Sugu Pillay

extracts from

A Krishnapallavi for Hari


Cruel kindness falsely true in the interior of the world. We have come to the end of all torsion and flexion, the treasure house of intentions, of word events beyond exclusion rules, short-circuited words, a vertical equivalent of the staff of Moses in the hiatus of relationships, of discourse chiastic.

When words move into waves, Shiva's bullock secures relief. In portmanteau silences and shiftings, boundaries become porous through cultural repossession.

Worm holes, a spatial scoring of stars so big that they bend poets with utterances that go on creating and destroying a Shiva fundamentally restless.


The nine stones of India pluck out the heart we quake to look on. In third eye telegraphese, come dance with me. Take a chance fugitive fantasy

Transcription factors hinder the poet at work on the pineal gland rembering home truths and deflecting questions. Weasel or whale? Seal or soul? Bitter business words without thoughts, a creation of the brain that we may love again maths and magic when pain speaks not in rhyme.

Like a whale stranded in irreality, the attitudinising self tells stories to itself, a child in bed in terror of abandonment to the night and its mares.


Fundamentally restless matter holds the rainbow up. The abacus memory living in each colour of the spectrum records surreal time slips. Riding on a storm of falsifications, a Popperian spirit leap frogs into the realised space of art, a heretic loka

In search of the ox, the grass grows by itself but not the alien corn. Cows no longer stand on their breakfasts or dinners of artless art. Are these objects at rest or in perpetual motion?

Language is the occult in the over-nourishing absence of ordered space. Woman the algebraic negative, man's ribbed desire, is the value of pi. So much depends on cha-no-yu. Marginalia triumphs, crushing butterfly wings upon the wheel of sex. A private mystery and miracle play. In portable windmills the empty space glows.

© Sugu Pillay 1996