01
- 02 - 03
|
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.
|
01
- 02 - 03
The ALIEN
- Poems from the book "Forty
Immutable Parables"
All
contents of this site © Finberg Books 2000-2004 by Michael Arthur
Finberg
|