CaPoWriMo 30 – IT IS DONE!
My peculiar pilgrimage through this Valley
of the dethroned Shadow of Death
(Your Presence is with me!)
is education in the School of Humiliation,
I shall not want, lack, suffer hunger
(Your Presence is with me!)
I have cleared the necessary 12 grades,
erected milestones, anointed with oil
(Your Presence is with me!)
but climbing that Indian Rope Trick Ladder
is more descending than ascending
(Your Rod chastens me!)
what exactly is this Dream placed within me,
what if it is but a nuance of Future Hope?
(Your Rod chastens me!)
and when I look around this laden Table,
empty plates and places befriend me,
(Your Rod chastens me!)
I long so much to give and to give away,
and I hold the silver Chalice of Prana
(My cup runneth over!)
I burn both body and soul to bring laughter
to everyone in sorrow or bitterness
(My cup runneth over!)
Intentions and actions are not yoked together,
the unbelievers mock the gap in the believer
(My cup runneth over!)
I’ve bowed down my head to Fate or God’s Will
obeying silently the command “Be still’
(Holy! Holy! Holy!)
I’ve bared my back for stripping, the lashes,
no longer do I chafe against the bit
(Holy! Holy! Holy!)
I’ve blinded myself with harsh nights of prayers
for those I love, do they know I care, I care?
(Holy! Holy! Holy!)
I’ve been broken in for my fault of wanting life
and more of it, Life defeats the living,
(Where does my help come from?)
The Light comes in through dank pores of skin
and hides in the caves David hides within
(Where does my help come from?)
My enemies surround me bleating or bellowing,
the deeper I dig into Rock, more their cursing
(Where does my help come from?)
I wish I could gather all my loved ones into one
furry ball of eternal song and celebration
(Your Staff of Presence comforts me!)
It is done! It is done! It is done!
CaPoWriMo 29 – ISAAC
I have learnt to be wary of the ‘holy’
men who sleep on the beds of nails,
or mattresses of poisonous arrows,
with words of dew disguised as hail.
I met one a long time ago, in 1979,
it took many blue moons to remove
the Blanket of Spells spread o’er me
that lulled me in a Luciferian grove.
The nails that had entered his soul
he sought to hammer into my own
that I might sleep an angelic swoon
or wake to reap a dread seed sown.
That twilight, I thought I had found
‘Revelation’, but what came around
was ‘Initiation’, to Confusion bound
I wandered in Nightmares unsound.
The happiness I had known in gentle
Jesus, meek and mild, became Night,
I bargained ecstasy for dead insight,
I sold wise discernment for a thimble.
The Viking said Jesus was the Hindu
who strives for Godhood with might,
‘a’ man who slayed the Sin in himself
to fill his fallen Soul with self-lit light.
When he had flushed out his earthly
lusts from within his fleshly carcass,
he became the Son of God, honored
for succeeding unlike all others, alas!
See, now it’s possible, the Liar preached
like all False Angels before him, for Dust
corrupted by Lust to become Diamonds;
so climb the Ladder, yes, now you must!
For years I fought to remove the Stains,
long nights I wept and then wept again,
battles were won but the war was lost,
my eager soul became covered in frost.
‘Twas good, I’ve found that liars help
to separate the wheat from the chaff,
to leave aside the years of the locust,
rejoice in Grace and once again laugh!
CaPoWriMo 28 – THE FOOL v 2.0
Again, as in a dull dream
I wander back to ancient
corridors and staircases,
Möbius strip like turning,
meandering looping in or
out of what is or only was.
Or, like an abandoned boat
leaking, filling up with salty
waters, left to sink, bob up
and down on folly’s ripples;
memories that emasculate
or laugh as the seabed calls.
Or, like the despised mendicant
I meet my students, so-called,
friends, liars, lovers, serpents
who softly kiss and slyly strike
me wrong; I face or end reality.
Why do I crave the old pattern?
It is closer to me like a woman
one has slept with every night;
or do I fear to leave the known
habit for the food of assassins?
CaPoWriMo 28 – THE FOOL
Again, as in a dull dream
I wander back to ancient
corridors and staircases,
Möbius strip like turning,
meandering looping in or
out of what is or only was.
Or, like an abandoned boat
leaking, filling up with salty
waters, left to sink, bob up
and down on folly’s ripples;
memories that emasculate
or laugh as the seabed calls.
Or, like the despised mendicant
I meet my students, so-called,
friends, liars, lovers, serpents
who softly kiss and slyly strike
me wrong; I face or end reality.
Why do I crave the old pattern?
It is closer to me like a woman
one has slept with every night;
or do I fear to leave the known
habit for the food of assassins?
Irresponsibility, wine, women,
song, art, dance, these clichés
are the sick illusions I swim in;
such honey won’t allow for loss
to be counted or valued as gain.
CaPoWriMo 27 – LENTEN PSALM 14 – APART
On a post-Easter morning,
the post-coital exhaustion
lies over the robots turning
back to the routine torment
of shops, offices or kitchens.
The Passion drug consumed,
the Groom exits graciously
from the cave, the shadows
are gone and waiting outside
are the women, all of whom
coalesce into one holy Bride.
The cars are screeching again
in hot streets, also blue buses,
the devil’s wild autorickshaws
and coolies are buzzing around
carrying the daily burdens laid
on them by stupid bourgeoisie.
In the midst of this hullabaloo,
somewhere, footsteps of light
ripple away to a mountain-top
or Galilean shore, the speaking
is finished except, now or then,
“Follow me, do not cling to me”
is what he gently tries to say if
they wonder why He’s different.
CaPoWriMo 26 – LENTEN PSALM 13 – NOVA
He is asleep within these cold walls
with guards keen to lock death in.
The Disciples hide in fearful caves,
afraid of the naked Night reigning.
Clots cover the serrated wounds,
bandages remould a carved body.
White cakes to brown and to black,
a Stone seals out the calls of Owls.
Black cobras dance happily mating,
bright peacocks strut proud blindly.
The Breath of Time is stilled in Space.
It’s not yet dawn; two mad women
break into this Garden of Spectres.
The Angel of God has now appeared
in the crack of a sudden earthquake.
All the soldiers have fled, and ethereal
is the Flaming that shames the sunlight.
Subtler still, a Countenance is renewed
again as Stranger to the ones He knew.
Then, with His soft uttering of her empty
name: “Mary”, He fills that sorrowing one.
“Rabboni!” See what a Pharisee can’t hear!
“Risen. He lives!” she runs to tell the others.
CaPoWriMo 25 – LENTEN PSALM 12 – THE STING
Why am I laid low,
handed over
to fallen Lucifer?
I do not want
the light he brings.
Why does nothing
flourish in my
once filled quiver?
I do not want
now even good things.
Why am I suspended
in a glass prison,
in formaldehyde, floating?
I do not want
to taste the salt springs.
Why do my friends
and lovers abandon
me, unaccepting?
I do not want
this pain, their cursing.
Why does the Sun
who favors all,
gift me scorching?
I do not want
this slow dehydrating.
Why do You preserve
me in a damp tomb
among the happy living?
I do not want
a reason for this breathing.
Why does the Moon
of gentle evenings
madness to me bring?
I do not want
loneliness of suffering.
Why have You shut
me in as nothing,
is this my sacral offering?
I do not want
to not love you, O Sting!
CaPoWriMo 24 – LENTEN PSALM 11 – SECOND BIRTH
on another Good Friday,
has shattered into tears.
The earth licks His Blood,
Semen of the Kingdom.
All are, all is, forgiven.
And our Mother Mary
stands there, praying,
fertilizing barrenness.
The Devil is
deserted.
Fear is
bereaved.
Arimathea carefully
places shredded
Bread upon
a granite Bed.
The Gash prepared
in a Vale of Sorrows,
quiet in the Mount.
Mary watches o’er
the Son interred
in a Second Womb.
Startled, she feels
again, labor pain,
second thrusting
of the stone hips,
three days hence.
CaPoWriMo 23 – Lenten Psalm 10 – PARCHMENT
There’s always the Morning
light I no longer desire
to wake up to the sadness,
I wish the lids were sealed
for good , plucked out the
black lashes afore they fall.
There’s also birds chirping,
voices I no longer desire
to hear for they’re saying
“It’s good to be wakening
to a red dawn”, but these
hymns serve a Last Supper.
There is too an Upper Room,
a space I no longer desire
to endure with the ‘Friends’,
I leave them to give them
my myth to live on , “I am”
the Bread who’s cruel, torn,
the Blood for Martyrs, born.
There is a Vessel of Water
or Wine I no longer desire,
a Towel too, for your feet
I wash, now let the thorns
mar countenance, I write
crimson on souls beaten
as lovers, my parchment.
CaPoWriMo 22 – THE GAP
There’s the hidden
vowel
carefully placed
between
the stones
of every two
letters
I pen.
Is it the same with you?
If we cannot dredge
these diamonds
from the sea,
we must continue
to part
at every
comma
question mark
exclamation mark
semi colon
interjection
retort
reaction
period.
What is it
that lies
not in the ink
or the blood
that forges
words
sentences
poems, prose
or novel plays
and is but
the light
unseen?
No-word.
CaPoWriMo 21- LENTEN PSALM 9 – ROCK OF OFFENSE V 2.0
Five days left to the next Easter Morn,
blow hard a ne’er-dying Harvest Horn.
I count the days with five cold senses
yearning beyond the ritual pretenses.
A crafty cynical cacophony of Religions
deludes daily as noisy vengeful Floods.
Waves rumble in these seething streets,
revolutions rain in as ravings and sleet.
A Third Eye from the East lasers Death;
can sufferings put out the Eye of God?
Everywhere I see the abuse of Messias
is well-arranged by fury of Intelligence.
What is this Faith beyond my Doubting?
Who is this I will meet as I am fasting?
It is not Krishna, Buddha, Paramahamsa,
it’s not Mahavira, Ramana, the Sai Baba,
nor Swami Vivekananda or Sri Aurobindo,
the ashen Mystics, Fascists, Nationalists,
not the suave Deepak Chopra or Amma,
a Baba Ramdev or Sri Sri Ravi Shankar.
Nor is it those lesser gods we name:
Sex, Drugs, Mammon, Power, Fame.
It’s not Shamanism, Tensegrity, Tao,
Santeria, Raelism, Wicca, Cult Cargo.
It’s the All-Mystery: Who will remain
the One risen from his earthen grave?
I don’t metaphorize Him, spiritualize,
or humanize, that way lies more Lies.
Don’t try to comprehend Resurrection,
be still, stay patient for the Gift given.
If you dare not touch the Pierced Side
or Palms, be amazed, come alongside.
To touch or see or know or feel at once
the Phoenix-Sphinx is to become alone.
Will I steal of the Tree of Knowledge to Sin
or know Rapture, Faith, Hope, Love within?
I can ride His Wind-breath, be re-purposed
and carved into a Rock of Offence, blessed.
CaPoWriMo 21 – Lenten Psalm 9 – ROCK OF OFFENSE
Five days left for this next Easter,
e’er the never-dying harvest fest.
I count each day with five senses,
striving to rise beyond a pretense.
Everywhere, the abuse of Messias
is arranged to please Intelligence.
Outside, the cacophony of Religion
rolls in like the next erasing Flood.
Walk down angry, seething streets,
revolutions, grope on without Light.
The Third Eye always sends out Fire,
can suffering put out the Eye of God?
What is it I believe though doubting?
Who is it I will meet as I am fasting?
It’s not Krishna, Buddha or Mahavira,
not Ramakrishna, Ramana, Sai Baba.
It’s not Vivekananda or Aurobindo,
Mystics, Fascists and Nationalists.
It’s not Deepak Chopra or the Amma,
Baba Ramdev or Sri Sri Ravi Shankar.
It’s not those lesser gods we name:
Sex, Drugs, Mammon, Power, Fame.
It’s not Shamanism, Tensegrity, Tao,
Santeria, Raelism, Wicca, Cult Cargo.
It’s what happened: Who will remain
that One arisen from a deadly grave?
I don’t metaphorize Him, spiritualize,
or humanize, that way lies more Lies.
Don’t try to comprehend Resurrection,
be still, stay patient for the Gift given.
If you dare not touch the Pierced Side
or Palms, be amazed or come beside.
I have touched and seen and known
the Phoenix-Sphinx, leave else alone.
I can see clearly now, Knowledge is Sin,
Faith, Hope, Love is what I need within.
I ride His Wind-breath, I am re-purposed,
carved into the Rock of Offence, blessed.
CaPoWriMo 20 – WRITING HER
this is how i pen my poem
look at her sideways out of a cuckoo’s crimson iris
let her know you glide over every pore of her body
do not leave out jot or tittle the right punctuations
if she returns your glance never let your eyes drop
if she stares back defiantly stare down her breasts
if they heave unnerved stretch out a raspy tongue
lick her into shape in the waiting air walking up bold
slide in beside her offer her coffee but divert to pub
you want inebriation so she is flows staggers slurs
take her home after pat down the sofa sit close hug
let your lap cushion her head pierce eyes hypnotize
stroke hair kiss cheeks whisper nothings in her ear
grown-ups love teen songs seduce lips stroke hips
breathe upon her lashes swollen with wanting lines
unbutton her shirt kiss the hills stroke the valleys,
open her enter seed await the dawn flush the sun
or moon will rise to fill blue grey orange black skies
light inscriptions set fire to stars make them moan
she is inscribed
CaPoWriMo 19 – LUST HEAD DEVILS
you tremble my lips tremolo a chant trip not words but moans terrorize my open mouth
tremor in itself tastes of fellatio swamps walk me through spice trees talk your tongue in mine
wring it swirl it together bock in hot cup liquid licorice lilting and lulling snakes flickering out twin in
you thin fin twisting testing fingernails brailling scarred walls feel secret ridges combing
hazemaze of greying hairwear bare breasts birthmark o few have entered taken prisoners in
bend finger-bars breaking in scattering touch credits spent on ribbed-prison let me in skin of lead
you slam puck-nipples this way twist windspeed trilling hot buttons piercings
trial error trick unlocking safe codes fragile tips dipping caress squeezing heart-lobes jibbing
no easy entry turbine arteries pumping ripe flood over about through bloodcrazed roused screaming
you wet trail slugly stairways to inny blow valley tornado warnings raising cain tumescence
innocence allowance excess get to inner chambers waiting lava shoot air gaspsplash red to milk
kiss fishes jumping wildly wet shores drying glass eyes flashing fright dimming drowsing night-light
CaPoWriMo 18 – Lenten Psalm 8 – A-DVAITA
I am
the demolisher of dvaita
the tripartite
the fragmented
of imagined controversy
or impotent contest
of the Plague of Choice
of the False Free Will
Light or Darkness
Moon or Sun
Carrot or Stick
Heaven or Hell
(what about Purgatory?)
Good or Evil
Right or Wrong
Yes or No
(what about the Maybe/If?)
God or Satan
Void or Fullness
Man or Woman
(what about the Transvestite?)
Earth or Sky
(what about the Sea?)
Paradise or Hades
Beast or Bird
Insect or Reptile
(what about the Amphibian?)
Sattva or Tamas or Rajas
Information or Knowledge or Wisdom
Foolish or Clever or Idiotic
Chosen or Damned
Jew or Gentile
Christian or Pagan
(what about the Mystic?)
Sheep or Goat
Lamb or Wolf
Horse or Donkey
Lion or Dragon
Fox or Dog
Snake or Mongoose
Raven or Dove
Unclean or Clean
Pure or Impure
Star or Dust
Plus or Minus
Saved or Lost
Angel or Demon
Multiply or Divide
Condemn or Justify
Judge or Redeem
Destroy or Build
Marry or Divorce
Patriarchy or Matriarchy
Cover or Reveal
Priest or Laity
Rule or Serve
Michael or Lucifer
Asura or Deva
Cain or Abel
Brahmin or Kshatriya
Ram or Ravana
Abraham or Lot
Pandava or Kaurava
Shudra or Vaishya
“King or Beggar
Rich or Poor
(That’s your lot? Don’t ask for More?)
Sarah or Hagar
Isaac or Ishmael
Esau or Jacob
Judah or Benjamin
(And what about Joseph?)
Moses or Pharaoh
Arjuna or Karna
Saul or David
John or Judas
Kunti or Madri
Mary or Martha
Krishna or Buddha
Ramana or Sri Sri
(And what about Amma?)
Right or Wrong
Cross or Sword
Air or Earth
Fire or Water
(And what about Ether?)
Ayodhya or Mecca
Mosque or Temple
Babylon or Zion
(and what about the Third Heaven?)
Body or Soul
Thought or Word
Idea or Action
(And what about Pneuma?)
Law or Lawlessnes
Christ or Anti-Christ
Man or Ubermensch
(Yes, what about Hitler?)
The Temple is savaged
No stone remains upon another
A miserable Wailing Wall stands
on all sides, bark the dogs of war
The Scythe reaps what is sown
Empty the Crystal Cup
The Host is Red
Lift it Up
Smash it in the Fireplace
Let the Pillars fall
Roll away the Rock
Put away the Dagger
Unbrick the Middle Wall of Partition
The Barbed Wire melts
The Boundaries dissolve
The Binaries are blown
The Veil is torn
Yeshua Adonai!
I AM.
CaPoWriMo 17 – Lenten Psalm 7 – CAUSE
because I keep losing the thread, they stick me with the rusting poisoned Needles of Tradition
because I did not listen well enough in my mother’s womb, I am eviscerated in the Chakravyuha
because I am reborn on fearsome Minos, Ariadne saves me the second time with a spider’s strings
because I am weak with fasting that does not destroy my flesh, I am despised and rejected by saints
because I am gentle like a lamb ready for the knife and fire, they will not take up their yoke of poetry
because I dream of keeping a pet monkey or sexing cotton candy, they nail me to the Wheel of Dharma
because I raise the dead from their narcotized sleep, they give me Vinegar of Sloth to drink
because I rally strange women to my pierced side, they finalize me in the cast of leaden shoes
because I rage with eyes of alabaster fire, they stick glowing lit cigarettes in my porcelain pupils
because I want to gather all as One as it was in beginning, they advice me to service priests
because I scorn their scriptures, idols of gold, stone temples, they value me at forty and thirty
because I don’t need eyes to see in the dark, they entomb me in the rich man’s rock cemetery
because I shout from the rooftops what is always given me to speak, they piss on my words of prayer
because I know they hear what they don’t want to know, they bind me and commit me to solitary
because I command the demons and they obey me, they burn me at a stake for my selfless sorcery
because I say the winds and the seas are stilled at my voice, they tie millstones around my neck of ivory
because I cry out as I sink and there is none to help, I whisper songs into the prostitute ear, the panting deer
because I kiss the sky its birds animals earth trees streams fish insects, I will not fear for they are with me
because I am driven into the desert for my cloven hooves, I retire to the cave of earthquake, fire, thunder
because the one I seek lives not in the ugly city, here I will wait keening for the still small voice I yet can hear
CaPoWriMo 16 – HORIZONS
How many times I have seen
the approaching black cloud
that foretells my sad rushing
to the end of the pier, watch
another ship departing slowly.
aiming for the sharp horizon’s
edge, but it is myself that I’ll
find falling off a treacherous
line into the awaiting waters.
One never knew that waters
can be so cold, opening maw
to swallow, white chills cut in
like shark teeth, pulled under
I learn that these ill currents
have always rejoiced to take
in victims of the disease Love.
Now, in my ears I hear cries
of whorls and wavelets who
entwine themselves around
my arms and neck and feet
making me drowsy and how
I feel black eels slip-slidingly
circle around my hip, thighs,
above me the light is closing
into a white hole, a goodbye.
Yet another ship is departing
for unknown shores, a siren
signals the farewell, my bag
is packed too, I have placed
heavy millstones in it, a wind
tugs at my feet, the boards
tilt, caving into the distance,
a speck dissolves and it falls
spinning into the sea tunnels
forgetting the seagulls’ calls.
CaPoWriMo 15 – Lenten Psalm 6 – THE CURVE
The Face in the mirror
mourns the Original.
Seek , you will be found.
G-d is a Curve, never
the straight line.
Praise is a boomerang.
Hymns are the songs
of ever-distance.
Gratitude is a Lamb.
Cherubim have wings,
clipped and cowering.
The Halo kills.
The idols are mute,
golden cripples.
Temples are poison.
The Dove is fluttering,
catch, eat the wind.
Water washes blood.
The Bull’s thick organ
is ready to bellow.
The drumming begins.
A stone altar is reeking,
incense is shrieking.
Prayer is agony.
The fish swim as crowds
in courtyards of dust.
Worship is cacophony.
Bring me a cord of whips;
lash tables, tablets.
Receive the Comforter.
The Face in the Mirror,
that all-seeing Dog.
You are found, seek.
CaPoWriMo 14 – FIVE HIGH
Her thin finger,
moving across
his white face
at ant’s pace,
frames space.
Her palm waving
earnest greeting
returns to slap
him, tattooing
a hot trace.
Her toe digging
into his heel
under a table
is the horse,
unlocked stable.
His eye roaming
below the belt
without sound
to the mound,
pupils dilating.
Her lips closing
upon his lotus
makes the frog
leap up alarmed,
how charming!
CaPoWriMo 13 – ANITHA-DIOTIMA
“I would rehearse a tale of love which I heard from Diotima of Mantineia, a woman wise in this and in many other kinds of knowledge … She was my instructress in the art of love, and I shall repeat to you what she said to me … My Grace is sufficient for Thee.”
I have learnt the Arcane, the being Human,
from the Woman who has taught me living.
First, She resembled those curious Shells
I picked up on my Beaches of Existence.
When I placed them as kisses to my ears,
I elided the movements of many births.
I rise as Poseidon from happy splashing in Her
green womb, She shapes Gods, Queens, Kings.
Also, know how She turns babies into princes
or, angry, blunts proud arrows of the wicked.
I’ve spied on Her washing Her Broken Ones
on full breasts blushing with Milk of Healing.
She always stands beside me as Mother, Wife,
Sister, Companion-Priestess of the Tree of Life.
Of All, the Wife is the Trunk most mysterious,
Her leaves are smiles and branches kindness.
Wife, first, and then Mother, are celestial doors,
you enter in or go out, and yet, space to return.
She who knows me has vestal strength in Her arms
to keep my wondering bowels from deathly harms.
She also comes as Witch and Bitch, the Blight,
weak, a dying wick that seeks Light by Night.
She slides in like a snake bringing shy embraces
as cakes or hissing tainted words dark-tongued.
She comes with Her gift and, having given, looks
to fulfill others whose damp hearths must be lit.
This Holy Warrior Woman is the Ancient Goddess
without whose generosity all Men would be less.
To Her secret groves and rites I’ve won access,
Anitha-Diotima’s veiled eyes bring what’s blest.
Wisest Wisdom is hid in a Rib for Jesus, Solomon,
Socrates, worship Her in both Whore and Virgin.
CaPoWriMo 12 – Lenten Psalm 5 – DYSMAS
I was travelling from holiest Jerusalem
to broken Jericho. Why? I do not know.
I was not merchant or priest, only that
ill Outcast, with no place else to reach
but the ruins of old Babylon, the Harlot.
I was travelling across Hindustan, seas,
from holiest Ayodhya to little Serendib,
I was not Sita or Hanuman, but only the
ill Outcast, with no place left to reach
but an Isle of Demons kept for torching.
I was travelling from envied Greece
to holy Ilium not hoping to catch a
spurious glance from Helen or bind
her to my side, I was not Achilles or
Agamemnon, but a poor galley-slave.
Wherever I travelled, I found no place
to rest my head, even the trees under
which I laid my burden of lower nature
withered with the stench of my being,
I’m scorned by e’en the dung of beasts.
Travelling to Jericho, stately robbers
plundered me of the nothing I have
and, angry, left me wounded, busted
the shit out of me, left this bouquet
of shit for burial in a Valley of Bones.
In a trireme’s belly, always hungry,
they broke the muscles of my back
with whips and carved black circles
around my ankles, taught me pain,
a river of blood flows to join Jordan.
Following Ravana, I saw the monkey
leap over the walls with flaming tail
to bring to a scorching end the tale
of a proud race and the lies of Aryas
could prevail, I was blinded thence.
There it was I put on the perennial
garment of the Shudra, Samaritan,
Chandala, Harijan, the shit-basket
carrier for Brahmin, Levite, Purohit,
Pandit; they shut the doors on me,
the verdict was “Less than a Beast”.
Blind, broken, beaten, kicked, sick,
a green-skinned man cut in pieces
is left on the shifting desert sands
fertilized by this urine and sweat,
he does not have anyone to help.
Have you heard the cry of a victim
rise from the crack in the ground?
Do you know that justice delayed
is justice denied? Is not your hand
shortened that it no longer saves?
Then I heard the anklets of a Man
who stooped by to give me drink,
but before a kiss reached my lips,
the mad mob of Jews and Romans
stoned, spat on, whipped, splayed
him naked nailed to a dead fig tree,
and I was on his right, in Paradise.
CaPoWriMo 11 – Lenten Psalm 4 – THE DAGGER
I was falling, twirling,
a peppered leaf
plucked away
from the Living Tree,
wafted on a breeze
of twilit death
in the scented Garden
burning down,
immolating angels.
I was drifting, a dimming
spark to a sullen earth,
melting wisely with moist
soil and sigh of worms,
entering mud sticky
with my fragile love
sinking into caverns,
valleys of bruised ice
or merging crimson flows
within a secret smithy.
I am boiled, hammered
set adrift on lava
currents rolling,
drawing me
to Seven Stations
and the Sword
plunged hungry
into the orifice
of this jailed planet.
I am beaten, made
hard as the One,
that flesh-stripped
Skeleton of Shame.
Here I am with a Friend,
with this rejected Alien
within whose Forehead
dwells Zion’s daemons
wearing silvery studs
and thorns of praise
upon their pierced
twinkling tongues,
singing of torment.
I falter in these sweet
chambers of despair,
yet a different Love
forges us anew,
this anvil shapes
a primordial
thirsty
Dagger
raised
from depths
in fire-attire.
I will slaughter
the coward
wolves
bulls
dogs
bees
who too soon
bayed
lowed
barked
buzzed
before the race
was run
my demise.
CaPoWriMo 10 – Lenten Psalm 3 – DESERT FIRE
What did I come looking for? Sand,
rocks, vultures, caverns, heights,
blistering feet, shrinking cheeks,
a halt in the white Valley of Bones.
Fasting sharpens the Teeth of Desire,
keeps the senses alive through Lent.
A spirit laughs to see all withering,
dying to touch. Another breathes
upon it all. Exhale, inhale, a living
dog’s more hope than a dead lion.
Fasting sharpens the Teeth of Desire,
keeps the senses alive through Lent.
So what went you out into this wild
to see? Depriving the senses is but
another way of feeling. Have you
entered worlds beyond those five?
Fasting sharpens the Teeth of Desire,
keeps the senses alive through Lent.
Fight excess with excess. A Devil
accelerates sensual fevers, sin;
the Sun dries juices, parches skin
and materializes the Light within.
CaPoWriMo 9 – THE PISS POEM
Tonight, I know what it feels like to be writing poetry;
I’m the cavity between Kama and Smara, the Word
flows backwards in search of an erogenous beginning.
Tonight, I am that fertile woman who thrusts upwards,
lets it flow in, or thrusts outwards, lets it burst out,
ones, twins, triplets, sextuplets, the birth of breaths.
Tonight, I touch the muscles that pump like black sugar
ants, crossing the lines not meant to be crossed,
climbing mountains, carrying their tiny white burdens.
Tonight I see what my poems will be, a stronger flame
than the cold-hearted stars or the flashing fireflies,
to burn curious children who want to catch butterflies.
Tonight, I also desecrate the mighty enemies of poetry,
the wretches who scribble vain short stories or paint
so badly that which can’t be spelt in five secret words.
Tonight, too, on desolate sidewalks in yellow-pane light
slink those sewer writers, rebels, cock-suckers, pricks
who make cabals, collectives, networks, news, money.
Tonight, I piss a fountain on all their dream manuscripts,
their cavorting, prostituting, merchandising, posing,
their imagining they’re Baudelaire, Verlaine, Genet, lies!
Tonight, I know what it feels like to be writing poetry,
I am the illicit Pleasure that leaves no ever-Memory,
a man no longer knowing anything, without or within.
Tonight, I am that fertile woman who thrusts upwards,
allows minarets to rise up within her filled with hymns,
codes, couplets, triplets, sonnets, the death of deaths.
CaPoWriMo 8 – HOURI
If you meet her on the perilous path
lift her veil of words, see the thorns
stuck in her eyes bloodying the sight.
Look under her black bleak silk hood,
hidden stripes, a stretch-lined belly,
Chance destroys people, burns lovers.
Lift her skirt, Chance changes all things,
peacocks into pigmies and the ravens
into doves, sperm and egg into babies.
Walk with her a mile, be not covetous
and you will get it without the asking,
Chance can bring you surprising wings.
Walk with her a second mile, just smile
when the road disappears from under
the feet with utter frightening thunder.
Then it’s time to leave her for another
who will know you, in turn, as veiled,
Chance would have become your sister.
CaPoWriMo 7 – Lenten Psalm 2 – PRAYER OF THE DEFEATED
I am praying, bowing down defeated
in this City of Exile, chained to granite
posts, wry Fate, a dead or dying Tree,
opens the Eyes of Loss to destruction,
lives expunged in this sewer of malls,
race, caste, language, gender, Chaos
forging with iron fists, collective soul.
I’m praying it won’t be exterminated
with its syphilitic animals so unaware
of the Cleansing to come, fever, hate,
burning buildings, void lakes or hungry
feet tripping into the alienating abyss
of the dung-drunk Queens of the Night
waiting. skirts up, calling, “Come, nigh,
to spit into my moist hot Jezebel nest!”
I am praying my years of Prison Life
will not sing the Hymn of Anathema
to the Builders of the Phallic Towers,
to the Principalities, Thrones, Powers
that trade in the souls of sick sheep,
to silver droppings of the Merchants
of Uncool and Mammon and Moloch.
Must I be praying fire and brimstone
over this virile City of False Apostles,
Vikings who believe Jesus was Hindu
Yogi who struggled with Yoni depths,
an Ant in the honey pot or toilet bowl
of sin, Salmon swimming against that
current, breaking out as Tears Sweat
Blood, elevate a crumpling Manhood
to That I Am That Thou Art Om Amen
Satan Cultic Hid Gateway to Godhood?
I am praying I won’t desire like Lot
a place in the gate with the Elders
of a city ready for its Nuclear Death,
and a sure etching of human bones
upon the walls of gated communes
built upon the cries of my Outcasts.
I’m praying that the proud grandeur
of the flower markets and flyovers,
the overhead rail-paths to nowhere,
the procession of daily wage slaves,
my hawkers, drifters, hype wizards,
their despair, desperation, distress,
won’t be silent vacuum apparitions,
the end of a Vanity Fair that’s selling
me and carnal you as slaves or calling
you and I from City of Exile to my Zion.
CaPoWriMo 6 – LentenPsalm 1 – THE HAND
You have watched me throughout a Night
and the searching Lamp dampens a drizzle
of thoughts that devour my peace like fire,
yet, flames do not desiccate my branches,
here where there is no stink of Hades’ ink,
there I have walked, run, slept on choking
sands, but I’ll conquer these inscape lands?
Have you felt the Invisible smooth your brow
while you, abandoned, slept the deeper sleep,
with breezes wafting roseate scent of Sharon?
Yes, the bats were forced from worry-caves
and the sly rats, flies, wasps and snakes left
shamed by the sweetness of unknown Light.
Have you woken up ashamed of all you were
in the knowing that you’ve only been carried
always upon a Bosom that has been the Rest,
where the Milk of Goodness flows for a child
or Honey of Mercy mends my broken knees?
Yea, a sound witness to it will be in my mouth
overflowing with the laughter of hidden pools.
Am I awake now? Stay with me, caressing hand
to wipe this blackened sweat from weary brow;
even without that secret touch you brought, I
will arise to follow your whisper in the waves,
in the sparrow’s chirp, in the darkening glades,
here where a Mystery’s lullaby soothes, burns
with concern, you join that Below with Above.
Here I am! Drown me in pure Ferment of Love.
CaPoWriMo 5 – The Buffalo Waltz
Don’t reply if my questions sneak into you silent and seductive as the Buffalo Waltz,
Just smile at the slow drifting Danube as I did one neon-hued warm night in drunken Linz,
Just smile at the flow of music between me, the slippery Stadtverkstadt and the Museum Lentos,
Tiptoeing to swaying jazz tones red blue-green violet orange stepping-stones on weaving glass faces.
Don’t reply if my head is anyways split into twenty different visual erotic channels;
Just smile because this Mystery of Mysteries is not there to be resolved or complicated;
Just smile like a sleeping kitten, leave the known to captivate more than the unknown, grin on!
There are no borders no boundaries no fences, atmosphere stratosphere Luna sphere, catch splintered lights!
Don’t reply if I argue about spiritual-ecological awareness, green theologies, I don’t!
Just smile because you are wondering what toothpaste I use, Close-Up, Colgate or Neem;
Just smile for between my laundry and the extraordinary, I am a viral sneeze in a difficult squeeze,
That’s fine too, isn’t it, if it is any good? It means someone is thinking of you and you’re dangerous, germinating!
Don’t reply if you are exotic fur on a celebrity shoulder or parochial stir-crazy, I am spherical;
Just smile, for you and I can be traveling like sabre-toothed mammoths with Buddha’s memories;
Just smile standing like a lingam oiled with possibilities of future reconstructs, like the bull in the machine,
I am free to laud Rimbaud or Beckett and turn away from Tagore, Rumi, Gibran, that kind of spiritual flea.
Don’t reply if you come from the opposite pole, the content has always been an Other,
Just smile for drifting apart is the purpose of ice floes, the cadence across bodies, the meltdown after,
Just smile for the terms are always love, hate, anger, politics, society, rules, regulations, crumpled bed sheets,
Form or formless, the damned species continues to become, popping out of bellies as already fading starlings.
Don’t reply if you believe there are enough sonnets written, let’s jive with or without them,
Just smile and circulate through capillaries, veins, arteries, or clog all the sewers with criminal static,
Just smile with each electric shock that mutes disease and scars shamans of healing astral therapies,
Life forms, emerges from air, in stagnant pools, short-nosed rivulets, lesser-known springs or violet ocean sprays.
Don’t reply if you are Dharmic, that most subtle capitalist of the spirit, mythical re-mixer and materialist shit,
Just smile as you rake in the souls and hide them as gold shekels, shackled to dread stone of ancient temples,
Just smile through this Satsang, use this raag to crap over the Dalits and Shudras, burn their huts to the ground,
This is the heinous Hypnos that glues together all cultures, behead the sacred slokas of self-righteous caste vultures.
Don’t reply if you are working with theories of rationalization and accounting for it all in the spiritual;
Just smile for all I am repeating like a parrot is an Upanishadic principle for the merchants and illusionists,
Just smile and chant courageously “Neti, Neti” however wonderful or right, something feels wrong, not this nor that,
It’s pragmatic, it is sensual will, give it material shape on the tongue, in breath, between lips, spirit collapses logic.
CaPoWriMo 4 – Criminal Love
The Love of God
has crippled me,
put my joints
out of alignment.
How, or why,
do I want
the ruddy
Silent One,
enthroned
above waters?
Once, walking
upon the Lake
I fantasied it
Sea, but now
even if I stood
upright, my
broken knees
would betray:
let him sink.
There is ever
none to help
in affliction,
and yet:
Presence!
CaPoWriMo 3 – THIS THIRD POEM
This piece of impropriety is not a poem the way you want it.
This impulse to excrete is not image or text or test or clown.
This probability of failure is not about content, form, author.
This outstretched wand is not meant to bring about embrace.
This laser machine is not a separation of light from darkness.
This exposed midriff is not a naked oracle of keen prophecy.
This cradle of cacophony is not a child of obsession or art.
This abandoned passion is not crying out or communication.
This orphaned mendicant is not your host, hole, nest, den.
This night-time pillar is not a lost pilgrim or radiation cloud.
This carving in the air is not the handiwork of a human stone.
This leg of mutton is not for freezing, stealing, selling, eating.
This affront to language is not of tradition, translation, trading.
This flame-thrower is not looking for plunder, rape, war, attrition.
This bamboo cage is not an encampment for the song of God.
This casting of a spell is not the play of demons, winds, warlocks.
This sifting symphony is not the din of sand nor trial of rain.
This coloured capsule is not pleasure for sullen aches, wounds.
This cloven hoof is not looking for the maiden hand of friendship.
This third poem is manifest as blood of thorns on a beaten brow.
This three-fold music is. Or, maybe. Or, is not. Myrhhic.
CaPoWriMo 2 – BYE BODY
oBody
myBody youBody loveBody yourBody weBody oneBody twoBody threeBody themBody emBody
someBody usBody thusBody everBody everyBody heatBody corpseBody bloodBody snowBody
hateBody touchBody lickBody smellBody inBody outBody holoBody noBody norBody nighBody
nailBody neverBody noughtBody niceBody nakedBody nullBody nukeBody ninBody neuroBody
withBody whichBody whatBody whoBody wallBody wineBody weaveBody waterBody wellBody
sickBody clashBody counterBody sexBody femBody penBody holeBody wholeBody rotBody riskBody
raceBody colourBody rimBody edgeBody laughBody birdBody catBody hisBody herBody howBody
howdyBody inBody outBody sideBody upBody downBody runBody sitBody rollBody rockBody
pusBody peaBody peeBody fuckBody suckBody prickBody cuntBody titBody assBody poreBody
cueBody hideBody nipBody nonBody nilBody moBody smartBody meatBody hookBody hotBody
dataBody greenBody geeBody wheeBody whineBody honeyBody potBody clickBody caveBody
rainBody flowerBody mudBody riverBody sandBody lionBody lambBody snakeBody ratBody owlBody
eyeBody earBody antBody itchBody dwellBody shellBody touchBody lapBody thrustBody flayBody mapBody killBody cutBody spitBody mindBody spiritBody clockBody fleaBody dogsBody hoaxBody
slaveBody salveBody toneBody treeBody tongueBody twigBody sapBody thiefBody fangBody saintBody
isisBody buddhaBody blueBody bowBody shamanBody surroBody subtleBody sheathBody crossBody
bloodBody ransomBody wormBody deadBody darkBody dungBody
dragonBody deepBody
sleepBody graveBody
riseBody riseBody riseBody
doughBody leavenBody
riseBody raisedBody
riseBody rousedBody
newBody nowBody loveBody faithBody
hopeBody oneBody skyBody raptureBody
biBody dimBody byeBody doneBody dumBody
dumdededumdedadumdededumdoodadumlaladumdoola
oBody.
CaPoWriMo 1 – THE MARCH OF THE MULES
April 1, 2011
Don’t you see? There are no living poets any more.
Hello, manicured Mules who desire to be flogged
by whips of “poetry exercises”! The Mule-trainer
is a Black Guard. How ill-designed, these Satanic
daily challenges, camaraderie, provocation, shit!!
I hear you calling out “Aii, Aiii, Aiii”. The Sterile Herd.
You shove pricks, goads up their arse to scatter them
across barren highways. The Grand Asinine. O Mules,
march as traffic. So privileged, to be milling together!
Circular Mule-motion, bray grey Vehicles of No-song!
Don’t you see? Are there no living poets anymore?
The silver barbed wire stretches into a wilderness.
Fences, cells, trenches. The passionless need a prod
or a push that comes to shove; the Way of the Mule
is clear only when metal thorn or whip its skin splits.
RudraPrajapati 
fantastic work, consistency is the name of the game.
Thank you. 🙂
@2.Bye Body: very inventive! Over 150 images there, heyBody, well done! ‘riseBody, riseBody riseBody’ is my favourite line, a nice morning mantra, and with Easter coming up…
@4.Criminal love: the first stanza intrigues right away. Though poetry is said to be mostly about form, this first line makes one think about content… a contradiction in terms, yet making sense, as being faithful to our soul often seems to create a handicap. Just a quick look at artists lives tells enough… When it feels the soul is sinking, Presence is still there, under the currents too, nice finish!