White snivel, and children who sniffle as they walk.
The containers used for oil. Little sparrows
Pretty, white chicks who are still not fully fledged
and look as if their clothes are too short for them
Last year’s paper fan. A night with a clear moon
One needs a particularly beautiful fan for some special occasion
To wash one’s hair, make one’s toilet, and put on scented robes
An earthen cup. A new metal bowl. A rush mat
Swami and Guru-ji went to the river
to wash their souls in the dirty water
filled brass pots while they were at it, singing:
“These are Gods—
worship them, worship them,
these are Gods—
won’t you worship them please”
Guru and Swami-ji flexed contortions
twisted minds and limbs in knots
sold each other secret mantras
to erase akashic records when the body rots
Swami and Guru-ji taught disciples
how to fast and hum and chant;
bound their loins with priestly garments, saying
“These are Gods—worship them, worship them,
these are Gods—won’t you worship them please”
Guru and Swami-ji swallowed prana
purged their guts, then farted light
launched their chakras into oneness
in the ida and pingala of their third-eye sight
Swami and Guru-ji built a temple
around a monstrous calf of gold
bowed before the six-armed idols chanting
“These are Gods—
worship them, worship them,
these are Gods—
won’t you worship them please”
Guru and Swami-ji studied parchments
by the dim light of a feeble ray
railed and wailed at the sinful heathen
in the filthy Kali-yuga of the dying day
Swami and Guru-ji made ablutions
offered incense and holy foods
ate their share and smoked the profit, humming
“These are Gods—worship them, worship them,
these are Gods—won’t you worship them please”
Guru and Swami’s blissed devotions
entwined their members with the temple belles;
stuck their yonis up their lingams
in the twenty-seventh circle of the seven hells.
Swami and Guru-ji offered puja
wrote it all off as a karmic debt—
forced a shudra to bear the burden, screaming
“These are Gods—
worship them, worship them,
these are Gods—
won’t you worship them please”
Guru and Swami-ji meditated:
pure omniscience in eternal now;
drank fresh urine from a heifer’s bladder
for they knew that it was soma from a holy cow.
Swami and the Guru merged with Brahman—
then went home to the wife and kids.
Told the servants to polish statues, saying
“These are Gods—worship them, worship them,
these are Gods – won’t you worship them please”
Aaron’s calf is ground to powder,
cast upon the Ganges’ tide.
Every tribe shall taste its poison.
“This is God—worship Him, worship Him –
this is God—let us worship Him now…”
Six-armed things of Asiatic trances,
temple belles entwined in temple dances:
mantra in one hand, the other holds naan.
One holding chutney and the other, paan.
Two hands left (befitting of deity):
one offers curry, one incense. Aseity
signifies self-contented wonderment.
(One wonders as well what that mantra meant…)
Note the third eye in the figure’s forehead:
a spare one in case left or right go dead?
But really—how freakish these idols look:
a psycho-pantheon from a nightmare book.
(Outdone only by the Aztecs for fright
along with demons born of tribal night.)
Cobra-crowned elephant-headed mutants
sickly-sweet incense, divine pollutants
mix in with the stench of bodies burning
alongside the filthy Ganges churning
flowing with ashes from funeral ghats
excrement, corpses of humans and rats
that swarmed humble hovels of Hindustan
where gods are mass-produced for fallen man.
Maidens in saris with red tinted lips;
glossy vulgarity, loose at the hips
now growing more arms; an insect vision
enough to make one gag on religion.
The ubiquitous trident looms, a sign:
the eternally present un-divine.
Instead, it ought to stick some sacred cow
in its bovine buttocks, and so allow
beef curry for a hungry avatar
craving fresh meat in his juggernaut car.
Turn from this antediluvian scene
in sincerity, ask: what does it mean?
Were you created in these gods’ image?
Is anything real behind their visage?
Blue skin and sick smiles, anointed with ghee:
exotic . . . but wrong theologically.
Till lingams are yonis I’ll spell it out;
these Aryan idols should merit your doubt.
Such weirdness deserves some analysis
(as did old Diana of Ephesus).
Would you tingle if such a god showed up
and offered to refill your soma cup,
sending siddhis up your spinal column
with you in full lotus, clueless, solemn.
Would you offer puja in their temple,
bedeck your soul in a robe to sample
veggie-masalas, chapatis and dal,
peruse the Upanishads, and enthrall
your mind with the mystic old Rig-Vedas
fall for idolatrous sin conveyed
as spiritual truth when it’s just a big lie…
bow before a multi-armed freak? Not I.
Not for all the visions in Satan’s world.
Better to call B.S. than to be hurled
to hell for living and loving this lie
embracing monstrosities. By and by
the books will be opened. The Lord will judge.
Consider this your transcendental nudge
toward something less false, less fearfully fake
than the idols Antichrist nations make.
CONNECT/HOOK 