

with gallery or sky

for egos that hide

the misery of being

shiftless, O rootless.


By Avy Varghese · Saturday, 10 September 2011

watching and waiting

with the lizard’s tail,



By Avy Varghese · Thursday, 01 September 2011

The crossroads

at Crossword;

reject the sale.

Touch Cthulhu

or The Secret

History, know.

Hide and read

what no one

else will find.

Let the silence

be hangman,

erect tongue.

Free the mind,

fly upon two 

winged beams.

Spit the body,

spatter wide



here no angel

stops to siren.


by Avy Varghese on Sunday, 28 August 2011 

He is witness


above Job,

unspeaking to wife,

children or men,

for he has none,

prying in windows

a-begging washing

of word-sores.

He wanders.



What do boils

feel in that

skinned head,

or loins laid





golden camels



of sand.

In each hump,


secret moistures.


for the leylines

are loss

of eyes

or tongues,


The desert-maw

of visions,

emerald cities,

outside whose

seven gates

whine dogs,

the bark of politics,



love of money,

powdered self.



into corpse

after corpse

as sonic



golden camels



the hex-circle





sway fans

or bow 

seven times

to ground

in humility

of bare living.

At the centre

a moon-pool,



The Sun beats

dunes to air,

eyes evaporate.

Here is no water,

but milk 

in leathern


Hey, awake,

unspeakable Joy,



by Avy Varghese on Thursday, 25 August 2011

Sitting by my solo window,

an ear open kept to winds.

Loud calls from minarets,

musings of many muzims.

Lights flare up in shadows,

cowering in terrors of g-d,

flitting as lulling lullabyes

waking the kafir children.

No one knows these lyrics

except the cult of faithful

whose sin-bellies rumble

all day to feast on dusk.

All’s well, all must be well,

as slow the season bows

five times a day; O, quietly

goats offer up sad throats.


by Avy Varghese on Thursday, 18 August 2011 

There is a strength in love

that shines through gritted

teeth, seeps out as kisses

in bars, in excesses, in lives

at home, or in Rapunzel‘s

hair, strand upon strand.

In my dual-demolished eyes

and smiles, now sad always,

hopes are faeces, stamped

under white toes and shoes,

bare fading skin, the usury 

of memory, fever shivering.

Where are you, Mummy?

Ink that’s washed away,

love still alive, I, helpless

and you, fragrant smoke.

(Thanks to Gerda Casier.)



by Avy Varghese on Thursday, 18 August 2011 

There is a strength in love

that shines through gritted

teeth, seeps out as kisses

in bars, in excess, in lives

at home, or in Rapunzel’s

hair,  strand upon strand.

In my dual-demolished eyes

and smiles, now sad always,

hopes are faeces, stamped

under white toes and shoes,

bare fading skin, the usury 

of memory, fever shivering.

Where are you, Mummy?

Ink that’s washed away,

love still alive, I, helpless

and you, fragrant smoke.

You asked God let me live

and all that squirmed out

a considerate pink womb

was a worm, soft or hard

abundance, bereft tongue

and each blow of destiny

marks me, a defaced icon.

Do you remember me in 

your catacomb? Are you

now fulfilled, ghost Maw?

Do you meet sorry souls

where you are, without

a job? Waiting, waiting,

itching to be of some use

to rocks, stones, water,

sky, floor, ice, windows?

Do you know, Ma, how now

everything is engineered

to let me down, crush me?


But I am your son, I know

that dying is key to loving!


By Avy Varghese · Thursday, 18 August 2011

body is pleasure

mind is pleasure

pain is distraction

poetry is pain

letters that spell

what is

is what

is sexiness

and its



and sexuality

at odds

and many


in between


show me yours

touch mine

but you 




the horror 

of yes,

the n for no.


By Avy Varghese · Wednesday, 17 August 2011

It was only

as I



from on


I saw

a blue dove

cling to

my rare


The peak

was too


the climb

too steep;

a jagged Rock

cut me deep.


by Avy Varghese on Tuesday, 16 August 2011 

The likeness of God.

The image.

The representation.




Knowing Good and Evil.

The difference.

Living towards Death.


These were not.

Adam 930

Seth 912

Enosh 905

Kenan 910

Mahaleel 895

Jared 962


He was not.

G-d took him.

Methuselah 969

Lamech 777

Noah. Manu.

500 not out

Shem. Ham. Japheth.

And doom to follow.


by Avy Varghese on Tuesday, 16 August 2011



Constancy of nakedness.


Lights entwining.



Without Eden.

A different intimacy.

Skin to skin.

Fluids to fluids.



A knowing.

Disappearing and appearing.

Like children.

Cain. Abel.

Womb in the thistles.



Immortality through genealogy.

Keepers of sheep.

Tillers of the ground.

Life as Blood.

Life as Fading Flowers.

Rotting Fruit.

What do you see?

What do you offer the Unseen?

The slit throat of a Lamb?

How was Cain to know

what the deity sought?


How did Abel know

what the deity sought?



Forget the why?

Re-form? Re-trace?

Or, what?

The burn in the mind.

The choking in the throat.

The tears on the ground.

The anger within.

The displeased deity.



Do well.


Find acceptance.


The missed Mark.

No reason given.

Just a selection.

An election.

One wins.

Another loses.

Drop your reason.

Or rationalize loss.

Cain feels.

Cain hurts.

Cain is bad.

And he himself doesn’t know.


Cain, the Virus.


The First Death.


The Lesson:

Don’t react if deity ignores you.

Don’t envy Eugenics.

Cry, Vengeance?

Seal, Justice?

Ignorance is Sin?

The Curse is.

Being Human.



The Second Death.


The Foundations of Hell.

The First City.

Built by a murderer.

Built by a wanderer.

Built by incest.

East of Eden.


Future Hell


The Pastoral.

Instruments of Hell.







“At that time

men began

to call [upon God]

by the name of the LORD.”



“At that time

men profaned

or defiled

the name of the LORD.”




by Avy Varghese on Monday, 15 August 2011 

Why mingle the many failings

of the Present with the Past?

Keep them separate, Stupid.

You whine, for  you’re free.

Bark, ye long dog-tongues.

Gore on, imbecile bullocks.

How little you value freedom

to snap, spit, stir up to sour

O happy day of remembrance?

Our ancestors didn’t complain

but raised a flag against pain,

action, unthinking of self-gain.

They bit their lips in silence,

marched when called upon,

took beatings singing songs.

Vande Mataram!

Vande Mataram!

Vande Mataram!

True, a Dynasty is waiting

to reign and a Theocracy

lurks behind it, a Rakshas


hungers to devour Dalits

and middle-class homes,

Hydra-head profit-demon.

Yea, keep on ranting like

Hazare or Baba Ramdev,

all that’s dark isn’t crow

to caw, some are cuckoo!

Well, we know all what’s

wrong, and nothing’s

quite right, so shut up!

Our freedom’s been won,

65 turns around the Sun,

Know, we’ve only begun!


by Avy Varghese on Monday, 15 August 2011 

Another sun-dipped morning.

Waken, oh, you slacker body.

6 a.m.

Sleep again, light-ly. Waken,

oh, slumped crumpet carcass.

9 a.m.

Rub those eyelids of sadness

for in every teardrop – losses.

The high-tech phone – stone.

The runes of love – erosion.

The Skype-call – interruption.

The E-mail trail – dread cold.

Gifts of star-blips – deaf cloud.

Dim-etched spaces – corridors.

Planetary revolve – unresolved.

Dances around moons – blind

on, on and on and on and on

see, everything shudders on

pillars of flesh, fire or smoke

to the stop, and then is driven

across my ink-wet skies where

pink bridges are built – never.


by Avy Varghese on Sunday, 14 August 2011

The Grand Narrative comes alive.

Aristotle is pre-empted.

Here is cognition, not re-cognition.

The setting is in place.

Space and Time.

The protagonist is G-d.

He blows into dust a soul.

The breath is light.

A light-being without skin is born.

He places him in Eden.

He paints a binary twist into the picture.

He programs an on-off possibility.

He opens up a life or death window of opportunity.

Will he, won’t he, will he, won’t he,

take a bite of the Fruit of the Tree?

Dare she risk choice?

Dare he risk choice?

Will they abandon delight for adventure, pleasure for pain?

G-d gambles.

Will His algorithm gain consciousness?

At what cost?

What is hidden in the program?

Enter the Antagonist.

Enter the Dragon.

It takes the Serpent to reveal the Secret.

It takes a Woman to receive the Secret.

Every Secret has as a Companion, a Lie.

“You shall not Die.”

The Secret.

“You shall be as G-d, knowing the difference between Good and Evil.”

The Lie.

“You shall be as G-d” and will not suffer the consequences of Knowing.

G-d, knowing and untouched.

Man, knowing and blighted.

The Serpent avenges himself for his Fall.


Knowing the Fall and partaker of the Fall.

Knowing G-d and partaker of the Word.




And between.

Schizoid, henceforth.

The Woman is to blame.

The Serpent is to blame.

A curse on all of you, says G-d.

A stranger curse.

“And I will put enmity between you and the woman, and between your offspring and her Offspring; He will bruise and tread your head underfoot, and you will lie in wait and bruise His heel.”

G-d leaves for elsewhere.

No man has seen G-d at any time, ever since.

Skins cover Light-Beings.

Delight ends.

Shadows rise.

Ah, Woman, great your pain in child-bearing.

Ah, Man, great your sorrow and toil as you till.


And the Lord G-d said, Behold, the man has become like one of Us to know good and evil and blessing and calamity.

It is worth it.

And that is all we have, still.

All that’s left.


Thought, Word, Deed.

Zig-zagging between Good and Evil.

Running ragged on a blighted star.

Binary Knowledge is Babel.

It trails a Scarlet Thread.

Art. Science. Philosophy. Religion. Education.

The Way to the Tree of Life.




New G-d.

New Creation.

New Man.


by Avy Varghese on Sunday, 14 August 2011 

The Way of Faith is also Quicksand of Fate,

plough on in hope, though a nether sun

sucks you in; dragged down, hate the Race!

With many sacred words, friend, fool yourself,

read a page of Scripture or two to recognize

the One that nails you, the Blame-bringer!

“The paper is White but the text is Black”,

He points a finger, but has He none? O

anthropos, misanthropos, misogynist words!

It’s a conundrum, this Janus-faced God of gods,

Sometimes He fumes and frets, otherwise

He’s full of jest and tests; whom do I believe?

Some say it’s about forgiveness and goodness,

it’s all a mix, what’s it He’s trying to fix?

Can we know trapped in this half-way house?

Yes, a drop of grace and a pint of mercy one meets

sometimes, upon one’s weary way of Faith,

then again, the daily grind makes me mince-meat!

Everything happens, but nothing is happening,

the Ox and Parrot and Homo Sapien share

the same end! Think! Endings are Beginnings!


by Avy Varghese on Saturday, 13 August 2011 

The Seventh Day.

G-d ends creating and making. G-d rests.

History begins. Mist and Mud.

The Ground of Being.

And, none to till.


Out of the fog emerges the Figure.

Strung out on the Breath of Life.

Fragile molten silica filled with the breath of the Glass-Blower.

Paramatma’s Prana enlivens Atman.

Supine at first, then upright.

I am.

A living soul.

G-d rests because Man is.

Man, the medium and the material of New Creation.

The Working Man.

Up from Eden, Delight springs forth.

And Language.

Name. Tend. Guard. Keep.Till.

Man births Woman in Sleep.

Rivers of the Waters of Life for all lands.

The first Warning.

Otherwise, the Invisible Way.

Otherwise, Seed of Temptation.

No Agent of Blame, as yet.

Only the Idyll. The Tree of Life.

No Punishment, as yet.

Inevitable then, Disobedience.

Otherwise, the Path of Experience.

Or Science.

Foresight and the Wisdom of God.

Thus it was decreed.

Death enmeshed in Life.

Good enmeshed in Evil.

All within the root and seeds of the Tree of Knowledge.

Simplicity, awaiting Abandonment.

Possibility of Two becoming One.



Apprehension between the Lines.


by Avy Varghese on Saturday, 13 August 2011

See, in Slough of Despond

waits Water of Life,

which way drops its flow?

Draw out Mud of Doubt,

leave at pool-side,

sieve, nothing is waste.

Choose a Handful of Dust,

every word with care,

filament, skitter, filigree.

O porous Angels of Glee,

seep in, squeeze down

my Capillaries of Trusting.

Twist and turn, unlearn,

do not worry, will

the Winds of Knowing.

Go or, going yet, be gone

in Ida or out Pingala,

climb up the Rope of Hope.

O highest Hole of Breath,

let drop dog-sighs

to warm the skin of rain.


by Avy Varghese on Friday, 12 August 2011



Spirit with multiple beings/spirits/qualities embedded?

Seven Spirits in One – One Spirit fanning out as Seven.

Multiplicity in One – One in Multiplicity.

Ergo, Three-in-One and One-in-Three.


The First Separation.

Prior to Time.

AT the beginning of Time.

IN the Beginning.

All Creation is caught up/ trapped/ conditioned/enfolded by Time.

Time – the Very Great Deep – the Face of the Waters – without Form – Void.

Time – the Darkness upon the Face of the Deep.

And the Spirit of G-d hovering/brooding over the Swollen Belly of Time.

“G-d is a Spirit”.

And G-d said/spoke into the Void.

Over the Void.

Sabda Brahman.

The Word of G-d.

Let there be Light.


From darkness or over darkness or beyond darkness or in darkness – Light.

Did someone/something inside that darkness, unborn, yet, cry out?

“Tamasoma Jyotirgamaya!”

Was the Word of G-d a response to that plea?

The Word that Creates.

The Word that Separates.

Pharisees from Lovers.

The Second Separation.

Light is good, pleasant, suitable, approved.

Darkness is not necessarily evil.

Nor has it been.

It is a womb. Out of it can come Light!

Darkness is potential. Light is possibility realized.

The Day of possibility and the Night of unrealized potential.

The Third Separation.

Waters above.

The Sky. The Firmament. The Heavens.

Waters below.

The Fourth Separation.

The Seas.

The Dry Land. Earth.

The Earth births.

Plant Life.

The Fifth Separation.

The Sun – the Greater Light. Rule the Day.

The Moon – the Lesser Light. Rule the Night.

The Stars.


All light the Earth.

Variety of Lights.

“Father of Lights.”

The Waters birth.

Animal Life. Flight Life.

Be fruitful. Multiply. Fill.

Generation and re-generation.

Creation and pro-creation.

Production and re-production.

The Sixth Separation.

“Let us make humankind in our image.”

The Image of G-d.


Male and Female.

Dual-Multiplex Likeness.

Be fruitful. Multiply. Fill. Subdue. Have Dominion. Eat.

All is made. All. Very good. Approved.

Six days. Humankind, the Sixth Day.

The Apex.

The Horizon.

The Possibility of Possibilities.


by Avy Varghese on Tuesday, 09 August 2011 

Spark me Your hid white light spectrum of goodness

not how or thus humans spell or pronounce to impress


snapped thighbones

or torn loins,

shut lion-jaws,

blinded eyes,

bodies plague-ravaged,

mouths frown-festering,

heads bowed

grazing grass,

children beheaded,

women bereaved.

Highest Grace is

found in Victims.


Or do You believe

You make

orphans or widows,

mutants, spastics,

mongoloids, autistics,

limbless, loveless?

Or do You wage

wars on the weak

and beings with strong wills

all anyway not free

even if death frees all?

Or do You curse

your makings

and smoke them,

send thunder, fire and bears,

a thorn in the flesh of saints that sears?

All this is An Other’s doing.

So when I’ve closed the eyes of my understanding

to a multitude of comings and goings of flailings

and sit under my fig tree in the evening breeze,

I am



tremulous trembling


come, caress my eyelids with Your hot eyelashes,

drip upon my lips, empty the wine of kisses within my pink gash, 

let Your prison-bar fingers frame steel-tipped my breasts,

let my sighs heave their way to your blessing soul-billowing,

circle with dew-daze the pool of my now, my navel, 

part the thighs that once clenched, rejecting,

force-spend the golden seed-corn everlasting hundred-fold

in this corner You have hallowed, abandoned abandoning. 


You are the erect stone pillar, the mark

in the desert-ways of my living being longing

branding, sealing mile after mile in the mirror-journey,

memory, love, hope, agony,

I anoint you with scented oils and myrhh.

Let us sleep now, You and I,

and place green footsteps one by one










the restive dawn. 


by Avy Varghese on Saturday, 06 August 2011 

when the long night comes

with slippery tongue thrust

out to catch fireflies in mist,

imagine how this breath

of mine melts into cold

letters of light that spell


the rain-knives write hard

on earth that is resistant

hymen-glass, let it shatter.


by Avy Varghese on Friday, 05 August 2011

I am the diligent Fire-ant,

I hunt for meat or sweet,

my red-head is my hunger

that hastens upon six feet.

My antenna are a-tingling

with purpose when I wind

sugary tracks in jungles

snaking to a honey-find.

Wet corners of want beckon,

me, I race up a wanton trail,

laughing when I come upon

bread-crumbs that I can tail.

Each morsel is so succulent

and each tit-bit like dry fruit,

“Fire-ants, come, follow me,

grab loaves and not lil bits.”

My mandibles lock upon

veins of rich flesh-mesh,

Hot thorax, take my touches,

clasp closer my tattoo kisses.

I climb upon belly and hips,

etch acids on skin and lips,

my gaze slips in and whips,

graze swollen, roseate-tips.

Give me my haunches, inch

by inch, slow-dining is best,

crumbs I ate, crumbs I saved

for Queens hidden in my nest.

Then I traverse bloody trails

again, so if all is said or done,

ponder, the burns I left on you

were love-embers from a Sun.


by Avy Varghese on Thursday, 04 August 2011 

sometimes, a long night

circles like bored hands

exploring an ivory face,

sweet available flesh,

smells metal-icy, ah!

depth, moon-shadows

circling as two vultures,

ogling, beaks curved

to peck at high breasts,

first the nipples void,

then, the dissection,

cell-heart beats, still,

the hungry claws slide,

slip slip over slim hips,

rake them, falls a river.

the pointed ends wander 

up, surround a slim neck

and let the air out of time.


by Avy Varghese on Monday, 01 August 2011

Hebrews 12:6 

For the Lord corrects and disciplines everyone whom He loves, and He punishes, even scourgesevery son whom He accepts and welcomes to His heart and cherishes.

My mother never told me?

My Father didn’t know?

Not a peep out of Godfather!

Did they taste and keep silence

forced by scourging into trance,

raped, pregnant, quiet-bleeding?

This sado-masochistic Old Covenant

is for fearful believers, twisted Paul,

convents and monasteries or saints

practising a perch atop pillars, high

in caves or deserts, starve, mortify

flesh to pre-empt lashes of lightning

flashing as celestial cat ‘o nine tails,

all this, as always, under Satan’s sun.

Mortify, or else!

“He may be given up to 40

Stripes, but not more, lest

being flogged further, to

excess, your brother be

degraded before your eyes.”

Primal fear, primitive love. Do I seek it?

Or is it something beyond, hidden light?

Do you want me to say to you, O Pantocrator,

“Come, sock it to me, baby!”

Break this jaw of an ass that ponders.

Smash my thighbone lest I ascend a ladder.

Flay the skin off my back (you can cross 39).

Make me hunchbacked, prostrate, paralyzed.

Tear in two my lion-mouth, lap secret honey.

Let the city-watchmen whip this wandering whore.

Tear the foreskin you want; surely you are a bloody God!


 Write the things which you have seen, and the things which are!

By these stripes, I am healed! Commune my scars, red stars!

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