deepundergroundpoetry.com
Drunken Slut Bodhisattva
To my Esteemed and Dearest Drunken Slut Bodhisattva,
greetings old lecherous monkey! and where to burst, sweating tsunamis like a poetic crack wrath to smoke the gold of your soul ? at the conclusion? the imploding nano moment of the all ending all beginning of the show please exit through the blackest holes skyward falling and falling and CRACK! back to the singularity, “the rose of mysterious union”, when divinities mythic mind seed fucked a fecund elemental egg , or closer to home hell shall we roam, dig? deep down to the water of genesis, to the bloody show, the rush of rivers, the kingly crowning of vaginal thorns and a mothers screams, when our first gasp of light foretold our inevitable drowning in darkness. and what to make of the architecture of creation, the curve of worlds, the shock of two full moons as seen from the surface of distant and dreamy lands, the haunting image of God’s beauty as she arches her wings across the horizon in a daily show of feathery energy and ferocious delicacy.
All Hail Dufus and her prophet of old, the Idiot, who snatches your breath in one hand and crushes wisdom like ice in her teeth, spiting cold, wet revelations into your gaping mouth: Drink, Be Merry, and FUCK she says, in such a way as to make you believe you just did. Amen.
Should I have taken the road less traveled? The high road? A horse and carriage? Should I have not gone on the road at all? Should I have sat down…under a tree…and what…contemplated my navel…until exhausted with hunger and burned to blistering, I died, and was reborn, having shed the cloak of identify, becoming as a spore on the wind, lured by the brilliance of star and the musk of earth, aching with attachment? I mean does that even pay the bills? Who knows what anyone should have done, such is the nature of should have: woulda, coulda, shoulda, ergo didn’t. Ces’t lie ve. I am the servant of other masters. Can’t dwell on the should haves anyway, just move on to the next I’m doin it. (By the way God(s), the suggestion box is open.) I didn’t choose the path less traveled. Go fuck yourself Frost.. I took the train to New York. From the nothing better to do than run around naked cornfields of here to the ball and bar fields of the big bad apple, and as the mountain sages have recorded, or was it the tattooed inscription below the diamond studded navel on the blond haired, browned skined beach Goddess from last Saturday night, The Path Home Starts Here.
Once seated on the train, I popped in a Cd, slid the headphones over my ears, and as befits all spiritual quest, the lords of life were invoked through song for good tidings on the journey and as a fire protection against the devil’s minions. My soul was now smote free via the power of the uttered prayers of saffron robed Tibetan Monks chanting low guttural hymns and the high pitched supplications of a thousand whirling dervishes. During this invocation ceremony I feigned sleep and keenly eavesdropped on the humorous antics of the drunk dad sitting across the isle, until my next show boarded and sat down to share her script, the banjo playing, trappist monk enthusiast, Latin/Physics Princeton graduate studying music at a conservatory in Heildberg who also happened to be a motorcycle circus clown for Jesus, but that is another story altogether as you can imagine until…
from the Mouth of the Silver Serpent into the Bowels of the Hungry Beast was I Unleashed (Penn Station at rush hour) until heavenly stairs appeared and I followed the saved into the burning day. But No! The stairs of Babel they were, into the throngs of babbling barbarian ants they led, as Dazed and Bewildered I fell to my knees and cried out, “Dear God, which Way to 55th St.!” and out of the swarm of insect legs rushing home to their Conneticut hives and holes, a ray of benevolent light, burst through the humming hordes like a Beacon from Beyond, and Shone upon a hand to rival that of the Almighty on the Sistine Chapel, with solo finger pointing on outstretched arm. And then from the head attached to aforementioned arm flowed words that succored my soul like a pup sucking a teat, “It’s fuckin’ that way man.” “Thanks” is all I managed in inept reply as I began the journey of 1, 743 steps ( I counted from 34th to 55th) leading first to the Cubicle Gulag that imprisoned my old comrade from the Days When Falling Bodies Took to Light and next into the Unfolding Unknown of the New York Night.
“What I call innocence is the spirits unself-conscious state at any moment of pure devotion to any object" Anne Dillard
When cultures (and individuals) confront water shed moments they customarily fall back on ancient wisdom to illuminate the genesis and meaning of such seminal occasions. Professor Emeritus Gustravian Emeiloinasofich Conkronsoveanogronkabe IX
From the technological marvel of Apollo’s Fiery Chariot abandoning his solar mission to land on Luna’s effervescent face to ancient and intoxicated cave seers, the quest for transcendence continues, until each of us, having wasted ourselves and without hope, somehow pleases the guardians of the gods (cash money being the preferable method of persuasion) for entry into scared spaces where we can hold illumination in the palms of our trembling hands. And it was no different on the Nights of our Pilgrimage , as having sparked Fire, the Brazen Will blazing Free of civilized yokes, to light Tobacco, the grounding Umbilical Roots of the Earth Mother, and Bathed in Spirits, the Baptismal Brew of Reunion and Prophecy, when we Dared Dream of slithering into Pandora’s Fabled Vault. (Side bar: I knew those tequila shots were a bad idea)
“ She’s a black magic woman. She’s a black magic woman. Gonna make a meal outta me” Santana
For those few Enterprising and Lucky Knights, the cities seemingly sterile and concrete walls reveal Secret Portals to underground worlds, catacombs, caves, wherein the pagan rites of old, the Mysteries of Elysium, unfold for your startled and ever thankful Soul. Such mysteries and revelations as only the world’s greatest mother goddesses can bestow, the experience of which, that if you were the Pharaoh himself you would lay prostrate in tears before your Namibian mistress; that if you were the High Priest of the mighty Aztec empire, you would gladly welcome the Sun’s Apocalypse to run away with your virgin victim, that if you were possessed of a thousand heads you would surely cut them off yourself to bejewel the radiant neck of Kali, the Destroyer. No light escapes the pull of her heavenly spells.
Indeed, when Eve, in all her Resplendent Skin, sauntered over to Adam, slanted her Eyes, parted her wet pink Lips, licked the smooth red Skin of the Apple,leaned in, flowing scented hair feathering Adam’s bare chest and Whispered warmly on his ear in a raspy purr of a plead, “Fuck me Now,” how could he resist? Eden, the Heavenly Father, the One and Only Rule (Everything but the Fruit), did he hesitate, pause for reflection, call on the Super Ego for protection, moralize, cogitate, ruminate? Hell no! Every spark of every fiber of every cell in his body, mind, and soul screamed in lower limbic reptilian harmony, “ Yes. Yes. Yes. I want the apple. I want you. I want this whole goddamn garden overflowing in Orgies of Apples.” And the rest as they have always said my Dear Patterson, is HIStory. After all Adam is our daddy and the FRUIT (a man’s preference for peaches or bananas notwithstanding), in addition to not falling far from the tree, drives most mercilessly mad.
Alas! For some this church of merciless madness is the preferred temple. We’ve all gotta tithe somewhere, right? And those interested in such self-flagellation, can have their Sunday morning Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God, but as for me, I’ll take my Midnight Innocents in the Hands of a Loving Mother, wife, girlfriend, stripper, inflatable doll, she-male (remember Lola), whatever, whenever, wherever, every time. Amen. Ha. Ha.
the body is holy
to kiss is to pray
-honey on the tongue:
a sacrament for the senses-
breast are the children of God
and the belly is a temple
where holy embers burn below
and divinity sleeps
she’s hungry
to feed your mind
and cries:
mind be body
mind be kiss
mind be honeyed tongue
mind be breast
mind be blood
mind be belly everlasting
flame and flesh as one
fire in the snake’s eye
snake in the fire’s belly
greetings old lecherous monkey! and where to burst, sweating tsunamis like a poetic crack wrath to smoke the gold of your soul ? at the conclusion? the imploding nano moment of the all ending all beginning of the show please exit through the blackest holes skyward falling and falling and CRACK! back to the singularity, “the rose of mysterious union”, when divinities mythic mind seed fucked a fecund elemental egg , or closer to home hell shall we roam, dig? deep down to the water of genesis, to the bloody show, the rush of rivers, the kingly crowning of vaginal thorns and a mothers screams, when our first gasp of light foretold our inevitable drowning in darkness. and what to make of the architecture of creation, the curve of worlds, the shock of two full moons as seen from the surface of distant and dreamy lands, the haunting image of God’s beauty as she arches her wings across the horizon in a daily show of feathery energy and ferocious delicacy.
All Hail Dufus and her prophet of old, the Idiot, who snatches your breath in one hand and crushes wisdom like ice in her teeth, spiting cold, wet revelations into your gaping mouth: Drink, Be Merry, and FUCK she says, in such a way as to make you believe you just did. Amen.
Should I have taken the road less traveled? The high road? A horse and carriage? Should I have not gone on the road at all? Should I have sat down…under a tree…and what…contemplated my navel…until exhausted with hunger and burned to blistering, I died, and was reborn, having shed the cloak of identify, becoming as a spore on the wind, lured by the brilliance of star and the musk of earth, aching with attachment? I mean does that even pay the bills? Who knows what anyone should have done, such is the nature of should have: woulda, coulda, shoulda, ergo didn’t. Ces’t lie ve. I am the servant of other masters. Can’t dwell on the should haves anyway, just move on to the next I’m doin it. (By the way God(s), the suggestion box is open.) I didn’t choose the path less traveled. Go fuck yourself Frost.. I took the train to New York. From the nothing better to do than run around naked cornfields of here to the ball and bar fields of the big bad apple, and as the mountain sages have recorded, or was it the tattooed inscription below the diamond studded navel on the blond haired, browned skined beach Goddess from last Saturday night, The Path Home Starts Here.
Once seated on the train, I popped in a Cd, slid the headphones over my ears, and as befits all spiritual quest, the lords of life were invoked through song for good tidings on the journey and as a fire protection against the devil’s minions. My soul was now smote free via the power of the uttered prayers of saffron robed Tibetan Monks chanting low guttural hymns and the high pitched supplications of a thousand whirling dervishes. During this invocation ceremony I feigned sleep and keenly eavesdropped on the humorous antics of the drunk dad sitting across the isle, until my next show boarded and sat down to share her script, the banjo playing, trappist monk enthusiast, Latin/Physics Princeton graduate studying music at a conservatory in Heildberg who also happened to be a motorcycle circus clown for Jesus, but that is another story altogether as you can imagine until…
from the Mouth of the Silver Serpent into the Bowels of the Hungry Beast was I Unleashed (Penn Station at rush hour) until heavenly stairs appeared and I followed the saved into the burning day. But No! The stairs of Babel they were, into the throngs of babbling barbarian ants they led, as Dazed and Bewildered I fell to my knees and cried out, “Dear God, which Way to 55th St.!” and out of the swarm of insect legs rushing home to their Conneticut hives and holes, a ray of benevolent light, burst through the humming hordes like a Beacon from Beyond, and Shone upon a hand to rival that of the Almighty on the Sistine Chapel, with solo finger pointing on outstretched arm. And then from the head attached to aforementioned arm flowed words that succored my soul like a pup sucking a teat, “It’s fuckin’ that way man.” “Thanks” is all I managed in inept reply as I began the journey of 1, 743 steps ( I counted from 34th to 55th) leading first to the Cubicle Gulag that imprisoned my old comrade from the Days When Falling Bodies Took to Light and next into the Unfolding Unknown of the New York Night.
“What I call innocence is the spirits unself-conscious state at any moment of pure devotion to any object" Anne Dillard
When cultures (and individuals) confront water shed moments they customarily fall back on ancient wisdom to illuminate the genesis and meaning of such seminal occasions. Professor Emeritus Gustravian Emeiloinasofich Conkronsoveanogronkabe IX
From the technological marvel of Apollo’s Fiery Chariot abandoning his solar mission to land on Luna’s effervescent face to ancient and intoxicated cave seers, the quest for transcendence continues, until each of us, having wasted ourselves and without hope, somehow pleases the guardians of the gods (cash money being the preferable method of persuasion) for entry into scared spaces where we can hold illumination in the palms of our trembling hands. And it was no different on the Nights of our Pilgrimage , as having sparked Fire, the Brazen Will blazing Free of civilized yokes, to light Tobacco, the grounding Umbilical Roots of the Earth Mother, and Bathed in Spirits, the Baptismal Brew of Reunion and Prophecy, when we Dared Dream of slithering into Pandora’s Fabled Vault. (Side bar: I knew those tequila shots were a bad idea)
“ She’s a black magic woman. She’s a black magic woman. Gonna make a meal outta me” Santana
For those few Enterprising and Lucky Knights, the cities seemingly sterile and concrete walls reveal Secret Portals to underground worlds, catacombs, caves, wherein the pagan rites of old, the Mysteries of Elysium, unfold for your startled and ever thankful Soul. Such mysteries and revelations as only the world’s greatest mother goddesses can bestow, the experience of which, that if you were the Pharaoh himself you would lay prostrate in tears before your Namibian mistress; that if you were the High Priest of the mighty Aztec empire, you would gladly welcome the Sun’s Apocalypse to run away with your virgin victim, that if you were possessed of a thousand heads you would surely cut them off yourself to bejewel the radiant neck of Kali, the Destroyer. No light escapes the pull of her heavenly spells.
Indeed, when Eve, in all her Resplendent Skin, sauntered over to Adam, slanted her Eyes, parted her wet pink Lips, licked the smooth red Skin of the Apple,leaned in, flowing scented hair feathering Adam’s bare chest and Whispered warmly on his ear in a raspy purr of a plead, “Fuck me Now,” how could he resist? Eden, the Heavenly Father, the One and Only Rule (Everything but the Fruit), did he hesitate, pause for reflection, call on the Super Ego for protection, moralize, cogitate, ruminate? Hell no! Every spark of every fiber of every cell in his body, mind, and soul screamed in lower limbic reptilian harmony, “ Yes. Yes. Yes. I want the apple. I want you. I want this whole goddamn garden overflowing in Orgies of Apples.” And the rest as they have always said my Dear Patterson, is HIStory. After all Adam is our daddy and the FRUIT (a man’s preference for peaches or bananas notwithstanding), in addition to not falling far from the tree, drives most mercilessly mad.
Alas! For some this church of merciless madness is the preferred temple. We’ve all gotta tithe somewhere, right? And those interested in such self-flagellation, can have their Sunday morning Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God, but as for me, I’ll take my Midnight Innocents in the Hands of a Loving Mother, wife, girlfriend, stripper, inflatable doll, she-male (remember Lola), whatever, whenever, wherever, every time. Amen. Ha. Ha.
the body is holy
to kiss is to pray
-honey on the tongue:
a sacrament for the senses-
breast are the children of God
and the belly is a temple
where holy embers burn below
and divinity sleeps
she’s hungry
to feed your mind
and cries:
mind be body
mind be kiss
mind be honeyed tongue
mind be breast
mind be blood
mind be belly everlasting
flame and flesh as one
fire in the snake’s eye
snake in the fire’s belly
Published 10th Dec 2013
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