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.
C
onsider 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

 

Ace of Bhangra

The song crawls out of sludge from the bottom of the Indus River, from beneath the ruins of Harappa and Mohenjo-Daro. The burning sun tries in vain to penetrate the thick foliage of the ancient fig tree beneath which she reclines: the thousand-faced mistress of the myriad temples, the dancer, the priestess, the worshiper, the idol, the eternally pregnant singer . . .

She who alone knows why no human remains were ever recovered from the excavated city, the Mother of the thousand abortions, she who gave birth to the beats of the rhythm—and the space between each beat, the unnameable principle of dread . . . the slow flow of the river at sunset obscured by smoke of human flesh from the smoldering ghats . . .

 selfish-idol-e1380164258279 idols-toe

https://i0.wp.com/www.mrdowling.com/images/612indus_script.png

https://www.harappa.com/sites/default/files/styles/slide_teaser_250x250/public/slides/deity-seal_0.jpg?itok=w94tuzeH

More ACE of BASE

 

Dionysian Dithyramb

“Be that as it may, Tragedy – as also Comedy – was at first mere improvisation.
The one originated with the authors of the Dithyramb,
the other with those of the phallic songs,
which are still in use in many of our cities.”
[Aristotle]

DithyrambThe cult came from the east.
No one knew where it originated.
Women left their homes by night and wandered in the mountains.
Men adopted feminine mannerisms.
Reflection yielded to participation.
The Classic moment passed as an unknown god gathered followers
in the groves of madness.
The youth were sure they were on the cutting edge of liberation.
The elders clucked and scolded as society unraveled.
A god of youth and frenzy subverted the order of the ancient days –
but they called it freedom in ecstasy.
The idol Dionysus reigned as the culture imploded.
And yet it took several generations –
and each successive generation was sure they were breaking with a useless past
and dancing, hypnotized, into a glorious future.

With the degeneration of the Classical period, new forms of music and rhythm rose to popularity as plebeian slave-values became widespread in a general reaction against the Patrician and administrative governing classes. The street musicians, often affecting the manner of the criminal underclass, sang popular airs to simple rhythmic accompaniment, often with prostitutes or priestesses dancing to attract passers-by. Such musicians were in abundance on feast days and during civic festivals, and the ribald content which was their staple, often inflamed certain sectors of the urban populace to moral outrage.

But that was long ago…

Nicaragua to Mikey Dread

I just posted Nicaragua by Darío to the Español page.   I always think of primitivista art when I read that short poem.   Darío mentions tigers in the poem, which is strange since there are none in Central America.  My Spanish vocab words for the day [from the poem] are zahareño  (“untameable, wild, unsociable, intractable”;  I always thought it meant “Saharan” and Darío was merely being exotic  but I was wrong) and peaña   (“pedestal”,  for a statue or art object). The part  about the idol reminds me of the idolos de la isla Zapatera but they are not on diamond pedestals so you will have to imagine your own.   Since the human heart is an idol-factory, that shouldn’t be too hard. My lovely wife is from Nicaragua, and I have sometimes placed her on a diamond pedestal—and so another connection to the poem.

On the reggae side of things, I linked my reggae poem to a Mikey Dread dub song only to find out he passed away on my birthday in 2008.  I had not known that.  I always loved his dub music and he seemed like such a positive Rastaman. The stuff he did with the Clash on Black Market Clash was great (Armagideon Time) but my favorite is Beyond WWIII.  I still have African Anthem –  on cassette!  Since he passed away 3 years ago you can see I am really on the cutting edge of Reggae news these days.  Well, we are already in eternity, so what’s  three years here or there, right?