Thursday, March 11, 2010



“Come, roam over my dolphin-cold body”,
I spoke to the Wave and her sisters, the Wavelets,
“Pour salt seas through the orifices of my pleasure;
Drain me.”
Then, laughing fish leapt out of my hot nostrils,
Ears and mouth, singing:
“We drown you and spit you out onto shore,
Flap awhile and be still, forevermore.”

“Come, caress my wild comet-haired body,”
I spoke to the Star and her sisters, the Black Holes:
“Penetrate with light the orifices of my pleasure,
Enflame me.”
Then, coal-scarred asteroids pummeled my chest,
Arms and thighs, singing:
“We set you adrift as pinpricks of fire in space,
Twinkle awhile and die with the night.”

“Come, pierce with sharp nicks my ripple-fed body,”
I spoke to the Wind and her sisters, the Breezes,
“Waft and warp the pores that bleed and weep,
Choke me.”
Then, butterfly-teeth tore into bits my soft sinews,
Stomach and loins, singing:
“We cast you afloat on the leylines of memories,
Remember and be tormented.”

“Come, tempt with fragrance my destitute body,”
I spoke to the Flower and her sisters, the Petals,
“Stab me, scrape away the skin that envelopes,
Wither me.”
Then, thorn-fingers put out my dark-lashed eyes,
Tongue and navel, singing:
“We steal from you all you are and ever will be,
We leave you forever empty.”

Saturday, October 10, 2009


the meeting place

so we meet again, under purple,
two shadows, not yet blackened.
inevitably, again reversal meets,
under purple, not yet black-end.

why do we meet? who are we? two
or many? multiply legion to soften
one another, insatiate eyes remain,
tolling, blanket of purple, a soft-end.

where did we meet? to what end?
end to end on end, head to feet,
toes to nose, navel to navel, even
the purple unfolds, uneven deaf-end.

and we are those that meet under
purple to sink into black, to shake
hands with eyes and eat bread in
secret, to flow satiate to dead-end.


Saturday, February 28, 2009

influenced by beckett.

They come,
Different and the same.
With each the insanity is different,
With each the shape of lust is the same.

Darkness over the face of the deep
Earth, shapeliness forming out of

With each the lack of love is palpable.
With each the relief they get after they fall or fail lifts and buoys them up.

Different and similar?
Different in the end
Though the same.
I remain or have ended up sane.
Behind the seemingly shapely-shapeless shamelessness of my lust.

They still come.
Love is Elsewhere.

my take on samia's poem

Tuesday, February 24, 2009


A bunch of pale-yellow, wrinkled Indian

Women wrapped in grey, cotton coverings

Chant-faded, wind-blown granny slokas

Worm-holing, eddying, meaning less and less;

Oyster-shell mouths, closing, opening

To drone a requiem for dull-clad Indian

Women dyed in yellow, orderly saris

pleating a culture of blind humming,

drumming up the ancient, spent, ashen,

sperm of routine, illusions and emptiness,

Voices drowning, bowed down Indian

Women lie down, thighs pried apart

by lusty, wheat-eyed industrial men

Carving up, fragmenting Sita’s purity,

burning, pock-marking, disemboweling

This bunch of cow-ish, cowed down Indian

Women bent down, beat low, eating dust,

Offering cold-spread buttocks to fascists;

Pink-soft vaginas speared by black lingams;

See now, watch how, the Third Eye opens.

Saturday, February 21, 2009

krittika sharma's new poem -edited by a.v.koshy


But how could she tell her mother
The room she saw a week ago
Had pink walls, pink toys,
A pink tape-recorder,
The volume peaked to drown her shock,
Give her a new notion of the colour?

Always think of pearl,
The beads that fell yesterday.

Always think of pretty flowers
Like the aging bougainvillea.
Always think of lace,
Grandmother's kerchiefs.

Always think of lip gloss,
My lips when you smile
And for summer days,
Think of candy floss.