Freethinkers Unchained

Trash God

Men of Reason: bold, progressive
hammer wielders, depth resounders—
shout from the helm your Godless missive
as our Bible-lifeboat flounders.

Send that Flying Spaghetti Monster,FSM
our imaginary friend,
to the myth-conception dumpster:
let the Bronze Age folktales end.

Make the idols bow to Science.
Your progressive task: to mock—
seek that end in brave defiance.
Down with the shepherd’s useless flock !

Laser-focused human reason
serves to clarify the matter,
strips the symbols from the season,
superstitious tales to shatter.

We, mere rubes in need of crutches,
simple children, willing tools—
must be rescued from the clutches
of the fables preached to fools.

Seamless garments, bushes burning:
are but schemes for fleecing sheep…
We are plebes devoid of learning;
rouse our silly souls from sleep!

Flood us with your noontide wisdom
decimate the weaker link.
Blow away our card-house kingdom
show us Christards how to think.

Then, like you, we shall no longer
cling to ignorance and lies.
Missing links make chains yet stronger,
dragging fairies from the skies.

We shall join you in assurance
that there is no great beyond
thus no need for fire insurance
clergy, staff or magic wand.

We shall celebrate together
joyful, freed from superstition
endless, godless sunny weather:
non-existent non-perdition.

Having thus improved the light
and magnified Man’s modern day,
God’s angels will expire in fright;
the Lord shall meekly fade away.

HumanityInsanity

 

 IMAGE CREDITS: TrashGod.com
venganza.org
mattfrad.com
strangenotions.com

 

 

 

Hindoo Folk Song

 तत् त्वम् असि 

for sitar, mridangam, vina, musical spoons, washboard, Jew’s harp and banjo
 (the names Swami and Guru-ji can be replaced by
any other mystic names the reader wishes to substitute)

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”



THE MORAL: slower solemn rhythm, no banjo or Jew’s harp

 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…”

Benighted Notions

Repost from National Poetry Writing Month 2015

UnitedNotions

“Humankind: be kind – be One!
I am appalled at what’s been done.
Benign intentions must restrain us.
Hate should never entertain us.”

The toad comedian Ban Ki-MoonBankyMoon
croaked a pitiful One-World tune
while gunmen paused, reloaded, armed
checked that they had no comrades harmed –
and then prepared for further battle
against the clueless kuffar cattle.

Ban stood upright to intervene;
surveyed the terrorific scene…
muezzins chanted, mullahs chuckled
swords were sharpened, bomb-vests buckled.
Dhimmi dim-wits went on shopping.
(Are heads in sand less prone to chopping ?)

Hesitating, he cleared his throat,
raised his pitch by a quarter note:
“These acts are most undemocratic
We are saddened; yet emphatic – ”

(no one heard his discourse further
drowned by the sound of massive murder…)

So let’s consider what is meant
by rolling heads and bodies splattered…
time for Truth to represent
(as if such inconvenience mattered…)

Such events disturb our sleep
and force us to compose, on waking,
lullabies for drowsy sheep
as predators are overtaking.

Flags of doom and holy slaughter,
sons of Ishmael filled with rage
are coming for your wife and daughter
and yourself. You turn the page.

Rising now to storm your tower
(7th century back to bite you),
Allah brings satanic power
to convert you or to smite you.

Dimwit dhimmis would have us think
such rage is due to unemployment;
pure confusion on the brink
of funding further troop deployment.

Meanwhile, mullahs sip their tea
while tenured academics prattle
watching MSNBC
as soldiers die in battle.

Santería

Ogun owed Oxun for the fee he paid
to divorce Yemayá in the watery deep.
Babalu Aye‘s messenger delayed
(no rum in the bargain – price too steep)
until San Martín, divine caballero
deceived the third wife of el Indio Guerrero.

(Obatala‘s beats got lost in transit
the rhythm robbed by macumba-bandit.)

Eleguá cleared paths for He Who Opens Pores.
Black roosters smoked puros at midnight. Outdoors,
Santa Muerte was asked to turn down the noise
so Nana Buluku could get some sleep.

As she gathered ashé, reduced to a heap
of Yoruba fool’s gold anointed with blood
Oduduwa pretended he understood;
but his mother-in-law knew he never would
until Olódùmarè returned from the feast
having sacrificed roosters while facing east.

The santero drew me a pictogram
to protect me from forces my poem conjured
but the blood of a sacrificed perfect lamb
affords more protection, I knew. He wondered.

dessin vaudou 1