THE UBIQUITOUS PONGING MACHINE

Everywhere I go

               the shit smells just the same.

That shit that's sprayed about

                                to numb the pain

Reeks even here

                  from every mind I meet.

The entire range

                   from enemies to friends

Camouflage their shit with verbal smiles.

Poor body. What cruel ventriloquists we are

Turning the growing crunch

Into a Punch and Judy racket

Forgetting that I am

                    not present in these fiending raps.

I am the one No Body can see

And this immortal gap

                     eats up the show

No?

How can they miss it?

But begorra by death they do.

Begorra by death they do.

They polish their pride

                      and ache to strut

Into a whirld that's completely fucked

Requiring the body and brain to be shut

To the living eternal ecstatic mind

Which has no truck     

                    with all the games which churn their guts.....

Scheming to get

               place face fame

Safe shit!

               safe shit!

But I new-born on beauty, clear surprise

See life's not beautiful for many

                                 and so I'll try

To guide love's freshness

                           through the fear-trained grasping brain

Into that place I'll call

                         the here-now-heart.

O cursed! Cursed

               by fairy tale abstractions

Which bar me from

                    the nature-poet's life

or Taoist contemplation.

O how I yearn

               to shut the door

Blast them all

               and shout Bye! Bye!

But I have no choice

                    but heal the whole!

Baaa! Baaa!

O square whirld with tick-tock mind

Gobbling up the natural man

Why d'you avoid un-armed stillness?

Is it because you're afraid to feel

The hell your pride                           projects outside?

But now I feel like them embroiled in judgement

Which shows my mind's infested with the view

"I'm above it all

                  and know the Cosmic Truth!"

Bah! Bah! Bloody fool!

                    (And that's another Lord Muck hoot)

So what to do?   So what to do?

Two Shiva Babas make my mind confused.

One says "Work is worship" "Fight for Truth"

The other says that "all we need to do

Is wash and eat, then question "what IS Truth"?"

Herakhan says "Inaction's poison leads to death."

But Puri insists that "Thinking deep's the God-blest

Way to God."

                     So what to do?

"Group action" says one "is what's required."

Puri says "Thinking alone's the fire

Which inspires the mind to find the Truth!"

So what to do?  What to pursue?

Or stay still absorbing

                         the existential atmosphere?

'Cause who wants their major opus

Reviewed by Clever Dicks

                                              then transported

                                                                         Into the commodity shit

                                                                         cycle?

When love's innocence and mystery have been forgot

Clever Dicks spout their anal-eyes-sin rot.

Then, every perception is checked

Against a packaged programme

                                held in yer cells....

O can you see the heart

Abused, confused, contracted, withdrawn

Forms the mind-possessing fucking

               STRAIN?

O love, love, heal this emptiness.

Love not hopes

               (mere trinkets in the blare)....

Everywhere

                    the broken heart

                                               the cheap rain

The curdling dark. All

                                               sacrificed

To cycles of passion for waste

                                                   or fear-filled inertia.

And it's so BIG        this MESS

This rampant mental cancer

Disguised as "PUBLIC ORDER"

                                                        and its dry

Verbal blood

                       is our translated dreams

Projected through agreement's ghoul

We feed

               on introspecting.

Move the pivot

               change the pace

Play the flute

                     feel the space

Hear the river roar in spate

                                              past the house

All has been expressed

                                         except the point  

Caught in the noun-based adjectival whirlds

Which camouflage the fear of waking up

To whirlds far worse.

Beauty is the point

                                cringing in sleep

From the dark force

                                  of boredom

Blasted out all day

                                by every angled, heartless voice

                                by everyone concerned with face

By every governmental craze

Revolutionary or reactionary

The status number game remains the same.

And YOU feed this machine

                                              man-you-factoring

                                                        BOREDOM!

To real-Ise these implications

                                                  to the core.....

The whirld's been all ways squared

'Gainst any person waking up

The children in fear's prison.

There are no Holy Wars. Only

Massacres and sanctioned murders.

The hip awakeners and their grateful friends

Never take up arms against the square

Fear-filled haters of love's heart-felt truth.

Nor are they respectable and NICE.

Awakening takes one far beyond that vice

Where shit is perfumed by the mind for gain.