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The Old Mind Fuck

I see humans fucking the planet, preparing for war, these fools fucking their way, on multiple fronts, spraying nerve gas inside the deleted folders of Yahoo customers who couldn't pay the rent on time, smashed and beaten customers heading towards a speedy death on CNN, the arena of the oil kings, fucking butt live on NBC where the lords of military industry pick-up the defecit forecasts left-over by the CEOs of Chase Manhatten bank who tax the nation for the costs of SDI, while Osama bin-Laden waits for his tax-cut of oil and silicon, a savings account of monsterous trillions filling the TV screens with images of hopeless galaxies that poke the gross domestic product with these psychic fingers of infected conspiracies, the mind-fuck that falls off the world trade center, these big breasts dying in the private sector of Oklahoma, the place where Columbine kids go for their appeals, in the federal district court near the pyramids that steam-whistle in the deep mists of North Korea, a power that slinks to Bagdhad quietly in a symbolic gutter, drinking Jack Daniels in Teheran's slums,

a battle in the desert capital of Persepolis where Moloch's mouth dumped a dead body and Ramakrishna breathed solitary fire in Iraq as he danced with Padmasambhava in the dispute of the final phase, on top of the retreating skyscrapers here on the American earth, friends from a past-life in Atlantis forgotten frozen deep in silent ice stones, O Ramakrishna, where is this Vivekenanda, where are those inevitable technologies that will make life on earth a Marxist paradise, tell the state department, before the next alien war, july the fourth, tell friends of Teilhard that I'm on the planet, tell the U.S. troops that nifty quantum vacuums will liberate the planet, tell Iraq it's cheap and clean, tell the white house that zero gravity will soon arrive with its blissful fangs and beady eyes, a public front of giant propulsions, tell Dan Rather that his anthrax breath will cease strip-mining our collective psyche, that the government will stop selling us this shit in cheap wine glasses, that the hungry assholes in Jerusalem will stop their private police force which seeks imaginary enemies under every naked rug, which makes these unnecessary wars and shoots slaves to the moon, to Jupiter where the gladiators swill their vengeful beer in the fog and toke their rural dream weed in the marshes of basra, where Abraham spied for the aliens near horrifying Mount Sinai, tell Teilhard that I'm on the planet with brother Allen who sits in the interrogator's chair refusing to believe this shit, this wicked merger of an artificial unity.

Here are the Mind Fuckers

---so here is the secret code to be avoided at all costs during
the state of the union address:

Melchizedek butt-fucks Joseph MacArthy who protects ruthless terrorists, he reads Mein Kampf as he spreads AIDS across the entire middle ages with the help of holy Amschel Mayer, the indifferent leader of Union oil, the Morgan Stanley of mass destruction, a friend of the mass media and other kinds of mafias, a warlord like Douglas MacArthur, a modern version of mad Marduk, a magician telling George Marshall about Pearl Harbor and Machiavelli's big weapons of potential wealth, a hardliner like Mr. John McCloy who kissed the asses of the secret assassins of Dallas, a supreme liar like Robert McNamara who pushed political defeat in the endless Asian Mexican wars, a money supply freak who attacked Karl Marx, the rogue and bully who predicted the massacre at My Lai as the burgers were ordered with hormones and this deficeit spending at the local MacDonald's, a gift bought by the mysterious Rothchilds with intense consultations at the United Nations security council, the true mystery school of the majestic-12, so please tell Teihard that I've arrived on the planet, tell Brother Allen, that I'm with him on the planet Mars, that he and I are perfect as we explore these Egyptian pyramids, and discover the holy secrets of the Sphinx paws, there is a confusion that persists like a public straight-jacket, that persistently howls on the road , this billion dollar message delivered by the New York Times, a message of future mischief ehoed by Newsweek that Ronald Reagan was secretly shot by Rockefeller with Alzheimer's bullets, that the budget for the Russian revolution didn't have enough votes in congress, that the Rosicrucians had a fisical crisis that inspired Alfred Rosenberg, who aked for a referendum that allowed Walt Rostow who was a friend of Dean Rusk who was a friend of George Bush to bomb Kosovo in secret defiance of the latest drug treatments inspired by the Trilateralists who sent a puppet like Colin Powell to pressure Iraq to increase any jihad that could be convenient for the persecution of traditional industrial interests, so tell dear Teilhard that I'm on the planet, brave old prophet, tell also Arthur C. Clarke that my shining white cloak will blind you, then rip you to pieces in this political recycling environment found in Vietnam, the Persian Gulf, and Afghanistan, a black magic given with extreme voter legitimacy like the time the Lusitania was sunk with Lucifer cackling for victory on the Somme, then an analysis of Hiroshima that showed this great progress in just thirty years, a celebration by the Jehovahs that said Korea led to the Gulf of Tonkin, so dear Allen I'm with you inside the Federal Reserve, I'm interrogating Alexander Hamilton, the bitch, who claimed he was a Christian, but was actually a closet Jew, a Muslim that got shot in that face with a thunderbolt sent from Shiva's traditional political indifference machine, a Buddhist form of retribution brought to you wrathfully by the god of death Yamantaka, who applauded Barry Goldwater's holy atomic orgasm, Clinton's crusades of the Lincoln bedroom, LBJ's space shuttle, from where I can now see the earth like a jewel, where Nixon and JFK debated the fate of the galaxies, written in psychic ink by Dostoyevsky, as he lamented the energy policy of the Council of Foreign Relations where shares for Auschwitz were traded on the New York Stock Exchange, so Tell Moloch that I am here, that Green Tara is the friend of the holy universe, tell dear old Teilhard that I'm here.

The Song of the Gods

Take me to your leader, to the gods of the Golgotha temple, to the goddesses and god-bearers of the Gopis, to the gnostics of the Grand Canyon, to Gitanjali's ghost-dance in Greece, to the great mother who hides secretly in the pentagon with the military grand inquisitors, to the Goths with their Greek orthadox chants, to the Gregorian church where along the Euphrates, Al Ghazli still sits,

As I bring these gifts of limitless energy to Hammurabi and Habakkuk, these gifts of limitless harmony for the cosmic prophets of the new haggadah, I bring the new exodus of the global mind experience, tidings of gospels solar for Ezekiel, who arises now upwards with these new galactic bones, the buddah has a new cosmic mandala that all

English mystics will sorely love,

Take me to your mother, to the Africans ranting with the eskimoes, to the Dalai Lama, who faces death before the filling station, to Durga's cathedral at Ba 'al, to the Ka 'aba with its meteorite lodged in that bindu Adonai who dwells in the acropolis of advaita, to Allah the all merciful, to Adam and Apollo, feasting at the dinner table with Ahura Mazda, I am the analytic mind,

of the Bodhisattvah bible, Ahimsa I am, so take me to your father, who dwells among the drunken stars in Babylon, for he is the fallen one, the Nafeel of Aristotle, who came down on a Saturn rocket, which was baptized by the Ba Xian in this true kind of immortal fashion, I am a subterranean god, a black bhakti from far-away, from a vast realm only Avolokiteshvara could know,

This galactic caeser, bringing now in Confucian gifts that Christians and Hare Krishnas could only just begin to know, take me to your leader, dear Chaitanya, for I bring now an ambiguous relief from the kind of colossal dukkah that only destroyed worlds can know, my yogas, a holy beast do they make, one who wears apron strings made from lasar vapors, this beast is the bringer of the new Nicene creed,

It brings holy jhanas from sermons preached on new kinds of astral mounts, that Jonah and the priests of Jesus, could only begin to see, with these new kabbalistic symbols, which rest on these different kinds of cosmic karma, a last supper filled with kundalini for the lepers of Kali living on Mount kailasa, living within the farthest reaches of inner

Space in far away Loyang,

With a message of special telepathic love, a play of Lila and maitunas with marduk and the black Madonna from Zurich, who slept briefly with maimonides, during a medieval play that even the Beatles could not understand, a mystery out of reach even for Bob Dylan, a mystery from the Martian ruins that had no answers in the Mishna, that the moon could not say to Herman Melville,

Who flew in the Merkaba with Mongol demons from Monte Cassino, take me to your leader, to the mystics of Muhammed, who commune with Moses and those native Americans found on every planet, even the Nazis with their doomed revolts against king Nebuchanezzer and Einstein could now finally see that Odin and Sir Issac Newton were just part of the same nirvava machine,

With neutrinos that the Nyigma in far off Nivneh, the cloistered home of the Orthadox Jews and the naked Pope, now I say Ommmmm, my Pleiades pilgrimage is over, a polytheist I am, my poetry is a string of monotheistic beads, for the new prophets of this promised land, the purgatory of the Pueblo Indians, the puranas of the quran, like these Presbyterians in a kind of resurrection with Quakers,

Performing Ravana's rites of passage with Teilhard and Rilke on Rumi's planet, a bead sitting on a cosmic rosary, take me to the new science of the Sadducees, a pure sadhana of these sambogakayas, that brought this shakti, that the seraphim knew, these siddhi stars from the fidgeting alien sefirot, which I welcome like a stigmata which Sufis from Sri Lanka daily celebrate about,

A glorious sukkot for the suicide bombers of Mesopotamia, with synods for the Sumerians building stupas for the Taliban who now perform tapas on live TV, these ten commandments that the Aztecs on the internet had envisoned, holy trinities of mystical voodoo, for Vishnu and the wild Wahabis, a vision pure to Venus.

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The ALIEN - Poems from the book "Forty Immutable Parables"
All contents of this site © Finberg Books 2000-2004 by Michael Arthur Finberg