by Avy Varghese on Thursday, 28 June 2012 

flesh on stone lives its opposite

the daily grinding of hot or cold


looking to warm dead shoulder

hoping for her fire to break out


life not easy dry stone on flesh

the colored rocks opaque-eyed


strike against them blue bruisings

strain against them rose shrapnel


collect thence welts as textures

framing the skin in dead sparks


trying many a way to steal fires

hidden in raw lines or icy cracks


looking for flashes but not burns

in fungal spaces the tinder glows


straddling gaps the time-twins spin

friction yet the pebble-lipped sister


marble corpse thrown to sandy floor

rests waiting for the lightning stroke


by Avy Varghese on Friday, 22 June 2012 

Why do you seek me?


I am ivory, elusive vowels concealed

between the teeth of judgement,


because imagined partings are parings

of nails, those red memories


joy-scratches, scarlet birds, we have declared

new vows of silence, allow the spaces to sing of what lives


red ink on pages till rain botches it,

slaying, sting all, greying blotches.


Keep seeking the vowels, the jewels in sand

unseen, substance of sunshine and stars, 


swirling and swishing dew inside my kapala,

leaving earth and heaven, rich sediment.


Seas will disappear and walled Babylons fall

under fierce erupting volcanoes of love,


while fire-beings swim alongside dolphins cool

in golden lava where the secret vowels rule. 


Friday, 22 June 2012

I tick you tick we tick

small ticks alla tickin’

the tock tock tocking

chipping off the Rock


tottering on tinny feet

ticking seconds i sinne

tucking up behind furs

the tick under the skin


ticking in the wet meat


tick tocking cogs clocks

taking this time tocking

in wooden chair rocking


i tick you tick we ticking

time teaching a tricking.


by Avy Varghese on Friday, 15 June 2012 

Beware the leaven of the Pharisees

who lay upon all heavy burdens 


instead of carrying the weary on iron

shoulders; who excoriate, cast out.


Beware of  angels of light, the Gabriel

who paints no golden Annunciation,


whose watchword is: “Write them off”,

belabours all with both rod and staff.


Beware of false apostles, the Mathew

who exacts taxes after salvation


and wears deceiving cloak of humility,

bowing, scraping, a whitening grave.


Better to leave the vomit of these fancied

wheeler-dealers in the rotting temple,


to know the solitary in caves of Adullam,

a valley of Baca where pure rain falls.


Beware, quick, flee the City of Merchants

hungry, divesting tithes off Innocents,


a Purple Harlot disguised as Christ-Bride,

Enemy of Sinners, faith of Krishna.


 “So if anyone tells you, ‘There He is, out

in the wilderness,’ do not go out; or,


‘Here He is, in the inner rooms,’ do not

believe it.”  Flee the Cult of Holiness.  


Now, listen! A dead dog quietly barking

may seem a flea is singing;  but watch


holy kings, self-righteous angels collapse

in the Valley of Decision, Armageddon.


And in that New Jerusalem, a Simulacrum, 

woe to the whisperers beside the fjords,


money-launderers, dealers in real estate

on earth, swiftly comes your desolation.


Beware, for outside your fortress is One

Pearl,  Mystery Friend of Sinners, up,


away above Stone, the Rock, the Hourglass

in which all Sand turns into Red Wine.


Friday, 8 June 2012

Just write.


Just be.





Be. Be.


Who’ll write?




Who’ll read?




Being written.

Being smitten.


Be. Coming.



An egg.

A spot.

A light.


Out of sight.




Writing. Be.


Written. Be.


Un. Be. Coming.



Friday, 8 June 2012

leylines fall like knives

across iris my songs flit

bats escaping caves.

O ADoNay!

by Avy Varghese on Saturday, 19 May 2012 

The express


of being





is to harass

a fool mule

lame horse


bridle whip

and cinch

spurs and






Thus it is written:



my right



What can

being human

do to me?


by Avy Varghese on Friday, 18 May 2012 

the fruit of the tree in the garden of knowledge hews asunder the human 

all who make love beneath its shade are sorrow damned duo man-woman

gender overshadows them sing havoc they fuck and fall apart O selfish

inside the body-cave they are dark wandering stars they can’t lighten

the catch in the swift disintegrating cobwebs of nodes traces lingerings

wailing notes in the gaps between bleak angels and good white is black

each opposite is let loose a bull in arenas the raging red rags of contest

argue and subdue to get God to rule over devils and human rule animal

try caging yin and yang in circles do good to placate evil then laughter

over the fallen falling from the risen apex of heaven seeding rot earth

do not subtract seas from this mix yet see moss be separate from rock

when you have analysed it all well and know you’re on the side of God

remember all that is seen outside lies hid as spheres within cold spheres

there are none saved none damned this was the treason under that tree

the story designed to drive us mad  break us in two schizoid or paranoid

but we restore all  if we slay with songs sin-angels guarding Tree of Life.


by Avy Varghese on Thursday, 17 May 2012 

the milk-white teeth sharp as broken pearls

rush all-devouring the flesh-eating machine


scratch-hungry nails upon the waiting trunk

the peeling of the skin by ten parasitic claws


the licking clean of the viscous eventide dust

by tongues rough as big cats a raw bloodhunt


a silken neck drawn back ready to be stroked

or by black fingers that veins awaken choked


arching back bending bow-lithe near breaking

sucking in the arrow for the marrow’s drawing


or sacred the buttocks rising parting thrusting

and melting the body sweat salt surrendering


and the eyes and ears are one in the entwining

of cries pure gods or goat-demons apt envying.


by Avy Varghese on Wednesday, 16 May 2012 

experiditionovamps hipvaulting 

roverflitzones ovibratophonics


picporcined gelatomulatto stockings

liplash ankletinklet trinkletemptress


dodapoets excretafellas flucked

filchedfed flipgymgodzilla blurbs


unostanding falsiedentures flapslaps

corpsesad singulacrummy emptyhoo


mamaembryo mustardbe drearbed

leavehalli hoalleyvalley tillthesnow


friendsnitch backsnatch underweariness

liebackdonuts sleephollow palmincrevice




by Avy Varghese on Friday, 11 May 2012

“Come to me, all you wild wilderness sheep,

I’ve left all those safe dirty whites behind,

I’ve not come to thrash you black or blue,

add stripes to those you piteously flaunt,

twas not from me, but the raging enemy.


See, my back is torn stripped ripped wonder,

blackened in death, I’ve death plundered,

between you and the old accuser I stand,

separating you and harm by a crimson band.


Come, return to me all you ugly black sheep,

and with my staff I’ll turn your night to light,

you’ll transit the spheres as twilight or dawn,

zebra-striped, you’ll find yourself again born

between the poles and then all of it will pass,

thunders and lightnings, swift fires or floods.


Come, turn to me, all you mule-wise sheep,

and I’ll give you who’re too hoarse to bleat

angel voices within adamantine foreheads,

two-edged tongues, strong horns or heels,

crush all that comes your way to fine dust

a wild, wilderness wind will carry far away.”


byAvy Varghese on Wednesday, 9 May 2012  

O herd of tamed


green pastures


bovine divine

large eyes




black horns

red eyes

taut tail


shotgun clamor 

of disturbed



grass splayed

rain in ears


unfettered bands

of red horses

riding one another


upon and across

barbed fences


scratches smile


high hooves

swelling canter


raucous coition

stronger than

soft mother

silken udder


O herd of tamed


green pastures


mate me


by Avy Varghese on Sunday, 6 May 2012

No time at all to examine

the settings of my soul


Far less time to excavate

the hid warp of my sex


All goes round and round

and settles in the balls


Slipping out my hot third eye

down to lowest muladhara


Sway backwards or upwards

the snake is always alive


Flexes not around one or two

it’s quick-light many-fanged


it settles sting it’s burn-sparks

fire all and sundry it  alights


alike on grass doves donkeys

tongue thighs navel vulva


It’s natural it’s the questioning

eruptings of all that’s strong


the angerflames flick-flickering

around edges of pool-self


it does not allow for askance

things like hunger breathing


these my desires engrossing

exacting waxing not waning


as it was above and is always

below now forever more.


Sunday, 6 May 2012

impotent blue

cloud washes


cold blankets

empty beds


seizing upon

hot haunches



pulling down


hot flourishes


by Avy Varghese on Tuesday, 1 May 2012 

I sing praise to EVeN RiSHONaH

placed and laid as Mother,

Lodestone in the void, Rockface

where hang the pupae of futures;


herein rests all that is to be revealed,

many living stones, fiery precious gems,

rows of lit-up pebbles in chaos of darkness,

this ladder of flickering soul sapphires 

fleeing upon a skywards trail;


the ascent and descent of live and vile angels,

the river of ilmenite illuminating space

and the Stone of stones upholding all in all,


the winding queues of pilgrims

each one inscribed inside the hollow

from where falls the honey of a call

to be the rejected one, the accepted one.


Monday, 30 April 2012

her sudden silences

like a kite’s talons

punctuate my skin


when it is unmarked

my mind too placid

waits like a wet rock


or as water quieting

itself i breathe less

frozen like a dolphin


pinned upon still air

eyes frozen body

sculpted blue stone.


Friday, 27 April 2012

Trickling down her spine

finding the secret crack

spill of salty sweat


parting her swollen moons

falling the waterfall

stream of relief sweet


dampening velvet thighs

crawling down whitest calves

river washing feet


flowing under her swell

spreading round the well

filling her satin pool


waters tangle her mound

havens slippery found

womb fish flashing silver!


by Avy Varghese on Thursday, 26 April 2012 

i will make my arms longer, stretched louder

i will push my thin horizon wider, elastic


pinned upon the wood behind my taut spine,

raised straining as mature teaked, stolid


holy effort pushing up higher, low, deeper

the pushing to get out the box, frame


the canvas crimson painted, tearing itself

in the rain, a rose freeing self of nails,


each slap a kiss, each scratch black bliss,

each stab a look, every eye gazing in


i’m going to take me outside the picture

i’m going to put me outside the walls


i’m going to wait for that invisible painter,

splash purple over me in happy strokes



where rose and butterfly safely, frail circus

on the pin of a thorn, linger not yet torn.


by Avy Varghese on Sunday, 22 April 2012 

never be afraid to investigate

whatever you desire, do it,

find all out and in by yourself


smell your body as if it’s mine

ugly confusing strange mad

sudden gasp inside cold water


refuse the standard position

“it’s beautiful, it’s romantic”

over-rated, under-achieved


let the dead bury the dead,

Jesus and Buddha shed it, 

bio-flesh, the urges, death


my experience, just personal,

a poem, a jotting, a moment,

18:22 edge beyond standards


always outside, push the boat

further from the shore, down

the deep to where dolphins stir


whose stand to take? resurrect

the gentle fist,  disperse clouds,

lay down all prehistoric burdens


therefore, disruption of systems

therefore, emergent patterning

therefore, dynamic, never static


come, everyone’s weary, loaded

with queries, we’ll serve bread

and fish, an easy yoke, now rest.


by Avy Varghese on Friday, 20 April 2012 at 09:10 

all day long, all night long, i meditate,

eating of the fruit of the Tree of Life;


all around me are the broken vessels

who delight in the Tree of Knowledge;


these pendulum minds go ping, pong, 

right or wrong, black and white, good


or bad, god or devil, heavens or hells,

all the time spent in circling confused;


making the right choices, acting moral

high and mighty, except poor or lowly;


what certainty sifting wheat off chaff,

always separating and divining a light


of their own made from the vivid dark,

the fruit is stuck in the raucous throat;


and the world reels with the cacophony

of binary assertions, dissertations, still


this Tree of Life remains behind swords

and wings that cover and the Holy Fire;


so i’ve calmed my mind with emptiness,

the gates open, O new creatio ex nihilo!


by Avy Varghese on Tuesday, 17 April 2012 

be happy in all those unasked for serpentine coilings of life

let each lash strip away the superficial skins of the i-snake

with each day or season of trouble, let black hides thicken

let the welts excavate hollows in which to hide the molten senses of love.

each winding harsh mountain climbed makes my stronger thighs

thus to satisfy with maelstrom thrusts the knowing priestesses

let flammable arrows sent forth strike down those fleeting flesh-spotted does.

in whose dying eyes may you and i touch the fears of the hunted?

each victory won is both meat and wine, also emptying intestines,

the sign of the Cross embossed on all vessels, the roiling elementals

so he who offers himself as dove to vultures is himself endures never diminishes.

alpha lambda omega

by Avy Varghese on Tuesday, 17 April 2012

floating inside a vast blue bowl of dissatisfaction

a white stork or three gulls abbreviate the spell of placidity

something is aflutter with semblances of living to be

when this upturned shell turns black with indifference

i am still; cross-legged, breath-held expiating

the sins, repeat-errors, sullen ashes of christian theologies

that short-sighted belief that Death stalks to reign only on Earth

and yet I travel beyond those closed irises into denser universes

i watch flash-born, damned glory white dwarves yellow zoe orange red giants

billowing with, from light, sparks of indefatigable human pride

puffing up birth moons planets asteroids cosmic ice-follicles

a pregnant vacuum that swallows up all in its swell liquid black belly

every star is waning yet soughing longer than i can faintly burn

and in my inability to comprehend time-lies, eternity skulks,

and in my ignorance resonates the subtle sacred a-u-m and amen.


by Avy Varghese on Monday, 16 April 2012 

Sometimes a bottle can fall and shatter

and clean shards rack into waiting flesh;

yet, accidents are different from action

that’s deliberate; the dagger of Brutus

or a wounding in the house of friends;

still, where knives have sunk in will rise

Sharon’s rose, fragrance of forgiveness.

It’s a privilege to be scarred like St Joseph

but, unlike him, I don’t await their return,

the ones who buried, gagged, tarred him;

poverty comes of its own making, famine

swallows all who don’t discern innocence,

lost in bleak deserts of doctrine, they fail.

What then do I await? The Magi and camels,

humps laden with water to survive the dark

trail under an unblinking Star,  a journeying,

living the wisdom of a search to arrive with

gifts for a Child in a manger of a meek heart.


by Avy Varghese on Saturday, 14 April 2012 

I place you in my glass bottle

and a little alcohol I sprinkle

into sweet pores, open doors

i shake you shaking you shake

all the round parts are rolling

rearranged swelling themselves

dilute it dilution again dilution

succussion and potentization

my blows on your elastic body

she writhes like water rippling

off her erect green leaves,

the memory remains, in veins

suffering alike in our miasms,

similars haunt the forests

we distil new remedial spasms.


by Avy Varghese on Saturday, 14 April 2012

in every inanimate talisman

an inquisitive spirit rests,

awaiting its due awakening.

one must never be afraid

of abandoning Buddha,

fat belly shaking laughing

when that image disappears

he knows it comes, a kitten

licking roughly at thresholds,

upon the windowsill of your eyes,

drenched in rain and despised,

it sits mewing: let mew, mew in. 


by Avy Varghese on Friday, 13 April 2012
when a waning moon hides herself like a lover,

when the trumpet-call of the writer has failed,


when words mean one thing and then another

and reading between the lines becomes trivial,

when a red-eyed koel lays eggs at night-times

and the bats awaken to their nocturnal feasts,

and the caves of the soul are filled with regrets

and palace gates slam shut on starving beggars,

pre-empting abandonment, the priest abandons

blue jewels that beckon, black thorns of delight,

and winding his way where no way was known,

he waters with sorrow the sand of his journeys.


by Avy Varghese on Friday, 13 April 2012

Sometimes sadness comes as the eyelid

falling shut over all, curtained, touched,

the air is shimmering, expectant of what

can no longer be breathed, a wine-wind;

a word soothes awhile and speeds away,

comforts another supine, suffering soul;

O winds, come, blow me here, there, off

caresses, thorns, the wet petals, i blink;

each flutter flames darkness to sunwaves

flowing cool swish, knowing embrace G-d.


by Avy Varghese on Tuesday, 10 April 2012

All bread is bitter and sweet to one hungry;

stolen crumbs, holy wafers, or given freely.

David stole it from a sacred altar, on the run,

Jesus broke it as a body in a secret chamber.

The Magdalene was the softest feather-bread

to pay for, body for bread, bread for the body.

Bread soaked in rain or porous with hot honey;

bread wracked by bites, on the Cross in agony.

Bread begged for at midnight from false friends,

bread granted for pleading upon grizzled knees.

Bread that’s bloody with the loving toil of a wife,

bread to save children from a fungus of poverty.

Bread unleavened tasting as good as fried fish

baked in an oven upon coals of life’s ignorance.

Bread that falls from heaven and then disappears,

rotted by dark beliefs, damn curses, dread fears.

Then there is bread that tells us that humans must

live by each word of God, lest bread become stone.

And when the Host turns red dipped in white chalice,

bread becomes flesh in which spirit subdues malice.

Listen, all night long, His winds seethe with worry,

cradling our broken pieces tossed on the waters.

His arms are not shortened, His net is not broken,

on a distant shore the crumbs become One Loaf.


Saturday, 7 April 2012

a mouse grows in a mouth

as dark as chocolate

a raw purple orchid

it moans and is suckled

eyes closed warming lips

the veins thrilling

the molten pulse

a slide and fire-measure

then it spills eye to eyes

the key fills the socket

orange moon black skies

mouse sighs in a trance

a rower in a boat on a becalmed sea

by Avy Varghese on Saturday, 31 March 2012 

a dot on a becalmed sea

wrapped in a grey shawl


the unrocking boat sits

upon the slowest ripple


two arms are flapping on

oars that beat the liquid


a shaft of light descends

upon a broad back, bent


the only motion is circling

turns the boat on its axis


a point extends as a radius

silent cage, sphere, bubble



by Avy Varghese on Saturday, 24 March 2012 

Every soul seeking celestial purity

tries every which way to be permanently free,

Why blame them for methodologies and theologies?

Every monkey seeks to become human,

some see a shortcut is Jesus, or tango with the Octopus,

evolve sublime to the ridiculous as the worshippers of the Platypus.

Dao and Mahikari and Buddha and Krishna

Socrates and Sri Sri, Amma, Rasputin, Hanuman and Kali

blah of a way, many ways, the way, all ways, any ways, only G-d knows

perhaps, it’s not theoria or nirbana, but the How

to be awake is to quietly blamelessly kiss the cords of being,

shuddhi, embrace the 30000 hip-thrusting nadi-gopis dancing in my body.


by Avy Varghese on Saturday, 24 March 2012 

i am ugliness, that form of beauty rare,

a mating of vianegativa and affirmativa

i am coiled into sexual folds of flesh

i swell, i decay, i crumble, i irrigate,

i am channels of life in throbbing dust

i lie submerged in conversations, i am sex,

i come as a hint, a whiff, a misdemeanour,

i’m shrouded in cloak of misunderstandings

i am the dirty words that ignite secretly 

in another’s breast, forbidden frenzies

i’m a thief, i enter with brush strokes,

let her wetness linger on the canvas

i am the musician’s rash, distorted notes

when a song is ended or voices are stilled

i am the remains of the beauteous and strong

i am known as the passing away of the dawn.


by Avy Varghese on Thursday, 22 March 2012 

why am i wanting so much?

gnawing at me, the mice 

scurry in out my arteries;

my name is now,temporarily, 

Snake, but still I don’t know,

can I swallow my mice or no?

between lust and love i flow

to pulsing shadowlands, row

this boat, water filling below

holes of time, tattered sails

and tied to the mast to foil

the sirens’ songs, be flailed

all night by storms, salt sea,

wet beasts of red sexuality,

hyena-headed complexities.


by Avy Varghese on Thursday, 22 March 2012 

My dearest ultra-spiritual Bharat Mata

I bow to your malodorous filth, your deepening sores,

pustules of tradition and modern eruptions that eat away your nipples.

Your arterial-streets are rubble-full,

the camphor of indifference burns in your temples

where oil-blackened blind idols crumble, condescending, culpable.

Every neighbor puts up holy obstacles

to the golden rule of loving one’s neighbor as self;

and everyone’s shit, pee, garbage litters another’s sacred thresholds.

Your ministers in starched white attire

are ever stoking up the universal corrosive fires,

the stray dog populace increases daily and licks assholes and wounds.

Your middle-class is building with straw

upon the skullduggery of real-estate dons, servile souls

and liars meet in cushy offices to conspire silently against the poor.

The green forests and tribes are offal for Kali,

the million lakes are evaporated, the rock-beds thirst, songbirds

are disappearing into grey mist and the blue mountains are broken-faced.

Taller, bigger, better, faster, uber, super duper,

let the Jagganath-chariot wheels in strange gods’ names roll

to pulverize, pickle, mangle the hapless succourless millions underneath.

Pathalam and Yama are singing praises

of all the principalities and powers, the entrenched malaises

that turn people into pigs in a dung-pit or dogs that selfishly hide their dirty bones.

My dearest highly exalted Bharat Mata,

these days I indifferently, detachedly watch your sewer life flow

as deformed, empty promises and accursed menstrual trickles into the ocean Samsara.


by Avy Varghese on Wednesday, 21 March 2012 

When He stands on the mountain

to stare out over stray kittens,

He sees there His Self, scattered.

From a fearsome mouth proceeds

live-tales, sparks, manna-corns,

but still they are hungry for more.

These embers do not a fire make,

He knows, flickering, ill-lit wisps;

can one not forge flame-tongues?

Five barley loaves and two fishes,

twelve men and strange hopes,

women giving of their substance.

How was He to fulfill these many

sweet mews seared by new light,

set them adrift to dream futures?

“Gather the fragments, the remains

of that day, bind the words, verses

in cords that blaze; see, none is lost.”


by Avy Varghese on Wednesday, 21 March 2012 

Only one who is crushed by the high mountain

falling on his head struggles to forgive Nature.

Forgiveness is not exactly the word, it must be

something else, like the speech Jesus invented.

It might come as “Take up your bed and walk”,

or it could be spit and mud bathing dead eyes.

Forgiveness always disintegrates weighty laws,

the holy Shabbat freed from religious curs(e).

Who is this who forgives? He who lost himself

in a crowd is found by Him, searching for Self.

He is a punch in the solar plexus, slap in the face,

a fist of acceptance, palm of compassion, Action.

Compelling, this crushing; one is broken to receive 

shoulders to lift mountains, white cherubim wings.


by Avy Varghese on Tuesday, 20 March 2012 

i have tasted your kisses they taste of mud

you have left me a goat tied to a door post

the jargon of love you whisper is dog-vomit

i push you up against the wall my fuck-bitch

you scar my back scratches mark territories

blake and alcohol and acid or hashish enrich

when i penetrate you i can understate truth

with each thrust i remember what it is to kill

be dalit woman communist muslims children

but the day’s coming when the guns will turn

upon the rich ruler-pimps christians generals

the camels will remain to douse burning suns

you think making love is about tender loving

it’s about cutting down green trees in spring

leaving a hole that bites devours everything

the PhDs have made knowledge unworthy

of knowing and poetry the wine of masses

and thus i learnt the taste of muddy kisses


by Avy Varghese on Monday, 19 March 2012 

A rose by any other name

bent out of shape is scent

of poetry; all’s well that is

ambiguous and dexterous;

the old staid explanations

are farts that fill becalmed

seas; the heart’s not fonder

of what it knows, familiarity

is deathly; or all that is seen

must be turned about-face

if the truth of many matters

is to be hidden well; extract

spells that twist, turn, shout

out alchemy; Boojum snout.


by Avy Varghese on Sunday, 18 March 2012 

Some of us are celebrating

daring inter-penetrations 

of each other and everyone.

Whatever, how I’ve entered

and you have gripped me

mar our tongues, inter-mix.

Saliva exchanged by lovers

feasts on an intelligence

enriched only by absences.

Meet stark naked as opposites,

you and I can eat, abandon

intimate portions, ink embraces.

We taste and then we release

scents that are foreign, yet

flower as resistances to death.

Now spent, lying apart, one leg

over a thigh, forests wet,

the stars are snuffed out, blind.

Still, in the seeking, our limbs

entwine, inter-penetrations

asleep ask for interpretations.


by Avy Varghese on Friday, 16 March 2012

somehow in the dimness of my cold sight

i’ve woven trails an untrustworthy snake

with relentless eye shining gleaming head

and life has been my forest to slide through

low green grass or moss wet with her dew

between roots in strange-scented shadows;

feel my golden-black skin, cold to all touch

feel the inner muscles now coiled to stroke

or strike, enter her pitcher trough fissures

or break into her eggs, an intense roaring

that though silent with ullulations shrill in

between shellac hips, the breathless night.


Monday, 12 March 2012

Even if you confess your sins

and know you’re driftwood;

you ask for just a hen’s egg

to ease your deadly hunger;

what do you get? a stone

and words that are empty;

beg for the measly crumbs,

you’ll be bitten by a snake;

getting the opposite of what

one hopes for gives wisdom

beyond that of god or devil

the wisdom of being human.


by Avy Varghese on Monday, 12 March 2012 

an argument is a pointing finger

a gun with the safety catch off

a thorn to impregnate soft cunt

a voice: “You’re IT,  best like IT

or not, get down on yer knees”

every argument is white-faced

weaving of an irrefutable logic

pretext to burn witches wogs

sift black from yellow or brown

dogs barking to cage blue sky

an argument takes flight as god

tyrant who subjugates or wars

leaves behind widows, orphans

crushes disobedience, difference

or dissent, forces a homogeneity

an argument is also imaginings

lies as truth or history of turds;

it’s the last resort of scoundrels

coating tongues that fork-flicker

a monologue that favors murder.


by Avy Varghese on Sunday, 11 March 2012

i ask: who is this woman 

whose face, pale veiled

she will not un-curtain

it even when i’m inside?

i ask: who is this woman

who enjoys the slapping

so in the pain she earns

knowledge, sex violent?



i ask: what is her beginning

of desire, scorpion of want

that enters her sacredness

with sting, gives her wing?

i ask: what are the stripes

she wears as kohl, mouth

open in those moans that

are searings; softly trust?

i ask: who is this sex-saint

who despises the feminist,

smothers a striking palm

in orgasm-smeared calm?

i ask: who is this woman

behind this rare curtain

allowing us the mystery

of two that become one?


by Avy Varghese on Thursday, 8 March 2012 

O my chillun I’m a single thrush

sitting on the chill parapet still

sullied and bullied because all

are none and see not solitude

We sit here, mice in our hands

likelikelike like like likelikelike

licklicklick click click licklicklick

the backs of pleading stamps

let’s meet as tongues-in-screens

sing sing sing sing sing sing sing

sing aloud praises to all queens

and kings, pat-a-back pat-a-back

do not unfriend do not urinate

do not spit do not shit on dry

flowers do not laugh or kindle

the charcoals, be not enflamed

here we sit lonely thrush mice 

likelikelike like like likelikelick

clickclickclick click clickclickclick

friend fiend friend fiend friend

just practising content and form

before it gets famous, let it end.


by Avy Varghese on Wednesday, 7 March 2012

A hand’s breadth is where once

there was none, between you

and I, this short, abridged space

where dances incandescent love

that woos to woefully afflict,

breaks bones and wounds eye

fruit of a chastening that fails,

lending to distance, safety

measured in a hand’s breadth;

the vessel of love once raised up

drops, tossed into shark-seas,

or dented suns of my yesteryears

awash in a light beyond all use,

sinking, my being is rejected,

floating downstream, escaping

the crushing hand of invitation

flourishing its rain of blows,

filling soul with bloody waters


can this vessel of dishonour gladly

leap into binding omniscient arms?

no, i will now keep a wise distance

perfect measure of a hand’s breadth

just outside cycles of punishment

carving gift of Faith into rod of Fate.


by Avy Varghese on Monday, 5 March 2012 

I’ll tell you why I do not join

the groups where they caw

as crows, in covens or ovens

I am not a poet

I’ll tell you why I can not fin

through the narrow shoals,

I like fish netted, deep-fried,

I am not a poet

I’ll tell you why being other

than what everyone wants

is being a sting-struck flower

I am not a poet

I’ll tell you why I cannot lie

so well, or say every poem

is really beautiful or a rarity

I am not a poet

I’ll tell you why I cannot love

amateur squiggles, dry twigs,

I bury them, I don’t reprove


 I am not a poet

I’ll tell you why all the trying

to buy an image or to rhyme

is but a deadly way of dying

I am not.


by Avy Varghese on Monday, 5 March 2012 

In that night that seemed lampless

with only the shushing of waves

around and underneath, sky rolling;

In that next dawn, muscles aching,

a boat with nothing inside, a shell

on the shore, sands that stay still,

he looks back at the spittle, froth,

he thinks the next wave’ll come,

it already has, it gently passes over

sun-shore and there is none waiting,

no fire to warm, no fish for grilling,

a fisherman waiting, shark at dawn.


by Avy Varghese on Saturday, 3 March 2012

The moment you see my eyes

you know

I am come a sword to destroy

you know

that moral tone, superior voice

you know

what you believe, better cling

you know

to what ghosts you’re used to

you know

out of my navel goes my angel

you know

comes bringing sinking feeling 

you know

better not read this and that

you know

it crawls up the hole of crotch

you know

it will fester in your soul, glad

you know

that you cannot pluck it out

you know

in the end you’ll seek to erase

you know

all the pieces of ear-confusion

you know

spikes I nail into empty heads.

(C) Ampat Varghese Varghese 2012


by Avy Varghese on Thursday, 1 March 2012

Did I lose anyone the other day?

Will I lose something across the dawn?

Loss is less. Now.

What did left behind mean at all?

What ought the forever to mean at all?

Loss is less. Now.

Fools lament the blue bruises of yesteryear.

The blind gaze into the red cauldron of next year.

Loss is less. Now.

Some say they were full wineskins in the back of beyond.

Some say the abandoning angels are just round the corner.

Loss is less. Now.

The skies were once clear and clouded by turn.

The earth births and slays each one at will.

Loss is less. Now.

The unhappy lock up their bronze memory chests.

The unhappy think of tinkering with new trinkets.

Loss is less. Now.

A friend may appear with the stripes of an enemy.

The woolly lamb may lie down with mangy lion.

Loss is less. Now.

Know that ether endures in every bubbling moment.

Know that breathing is the key to a fuller emptiness.

Loss is less. Now.

What your heart held was useless pumping fluids.

What you sought to buy was a white sheet or body bag.

All loss is less. Now.


by Avy Varghese on Tuesday, 28 February 2012 

i’m wasting time like dripping rain

outside my window waiting to be

caressed by words awaiting a sip

of milk of comfort at swollen tits

there’s no milk? i’m satisfied still

with tea or acknowledging smile

for outside in a tree hangs a star

that prefers to die of loneliness

her light hangs dull on the gleam

of leaves bowed as a requiem

to the man sitting by a window

watching a star fold her wings


by Avy Varghese on Monday, 27 February 2012

Each evening I pass by the living cemetery,

it’s holy in its silence, very catholic,

and a setting sun daily blesses it with an orange funeral glee.

The whitewashed walls burn soft-skinned, cheerful,

No red Indian spit or yellow pee or shit upon or beside them.

There is a sign: “Jesus said: ‘I am, of life, the bread’!”

The words echo over rows and rows of unmoving joyous dead.


by Avy Varghese on Monday, 27 February 2012 

Lo, I am the coal-black Bull of God, testicles swollen with the blue flames that weld the stardust into planets;

I am the sturdy Bull of God, my iron penis ploughs the Golden Cow and starlight milk streams to distant moons,

I am the war-shod Bull of God, my metal hooves spark dissent and divisions in the galaxies and skies,

I am the fire-spray Bull of God, I evaporate princelings and kings, lords and gods bow down and low lie;

I am the full-humped Bull of God, I fill the universe with bellows and snorting, timid clouds part for my meteoric passing;

I am the muscled Bull of God, Shiva rides me and Shakti opens her legs wide to take in my burning brands of detached love;

I am the untethered Bull of God Mithras sought to slay, I led him on wings of illusion upon celestial pathways, I die not;

I am the proud Bull of God, mountains and pastures hang upon my broad shoulders, my sweat flows as rivers of delight;

I am the horned Bull of God, the dear and glorious physician took me out of Egypt from a sarcophagus as emblem of Ptah;

I am the sacrificial Bull of God, sharp-edged lightning-machetes disembowel me and piece me, I fall and rest as stone on folded knees;

I am the generous Bull of God, my spurting blood births flora and fauna, food of humanity, all is well in my abundant pasturelands. 


by Avy Varghese on Sunday, 26 February 2012 

To fill your wanting pores with love-wax was

a vision, to catch your ragged breaths drying

in the wind, flapping tattered butterfly wings;

my passion’s horse canters on; love pauses at

different wells on journeys beginning in eyes

that slowly grey over and the tears fall slowly

over the ridge of eyelids, unseeing, pearly flow

rolling away painted stones behind dead irises,

scratches in the flesh that’re lines of burnt ash.


by Avy Varghese on Saturday, 25 February 2012 

Why do I seek to daily live, properly?

To keep the hungry wolves of poverty away

From the hearts of those I love wonderingly, dearly

To earn that just in time, just enough package, salary

Earned from the useless garden-accursed sweat of fiery brow

To sustain with full, hollowed hands the loving family

That they might not touch or taste or know unrest or lows

To shield and guard them from all envious gods or devils

Locked in their sinister wager over human destinies, bestowing ills

To labour and fight for the passing transparent happiness of many others

Crucifying with metal hammer and long steel nails my own expansive liberties

Knowing there can be no reward or gift-mercy for one who has stolen the fire

and brought it to earth, no place in hell and no rest on the incessant heavenly way.

This I do to live daily, properly.


by Avy Varghese on Thursday, 23 February 2012 

each word is equal in the balance:

it’s only bias that tilts it this way

or that is how this universe spins

one comes another goes it snows

it thaws the leopard sheds spots

the snake’s tongue becomes one

those who see with natural eyes

can never see the reflected star

in a navel or how a lotus flowers

each word is grain of sand, sugar

that melts with the tasting of it,

turning slowly to salt in my tears

a bone in the sepulchral throat

a song that is but a distraction

a tongue to be shredded soon

it’s wise not to ask for anything

anyone ideologies beliefs a tribe 

a nation see all of it as deceased

before the bell tolls and you are

no more or nothing or no one 

except a name a word no-being

or being a palm-leaf manuscript

on which are written star-tales

each word is equal in the scales.


by Avy Varghese on Thursday, 23 February 2012 

Found an ‘other’ brown-butt Asiatic

traveling to the colder hemisphere

sucking on the globalised snow cock

reading only what does not disturb

the Bible, the Euro-centric classics

or some Asiatics famous in London

angry over deaths on the TV screen

in far-away, cedar-wood Sufi climes

force-fed WASP Ku Klux Klan flames;

what one can not see is a comfortable

satin-red with the blood of innocents

life squeezed out like toothpaste swill

the Yin always weeps over the Yang,

a way of living inclusive of life-death,

Halleujah bombers, en route to Iran

after Libya is laid waste, so too Syria,

as the Crescent is painted bad omen,

the Cross is the sword into earth-soul

Star of David in the Cross of the West

combines and mutates to deathshead;

all dissension will by fire be ever flayed.


by Avy Varghese on Wednesday, 22 February 2012

blue streaks set her hair aglow, a near-naked

blue man comes closer to her in the eve-light

tousling blue hair with lucid fingers that fall

off the edges of his palms burning like silver

syringes; a forgotten passion is lighting up

crevices he holds, elephants go by unmindful

of the sky and water of mind drip drips inside

his body; soft dusk rises, a thimbleful of light

in the shuffling blue of night, now returning;

but the road is covered by a blanket and old

paths are erased since no traces of lost time

or deep bottles have ever preserved lovers;

every movement searches a black wind, not

here or there and, thus, everywhere it isn’t

his way; locked down in its blue emptiness

a blue owl hoots a warning: Sloop! Sloop!

A trance, follow. Leave no footsteps, blue.

(collaborative poem with Anoosha Gopinath)


by Avy Varghese on Wednesday, 22 February 2012 

Every stupid soul scrabbling, seeking purity,

tries every which way to be hobbled-hoy free;

why blame them for sattvic or other methodology?

Some gabble that the shortcut is gentle Jesus,

so why are they entangled with the Tentacleopus,

or tribals whose way is of worshipping the Platypus?

The way to be free is to cut the invisible ropes

that leave the being plugged into wet electric earth,

30000 gopis, the nadis dancing as breezes in erogenous bodies.

If alive, you’ll feel 33 million gods and goddesses

as twitches and threatening and unsought-for intuiting,

a dance up and down the ladder of love, my 3-channeled spine.

At each chakra sings the sacred colour of the moment,

I am Muladhara, red as an engorged cockerel, lingering deep

in yoni pools, and turn wheels in vermillion secret febrile fountains.

When the hood is peeled back, there explodes the yellow tip

of burning Shakti and I am eaten, consumed by hot unlocked thighs,

my hips rise and I am Anahata – agape, eros and bhakti – coital mantra.

With my eyes closed, I can speak in primal voice, moans

and gasps that burst as silver crescent slices in a pale blue sky,

the indigo eye opens upon her breasts; I am awake, she has swooned.

What shall I do with you, O Sophia, multi-limbed, fragrant

white light lotus blooming beyond my skin that lingers in your sweat,

my sandal paste, I’m laughing; my coal-hard burns as one in your petals.


by Avy Varghese on Monday, 20 February 2012 

such a change is coming,

3 big, black mushrooms 

are opening up sky-cunt

spurting sperm of death

turning light to shadow,

skeletons on drear walls,

ghosts excreting clouds

that are whitened faces;

these masks are not now

but then, they will again

be the bringers of storm

to end angelic laughings;

these demons come from

snow, and scatter frost

and ice on all the happy

flowers, the primal hosts;

their masturbatory fires

are like salt sprinkled on

open wounds and buds,

they erase even stones;

what a change is coming,

3 big, black mushrooms 

are opening up sky-cunt

spurting sperm of death.


by Avy Varghese on Thursday, 16 February 2012 

poverty of spirit

poverty of soul

poverty no merit

because i desire






a post-dinner ciggie,

extra beer,

loud belches,

turning on

your side

in sleep


the heat

of wife

daughters’ laughter

filling the mornings

like red birds trilling,

the son

cracks a joke

only you understand,

talking to wife

without words,





thinking of

the Apocalypse,

losing God,


drunken kisses,

love in corners,


you miss

eating out

on streets


with beggars,


on stones


the trespasses

of those

who ate my meals

and bit my heels,

watching others

grow fatter,

big power

and i,






sans merit


a dead soul,

poverty of spirit.


by Avy Varghese on Wednesday, 15 February 2012

I’m growing old, hair is greying

now, I see under beauty’s skin.

The nostrils that flared in wonder

are now wrinkled, and collapsing.

The eyes that blazed with anger

are sliding shut in sad emptying.

The lips that quivered upon lips

are quavering lines, ashen tips.

The breasts suckled are sagging,

I slide no longer between peaks.

And the shapely calves or ankles

can’ t raise up for easy entering.

The wide hips no longer call out,

inciting wombs to be child-filled.

The body lies supine on stomach,

breath stilling, buttocks flopping.

Now, I know the body is not “I’,

now, I see this body isn’t mine.

I only use the limbs and senses

to climb my ladders of pleasure.

At the top of the rungs, outside

the body, an unknown journey.

Yet, while heart and lungs swell,

and I’m in bodies inscribed well,


swing the sexual blade I bring,

divine sword against all dying.


by Avy Varghese on Tuesday, 14 February 2012 

Do not waste poetry on virgins,

instead spend it in dark alleys,

pour it, molten wax into cracks

in walls, in haptic, tight tunnels.

Do not spin erotic haikus either

for middle-aged women whose

lust has been lost under saris, 

all vibrations must be stanched.

Do not, at any cost, detonate

images of erogenous zones

in the minds of mimsy pujaris,

lingas or yonis are unwelcome.

Find a jungle full of hot tigresses

gambling in heat, teeth on skin

and tongues down each other’s

throats; there, drink wine, sing!


Monday, 13 February 2012

“It’s very easy to be a poet.”


these days, with the rising

of transparent twin-moons

blessed sisters Monomania

and Graphomania, hungry,

night-ogresses who screech

donning necklaces of rotten

verse, dangling skulls from

sagging milkless, infant-free

breasts, these sisters dance

the unending, excretal song,

“It’s very easy to be a poet.”


by Avy Varghese on Sunday, 12 February 2012 

falsehood is the plastic rose

the empty poet waves

pretending it has fragrance

falsehood is a concrete dam

the empty poet builds

to bind the mercurial waves

falsehood is the distant star

the empty poet hopes

will light up uncommon skies

falsehood is the vegetables

the empty poet eats

never tasting the red meats

falsehood is the sign of peace

the empty poet carves

upon an unfrowning forehead

falsehood is the graven image

the empty poet makes

of Jesus and the imagination

falsehood is a forgotten grave

the empty poet enters

where never the Lord was laid.


Saturday, 11 February 2012

A New Woman, strap-on cock

struts a bold, barren quim

oftimes shaven, trimmed,

or shaped according to whim;

A slavering bitch exchanges

patriarchal chains for whip

or leather and willing butt

of perverted strangeloves;

For all her crackling of tongue

or fevered orgasmic screams,

she longs, by nipples to hang,

but, still, of Husband dreams.


by Avy Varghese on Friday, 10 February 2012 

I am listening to your silver payals

tingling up these mountain paths:

“See, my feet are red and bruised,

come down, Lord,  carry me up!”

“Do you dare, dear dancing Radha,

to disturb my closed-eye dreams?

Do you dare, voluptuous maiden,

to penetrate un-pierced drums?”

“I’ve come to laugh and waken,

serpent coils round your neck;

I’ve come to gently linger, lift my

flaming skirt up , burn my bower.”

Tantra sits on invisible mountain

peaks, feet enfolded in the lotus;

Tantra waits and lets all build up,

lava boiling and thunders rolling.

“What you found in old Vrindavan

isn’t what you’ll find in dark locks;

Little Radha, cast off your anklets,

return home to effeminate lovers.

Here there is no flute, no blueness,

it’s cold and grey, a strange clime;

Here a serpent and a death’s head

sway to the beat a damaru thrums.

O Radha, climb not up this mountain,

your shakti  is faint as soured wine;

but if you lust after purple domains,

leave Krishna’s weaknesses behind!”

Desiring Shiva, woman, is sure death.


Sunday, 5 February 2012

Eleven bars of grey

window, a dried up

plate, waning silenced smile.

The window, the widow

of night, this glass harp

of mine is out of tune.

Peek in, curious moon,

disrobe me, come, light

up your star-burnt eye.


Saturday, 4 February 2012

A black-maned lion roars alone

striding the naked savannah,

sonic light for flickering stars.

They’ve heard him in Judah,

the ones bereft of praise,

those whimpering cousins

they shiver. 


by Avy Varghese on Saturday, 4 February 2012 

Your celestial eyes

of light, streamed

from kind fingers

to lips, you spoke

dandelion words,

dried drunk tears;

remember a hush,

no pious kneeling

at that high altar,

and Jesus watched

those empty pews;

Bruckner was gone,

the stately pipes

but soared up to

the stained glass

in colored waves,

our sidereal altar

housing the Mary,

help of the needy,

i touched in you

a Mother-heart,

virgin lightning,

a womb of love,

thus without arms,

within Her breast,

you held me with

untouchable body,

a light entered into

Linz alter dom that

ravaged this grave.


by Avy Varghese on Wednesday, 1 February 2012 


four spurts

in a bowl



five spasms

a new soul



six senses

the whole



null, illusion

growing tall


size is equal to

black phallic


of secrets






trace lines,

curves, arcs

measured in

hips, buttocks,

breasts, lips,

inner thighs

eyes, heels

loose limbs

disperse as

our children

praise wife

frutiful vine


for kings,




daily, said Paul;

that I unto all

life of mine may dy,

said Teresa;

before thou diest,

said Rumi;

to all nama-rupa,

said Ramanna;

bring beginning

middle and end

as one, encircle

the sky of being



by Avy Varghese on Tuesday, 31 January 2012

flight-lines of crows caw

carp in fuzzy nests

worries sing new grooves

fish rise up for supper

reflections of a hand

crumbling gold in air

the woman in the mirror

washes her ugly face

spot less

the lover in wan distance

drinks water out of stone

dead dew

desire’s flame cutting

the woman in the mist

bursting flesh

hopes are nagging pinworms

tilling fertile soil

drought lies there


by Avy Varghese on Sunday, 29 January 2012

And what then is a Christian for he who calls himself one is no one

The Tree springs up from ineffable roots in the Void

We utter Babel-words “In the beginning, G-d”

There is war in heaven and earth too is Vo-d

The Devil is without a gap or hyphen, complete, defined

with no possibility or potential but to run the fixed tracks

of the planets and loose the stars cast down adrift in air

stratosphere and atmosphere, gas amorphous solidifying

The earth replenishes rejuvenates as moss animals reptiles insects

conjectures and conceptions that wheel about like twittering birds

A hybrid image of spirit encased in flesh appears tripartite, lateral, 

three wills in the crucible, great churning in the great Ocean of Milk

Now he who stirs comes with wrath to lay waste to forests of humankind,

palms filled with the Fruit of the Knowledge of the Tree of Good and Evil

rising up as high-towered cities, alleys of piss, sky-machines, dissected babies

Homeopathy is also at work here, do you see through the butter and mirror?

Waste conquered by Waste

Death defeated by Death

Suffering eased in more Suffering

Ego above tangoing Ego below

Yet, still, the unanswered in the Cyclical, cursed Paradox

Whom am I or Who are You

What then this enigma, Christian?

Mayhap it is the Tree of Life bearing the scars of twin axes,

Giving up the body to the Devil or the unknown G-d of War,

Both blows shake the Tree, the leaves fritter away,

Flowers dismay, petals are stripped, forced astray

We stand bare of branches, how we stand spider-legged,

spread splayed naked clawing for space in a bleak red dawn

But even the branches are broken off to feed G-d fire,

Two beams remain, X-ed, twisted trunk and corkscrew arms,

A blast burns as black light, darker rains fall, the belly of Hades heaves


On this Tree is etched the features of a Thing of Beauty Joy Forever

but it is No Form, only the Marred, secrets not sought or desired

Is this a time for the Wound of Time, the gash of a Woman, to be staunched?

Can one give and receive beyond the beatings, the Blood, the Bread?

Enmity and divide, slash and burn, metamorphosis makes a Tree a creature

He walks, he sighs, his roots move within and with him

He breathes in all toxins and spews out oxygen

He spits and the mud mutates into medicine

He listens to the Mother and the water becomes wine

He sends forth fragrance of roses and lilies from his sweat pores

From his genitals he waters the virgins the whores the barren the widows

From his anus he expels all the uncleanness that makes earth weep

From his mouth he sends forth hot kisses of peace

From his nostrils flow the wings of the Paraclete

and his throat is blue from quenching the worms of hatred

From his navel flows honey that evaporates and falls sweet dew of dawn

In his forehead the hidden Name, the diadem of the Kings of Cipher

See how the lowliest of the earth stand before the White Throne

the leprous ones with their broken skin and flesh, from broken masks,

from the cracks in their skulls, streams the unapproachable Light, 

from their eyes fall out the diamonds that reflect unmined colours

And what then is a Christian for he who calls himself one is no one


by Avy Varghese on Friday, 27 January 2012

Lord, when you robed me in sackcloth and said “You are sin”,

I quickly agreed and nodded my weary head: “I am the least.”

When you slapped me on my right cheek of rebellion,

I turned my left too, I sought the finger-scores, my pride.

When you struck yet harder to break the jaw of the ass

I bowed yet lower, my knees are broken, I crumple to the ground.

I accept the crushing, the foot on my head pushing me down

under to Pathalam, because even there, you never let me be.

You allowed locusts to eat away the grain of my labour

and the black scorpions sting me with flailing tail and tongues.

Then the serpents came to bite my heel and confused

with hissing in my ears dark blasphemies, I remember mercies.

And I dream and my empty sockets stare towards your comfort,

the Ladder I ascend and descend, and the gentle Dove that alighted

upon the Man of Sorrows sits upon my shoulder and coos me to sleep.


by Avy Varghese on Friday, 27 January 2012

Those prayers are always on their lips like lipstick

so all can hear and know they pray

My prayers call out from the coiling depths of my nightmares

Those prayers are anaesthesia so they can dive deep to escape

My prayers refuse the wine and choose the vinegar of clarity

Those prayers are fulfilled and all they desire is granted at once

and they sing with all their limbs askew

My prayers are cries that slowly turn to screams inside a body-prison

Those prayers lift them so high and mighty that insignificant

human realities be even smaller or as dank smoke

My prayers hurtle me into depths where I live your forsakeness

Those prayers are songs of the rich and full in the belly of the well-fed

My prayers are the wailing of the barren, the widow, the leper-orphan

Therefore, forget me not when you come into your kingdom,

O Man of Sorrows, for I will keep silent watch with you when all leave.


by Avy Varghese on Friday, 27 January 2012

Love God

whose absence is verily presence

Love God 

though he breaks you on the rack of sadness

Love God

when he shatters the strongest inner bones

Love God

when he gifts you asses in an unclean wilderness

Love God

though he sends Satan to imprison and torment 

Love God

who always sees your eternally etched faults

Love God

when he drowns you a kitten in seas of darkness

Love God

if with fire he scarifies inscribes tattoos and wounds

Love God

when he scatters all your hopes upon ill winds

Love God

when he instigates his people to mark you outcast

Love God

though he sends toothed worms to gnaw the flesh

Love God

when your lot is pain and defeat and thunder of turmoil

Love God

if he sends evil spirits to silence voices of innocence

Love God

and send him bouquets of peace and forgiveness

Love God

for he is lonely in the highest of the seven heavens

Love God

for in his hurting eyes we are all sheep gone astray

Love God

for it is a god’s privilege to be harsh and very cruel

Love God

for he uses an alien language we cannot translate

Love God

for it is our lot to to accept punishment as goodness

And since the Holy One by nature deigns to be separate

Let humans build a bridge from sylvan earth to golden heaven

Let us bring god sprigs of joy and glad hosannas to set him free

Let us help him forget his anger and sorrow and disappointment

Let us comfort the maker bringing him sheep with throats slashed

In bloodiness all that belongs to the Light will glow as one glorious One

Glory be to the Father and to the Son and to the Holy Ghost

as it was in the Beginning, is Now and Ever shall be World Without End

Love God

Love God

Love God


by Avy Varghese on Thursday, 26 January 2012 

Tell of the true Brahmin,

He descends to Hades;

Yama is afraid to espy

Him who seeks escape,

slave of change, decay.

Three nights He waits at

Yama’s dim threshold

bereft of grains of food;

When Yama returns, He

the script has changed.

The Fire-God is silent;

Yama whispers “Stay.”

3 nights are nought

to Him who sought

a fast for forty days.

“3 boons, O Brahmin,

I’ve power to yield,

so you may forgive

all the intransigent,

I pray you, receive!”

“Then let my Father

allow Prodigal Sons

return, let no wrath

still sour or impede

a wanderer-wraith. “

“It will be so, my word

I keep, though so hard

it be to grant the boon,

rare it is for unsullied

souls to swim the Styx.”

“It’s fearless in Heaven,

you’re also not there,

no dread of agedness,

thirst, sadness, show

me homa of happiness!”

“Agni-vidya, I teach you

forged in abyss of Hell,

thus He who gives up

self for others  delivers

and has His tale to tell.

Arrange now, O Friend,

as living blazing stones,

the instrument hidden

in this Cave of Buddhi,

use it thrice, ascend!”

“Now give me the key

to the Mystery, why

one is born and dies,

whence breath came,

whence ever it goes.”

“Know not such secrets,

they confuse the gods,

ask me super-siddhis,

long life or kingdoms,

materialised desires.”

“You offer many deaths

instead of one, O Yama,

I won’t be fooled, now

grant my boon or you

too will be a slain liar.”

“Sreyas and Preyas are

two miniscule ranges

and the Atma sits still,

Atma runs allwheres,

stability in instability;

Atma fires up the true

forms for a seer-poet

and for Her all is food ,

Buddhi, the wise rider

on Samsara, the road;

Beyond the sensuality,

the Unmanifest, then

Purusha-Atma, awake

O Snake, to enlighten,

Alpha, Omega, Arisen!

Atma is ever here, it is

whatever is there too,

the size of Tom Thumb,

an embryo in a woman,

a flame without smoke.

Prana, Apaana, Gotama,

beat around the Bush

is what my people do,

so they’re sold to me,

I embrace their souls.

No Sun there, no Moon

No lightning, fear-fire,

only Tat hidden Centre

self-shining, star-joy,

it all depends on Tat.

A 101 nerves attached

To the heart, one runs

Upwards, find it now,

by it be released, go,

show this Gospel to all.”

Ascending by the single,

slender, sacred thread,

the lowly Brahmin now

arises to cut a 100 lies,

threads hang to dust.


by Avy Varghese on Thursday, 26 January 2012

I am singing daily

of the slowly dying motions

of one who’s already joyous dead

I am singing gaily

of the rotten flickering light

that unwraps itself inside my head

I am singing rowing

upon the sickly people-tide

the ghosts who come whisper beside

I am singing softly

of the valley of bones deep

where in lichen-grave to sleep I lie.


by Avy Varghese on Wednesday, 25 January 2012

the ancient hard Rock


unmoving, unspeaking

the ocean from before

the only beginning

tossing and dissolving

stars forging a Hunter

distant, twinkling

lit-up hearts dead fire

the maiden of memory

serrated, separated

the pain, the stanching

the serpent of wisdom

hissing, uncoiling

hung on a tree to dry

waiting and watching

trembling, balancing

blinding sun burn sky

the parchment of life

blowing, daggered

pen poised, un-inked

the lines of the Reptile

unblinking, shadow

etchings, desert dunes

the song in the throat

arid, torrid, alas,

a tongue torn out, red


by Avy Varghese on Wednesday, 25 January 2012

i am done

with everyone

except you

dark fiend




by Avy Varghese on Wednesday, 25 January 2012

O my small soul, 

run, little mouse

to a safe house

huddle in darkness

its soft fur cuddle

O my littlest soul

here you are safe

far from the skin

that is like glass

the cutting knives



far from those eyes

that swallow stars

be afar, just be afar



far from that mouth

abyss, spit you out

hope, vitamin C sour

far from those limbs

that will entangle

on dead ways, stray

far from the smells

of a stagnant well

let a drought come

O, my stupid soul,

be silent, mouse

in the safe house

far from the human

rat race, find space

to rest, fill no place.


by Avy Varghese on Monday, 23 January 2012

When they write of

black-death angels

creating dead seas

a Speaking Serpent

fruit that overturns

White Beard’s rules

an angry green-eyed

god, and other lords

fire-spewing, cherubs

Moses and a magic rod

bringing blood or toad,

slaughter of innnocents

Aaron’s budding rod,

hate-cities, butchery

Ur, Beelzebub, Dagon,

Elijah and his wagon

Enoch dis-appearing

angel-fucking women

titans and anti-heroes

wise ass-head talking

a walk on cool waters

a dove drifting down

three froggie-spirits

Pagans or the Elect

when it’s all finally

bound as a Book

of Mysteries, how

they dub it Scripture.

If I wrote anything 

like those or these,


 can damn it – myth

bad-science, fiction

I say, fuck them all,

limp, unimaginative



 by Avy Varghese on Tuesday, 17 January 2012  

I am Prescient

I always can

tell how 1+1

becomes none.

I learnt the science

by reading well

the alphabet

that cannot spell.

I know beforehand

unfitting angles,

plain geometry,

scalene triangles.

It’s long practice

and closed eyes,

I split the shell,

part fire and ice.

I live, deranged

in my small hut,

here I can smell

out ifs and buts.

You’ll fool others,

despise loyalty,

I’ll see through

such chicanery.

Before you leave,

I’ll quit quietly,

knowing afore

that I am free.

I am prescient,

I always can

tell when 1+1

becomes none.


Tuesday, 17 January 2012

The blackest shell is closing in over me 

this fading moon, sickle, a Stygian sea.

come, darkness, crop of darkness reap

less and less, I see, I talk, less and less

Dreams pass by, birthing dirty clouds,

a face scarred, cold-lit from above

my grey silence is ever gagging me

nothing to say to wind, sea or tree

smile, friend, each tortured moment

mauled by time, reaches an ugly end

from minarets tall, the mullahs call

“Get the warning out, get out!”

The dead moons broadcast shouts.

Do I have ears, in a behemoth shell?

Do I hear songs, strike a broken bell?

The bleakest shell is closing in over me 

this fading moon, sickle, a Stygian sea.


by Avy Varghese on Saturday, 14 January 2012 

where did you come from? why did we lie down

on the pavement? the grey stones a feather bed,

an unknown friend is trying hard to fix the ends

of blue tarpaulin over our heads while a corner


keeps slipping down, nothing to fasten it to or by

and people hurry around or step over our bodies

immersed in a flurry of red kisses or a breathing

of flowers mingling on hungry tongues, and i said:

must we live forever on this pavement?

kissing on the pavement turned the sun’s cheeks red

so we rushed home but my brick house had collapsed

with red kisses, empty sky was all we had for comfort

and our sticky underwear thrown into an airless night.

the only thing to do now is to travel, she nodded;

we stopped at a big chapel to take off our shoes,

while she sat next to me a nun in the pew ahead

took my left palm in hers and stroked it tenderly.

when we came out there was a lonely bright sun,

and across the wall of the church, the cemetery

burning an old man’s body laid on a golden pyre

and beside it a laughing child immolating himself.

i held her hand in mine and we went on searching

by foot, returning to a place I’d loved but had to

leave far behind and when I reached, there were

none to greet me, only the songs of many ghosts.

sink into the feeling of deep-sea desolation,

i look around for you but all i have left now

is the memory of red kisses and tossing hair


by Avy Varghese on Tuesday, 10 January 2012 

so do not allow people

to inhabit you

as flowers and thorns

the open mind invites

fangs and pricks

let winds in, enter in

but do not allow people

to inhabit you

let words seep in or out

always be empty clouds

the fluff of dreams

seen but never attained

empty it out the human

vessel;  break, pot!

bands of flesh, dissolve

do not allow people ever

to inhabit you

let free everyone forever

always be water flowing

under all bridges 

water snakes into holes


Saturday, 7 January 2012

knowing and writing

two birds in a tree

the tree of death

a trunk grows wide

the branches arise

the root of desires

leaves are laughing

fruits are chirping

the music of urns

colored birds arrive

flutters the foliage

a chorus-cacophony 

give me a sharp axe

to lay to dead wood

treeless ecstacy be


by Avy Varghese on Tuesday, 3 January 2012

learn well

you can tell


ways to hell

try to bell

the grin

of the cat

but one

with big


pussy in

the well

(who put

her in?)



learn well

One comment on “POETRY 9

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