Armed and Dubious

six-armed-blue-meanie   selfish-idol-e1380164258279
to the esteemed B.J.P

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.

idols-toe

 
IMAGE CREDITS: Harry Fokker
 nationalgeographic.com
trustingortripping.wordpress.com

 

Journey to the East

Sitars, meditation, enlightenment…

that exotic spirituality of the East…

this song puts it all in truly transcendental perspective.

Make sure you read some/all of Hermann Hesse’s novels –
and don’t forget to tip your Guru!

Hindoo Thing

MORE Cosmic Brotherhood HERE
BEYOND COSMIC BROTHERHOOD HERE

IMAGE CREDIT: shutterstock.com

Eye of Delusion

santana2

Good sir—you claim there is no “I”.
Your Buddha says it’s just a sham;
that all is one, and that is why
we ought to merge,
repress the urge
and give a damn.

You say desire upholds the ego
(selfish bully, source of sin)
but void of self-hood where can we go?
Scale the mountains,
flow in fountains,
gaze within?

OK; let’s cultivate the glow.
We’ll sit and let Samsara roll.
(Be careful lest your aura show!)
Then still the spin
and glimpse within
the Oversoul . . .

I find a catch in this your theory.
True, it sounds quite mystical . . .
in practice, though, it makes me leery.
Cynical jeers
give way to fears
logistical:

without an “I”, who pays my rent?
Why learn, why sing, why plant or reap?
Why should the criminal repent
if there’s no he
who wronged the me
with no harm meant?

 

image: Tales of the Buddha Before He Got Enlightened
Writer: Alan Grant
Artist: Jon Haward
Colorist and Letterer: Jamie Grant

The Jewel in the Center of the Lotus (Eaters)

There is not a single aspect of the eighty-four thousand sections of the Buddha’s teachings
which is not contained in Avalokiteshvara’s six syllable mantra “Om Mani Padme Hum”… 
Dilgo Khyentse Rinpoche

No more western Buddhists, please—
I’ve had it up to here.
your grimly earnest souls aren’t saved;
your doctrines: very queer.

That lotus incense makes me sick.
It mingles with the fumes
of Subarus and passing schemes
in tofu-scented rooms.

Come off it, all you dilettantes;
your chanting is off-key.
The Zen is sham; and God will damn
your choice to simply BE.

The books you offer me are full
of theravada shambala.
The Dalai WHAT? You babble on . . .
Ascetic sands you’re building on.

A bourgeois dalliance at best
this turning toward the Mystic East.
Those jasmine smells, and gongs, and bells,
proclaim a saffron beast.

By Trungpa Rin-Po’s holy yak—
you’ve swallowed sinker, line and hook.
(Along with way too much green tea
and words from some Buddhist book.)

Celebrities that flap about
this form of Dhammapada – Lite
are mere proverbial flitting moths
and dwell in irrelevant night.

Your shaven sensei’s DVDs,
the Pali scarf, the trademark beads
should be compared to junk-food sweets:
what bald hypocrisy it feeds.

Contemplatives in SUVs
(like boiled carp in lacquered bowls)
are pseudo-karma-yankee-sake
poured into empty souls.

So trade your cushions for some Truth.
Unlock your legs. Uncross your mind.
Return to words that can make you see
—or meditate yourselves blind.

Before this cultural rot began,
before your symptoms were full-blown,
our ancestors did cultivate
the gospel’s seed, once sown . . .