top of page


Abhiram Kuchibhotla is from Delhi, India. A humanities graduate who currently manages communications and media for the Agri-Entrepreneur Growth Foundation (AEGF), he writes short stories and poems drawn from the web of Indian society. His work can be found at The Remnant Archive, Doing Sociology, RIC Journal, Chaicopy, and in the IWP anthology Exodus.


search for ‘utensils in Telugu’

and swap languages—yes, with

the arrows in the middle of the two

once done, realize, o learned one

it is not about explicit refusal

but the implicit glance of the privileged

the ones that let you know what you’re there for

and what is a feedback loop

if not the culmination of the past in the present

patterns reemerging, preying on each other

my mother arranging the utensils before bed

father lying in the sofa, phone held above his head


in a twilight punctuated by the lights of tweets and stories

desperate for someone to listen

bronchioles banning breath

breathe - but by bought bottles

before the c-virus, ‘19 edition

Iron Lungs wrapped polio-ridden

barely enough metal to shield us

barely enough to contain all the oxygen

in ’21 skins hide grey bones

is light diffracted through windows


if I go to kumbh, the good pilgrim

mu-cor-mycosis decide on a whim

gouge, blind my eyes,

do the seraphim welcome me as lights dim?

but illumination comes from

flares glinting off tiny phials

torches on roads and bylanes

find migrants with pinched veins

little neon green number guards

assuring life in clinical wards.

the knowledge we have gained

started with stones and sparks

and when those that are

supposed to provide

fail us

we see the ouroboros

poem scribbled behind my rolling tray

today I smoked a cigarette in the drain fly infested

bathroom of my hostel room, me, the neatest person

while narrating how I murdered the flies

a performative warning to their comrades

is the erratic addled skid of a bicycle on a downhill pavement not always,

really, not always more powerful than Shakespeare’s 7 stages of life?

isn’t the word rrqwzox a much more mysterious poem than the road not taken?

what is a road not taken? what have you gleaned from it?

be content with the leafy road you’re speeding on. look at it. look at rrqwzox.

is nothing more destructive than calling the wrong girl

the righter’s name on a glance at the road footpath?

me singing “whooo’s a buttery boi” in a loop while high cycling

to the tune of the Bob the Builder theme

will be sui generis to mere music, no matter how cosmonautical.

isn’t all experience/adrenaline/a good memory in

blatant violation of our natural survival laws ingrained into every DNA strand


1. no more problems

whence i prove women

drag to mine profane level

we will be equal

2. creases

paper planes made good

twist away from windows soon

alas, such is life

3. (no title)

i die atheist

what if heaven hell exist

the funny thing is


bottom of page