The Obsidian Eagle's Blasphemous Bazaar

Black Flag - Obsidian Eagle

2012-01-28T15:03:00.000-05:00

Black Flag - Obsidian Eagle

The Bald Eagle of your forefathers has come to represent

Those exploitive and treacherous oligarchs within White House

Stars their military might; Stripes are but bars locking tight

Banks be cathedrals for Capitalism

The Dollar, Pound and Euro are Eucharists

Stock brokers and lenders, a priesthood of vendors

So take to the streets and fly black banners high

Remind them that Revolution is a thorn at their side

Freedom good reason why many died and still die

This darkest of Eagles shall soar with you then

Anarchic flags its feathers floating upon wind

They would have our wills bend but we focus like Zen!

ItzQuauhtli's Prophecy

2011-12-23T07:30:00.000-05:00

ItzQuauhtli's Prophecy

Forged in the sun's heart, his feathers slates of antimatter

ItzQuauhtli was recognized as a reflection of great, cosmic Eagle

Which North-American Natives called: Thunderbird

Analogous to Horus in Egyptian lore; whose eyes are sun and moon

Or Garuda in Hinduism, with Vishnu riding atop his back

Like Mercury (closest to solar sphere), he also served as a messenger

The Aztecs associated this Eagle with their deity Huitzilopochtli - war god and patron of the arts

Sent to Earth late during the Fifth age, he heralded Quetzalcoatl's return

While concurrently warning that it would come hand-in-hand with Tezcatlipoca's release

Sadistic twin and trickster, "Bolon Yokte" is present at both creation and destruction.

A Priori Expressions

2011-04-29T01:00:00.018-04:00

Currently Reading:

A Priori Expressions

On Earth there be no dearth of calumny

Living statues assume impromptu postures then wither withal

As cliffhanger moss wilts above hungover forests

Whole, literal mackerel turns to figurative doggerel

Iconic images are re-presented in negative modalities

Totalities that boast ultimate truth found fraught with technicalities

Why the nerve exhibited by verbs is naught but loaded phonemes

Worst of all these? Verse! Spewing out terse blurbs from human mouths

Versifiers conniving smother significance deep beneath egoistic utterance

Happenstance may deliver any essence though purely perchance

Sky has fallen many times prior, so pick up its pieces and do try again

Jet lagged intuition cannot hark elision; unable to see purpose despite vision

The Nexus of The Next

2011-04-22T05:52:00.001-04:00

Currently Reading:
Indian Demonology - The Inverted Pantheon

The Nexus of The Next

What's next? Who's next? Where next?

We're caught ever in "The Next"!

Though our landscape is always shifting

There are none thus come nor gone.

Solipsistic lapse undergoing therapy

Palpitating fixity upon imaginary center

Prehensile cogitation clutches straws

Solidified Reality a panoptical descriptor

Latter day saints utter draconic decrees

Wise canonical inscriptions go unheeded

Learn early on that pain be par for course

Wistful linking of meaning to rhetoric bores

Where next? Who's next? What next?

Flounder clever yet perplexed

Sought but not found within text

A moving landmass unannexed!

[ May wit lend levity whence gravity weighs down one's ways ]

Doctrine of Anatta (No-Self)

2011-04-15T16:34:00.022-04:00

Currently Watching:

Author's Note: For anyone who might like a more comprehensive explanation of "Anatman", the following article encapsulates it rather well: The Atomic Mandala – Part 4 – Anatman

Doctrine of Anatta (No-Self)

- I -

What is the Self?
Where is the Self to be found?
Who is that Self we seek?
Is it dry (this Self)?

Never. Always. It is and yet isn't.
Clever. Stupid. Absolute but relative.
Simultaneous in thought though not present even once.

Is elusive to one's mind as evasive to our words.
Dare not pretend ye know anything concrete about it.
Don't stand upon authority; assume no final stance.

Hence dive back into Atlantis. Sink down beneath thy Self . . .

Flex effort, effort, effort
Lather, rinse, wash off those taints!
Yes, only effort, threefold effort
Can glean what such a mystery contains.

- II -

Hey now, who's that?
Living, going, gone!
Playing hide and go seek
Can't quite put a finger on -

Who's escaping past perception?
Who's perceiving an escape?
Never the same twice for anyone to call it constant.
Dead or dying, Being reborn

During every moment but with gaps.
Shallow and impermanent; still we try holding on tight.
Hands of haze for rising tides

Won't even hold a single drop.

So just flow dear Comatose
Like, with, and as the ocean
Quit pretending at forevers
Void all ego then just flow . . .

Image: Bond of Union by M.C. Escher

Qualified Non-Dualism

2011-04-08T10:29:00.029-04:00

Currently Reading:

Qualified Non-Dualism

Everything comes together
Folding back in on itself
As depth perception deepens
One-dimensional lucidity dawns in dreamt sky
Bathing sense faculties with an absolute clarity

The edges of perception are defined by limited awareness
But now basic consciousness reasserts its boundlessness
Attention engulfs whole body-mind spectrum
Stretching out among forms from within amorphous fullness
Ardor strong in both ascending and descending evolutionary currents

Breath ignites blood to animate pneuma
Poised at perfect equilibrium
Where all aspects weave a cognitive pattern
Working integrated system properly interpreting
Glowing movements through either implicit or explicit orders of Being

Meta-Poetics Vol. 2: Prophetic Conflations

2011-04-01T00:45:00.006-04:00

Currently Watching:

Author's Note: This is the first follow-up for a series that commenced on new year's day. Original post can be found here (beware, it's a doozy): http://www.obsidianeagle.com/2011/01/meta-poetics-vol1-antipoetic-rhetoric.html

Meta-Poetics Vol. 2: Prophetic Conflations

As the Ubermensch is to Homo Sapiens, so shall AntiPoets become for Poets
Escapees from that vapid madhouse centered around a cult of personalities
Exodus wandering into wilderness where tumble-words drift through desert
Then those vainglorious bardic bastards vanish vanquished via just dessert
Their successors will incorporate same techniques but expand beyond them
Creatively subverting what held inordinate esteem among subordinate soles
Never apologizing to any sounder for hanging pearls high over swine heard
Even at farthest futures these verses are misread; echoes deafened scholars
Append another end until disappointing childhood notebooks are unearthed
Anonymity and public apathy afford a cover much better than the night itself
Explanandum sans explanans demands lifted arms lie surrendered in defeat

Cosmic Clock Strikes Eleven

2011-03-31T17:38:00.093-04:00

Currently Reading:

Cosmic Clock Strikes Eleven

At last it's high time to accept

That the Gregorian calendar founded upon a mythological Christ

And whose holy dates were superimposed onto Pagan rites

Has put us out of phase with our planet as well as all else

"Supermoon" at perigee
Signifies an era's end
NASA spots exploding galaxy
Coincidence or portend?

Every day another cataclysm
As the countdown grows intense
Increased consciousness a catalyst
Will it ever bear us hence?

Blister packed sedation
Dystopic governments push on
Flawed Capitalist equation
When shall we witness brave new dawn?

Pluto renders elder powers inept
Yet Moloch masticates most morbid zeitgeist
Famine, drought and plague (to name but few blights)
Only former angels are fit to tread through these fell hells

Dilutions of Splendor

2011-03-18T21:26:00.000-04:00

Currently Reading:

Dilutions of Splendor

May finally have cracked
But Etinbroke's seated here
Smoking slims from ivory holder
Wrapped up in wispy metaphors - she dreams as if she slept.

Could be wrong
But Etinbroke admonishes:
"Remain firm and irreproachable
it isn't princely to be fallible - so reject all human doubt!"

One thin eyebrow raised inquisitively
She sifts through Tarot with free hand
Singeing this fool's ego with her steady sapphire gaze
From center spread draws out a card dubbed STRENGTH.

"Behold, that which was misplaced
among the rubble of spent youth.
Conferred back now as your gall reaches an end
lessons have been learned that portend glorious new days."

Perhaps she's but a figment
But her glory-talk rings true
For one whose lust was sublimated surreptitiously at night
Within the vacuous wellspring of ineffable omniscience.

Although possibly a daemon
She knows these insides like no other.
Together we shall accomplish things few mortal men can fathom
A preeminent contrarian, overseen by astral madam.

Querulous Quanta

2011-03-11T17:36:00.012-05:00

Currently Reading:

Querulous Quanta

Where hath thou gone, entangled phantom particle?

Our magnetic dipoles now spin out of sync

Once we were non-local as well as atemporal

Transcending bounds of space-time continuum

Yet liminal constraints inhibit subatomic orbits

Macroscopic systems become subject to entropy

Force of ill-bred habits subdues all organisms

Thought overtaking Consciousness by quantity not quality

Feeling lost within false realms - stunted, numb and mute

Lower beings must learn transmutation from raw elements to higher Ether

It is presently passing; make good on this opportunity or else face extinction!

Image: Doctor Manhattan from Watchmen

We Are Not Our Eidolons

2011-03-01T00:28:00.082-05:00

Currently Reading:

We Are Not Our Eidolons

In an ideal world we would all see clearly into each other's psyches

Whether Cancer, Capricorn, Ram or Virgo

Without needing to get too verbal

But formulaic emotion tinges what might have otherwise been clear

Ah the gifts of hypocrisy in a wayward democracy

Constitution ruptured atop foundational mores

Wherefore such typical tragedy?

Stock responses perfunctory

Adjudication in lover's court

A dismal dreg deemed exemplary

While seized by composer's grand symphony, one's broken lens gives false report

Bodhisattva Curse

2011-02-28T00:17:00.033-05:00

Currently Reading:

Author's Note: Some hard-liners may take this poem's title too seriously but it is rather tongue-in-cheek since by definition Bodhisattvas are elevated beings who furnish everyone else with inexhaustible compassion and are therefore incapable of pronouncing such a curse. However, a true Tantrika can balance on either edge of truth's sword.

Bodhisattva Curse

Gullible little automatons,
rolled fresh off an assembly line
with one billion more behind . . .

You will wander all six Bardos until this universe collapses
and be among the last sentients to cross the ocean of conditional existence
unto supreme Parinirvana.

Dream lives of untold sorrow and shame
First memory the end and final memory beginning
Moebius, Ouroboros,
Tabula Rasa and Eternal Recurrence
Deja-vu
Astral Projection
Fake Awakenings

Death and Rebirth everlasting.

Reverberate toward Stillness — or you simply wont stand a chance!

Image: Yamantaka Yidam (signifying the victory of wisdom over death, evil and suffering).

Un Lourd Secret by Guest Bard Sunil Narayan

2011-02-18T22:57:00.001-05:00

Writer's Bio: Sunil Narayan's work has been a long, enriching journey that absorbed the world's eccentricities to create a masterpiece of color, surrealism and human sentiment. The past two years witnessed a climatic moment in which his writing churned out many emotion-inducing poems. It is his intent to help people access feelings that they rarely get to experience.

This is the third part of three in a running series during February.

Un Lourd Secret

Mdvanii spoke to her brushed chienne when he
whimpered at the sight of a still empty bowl: “Il est
toujours par voie de douleur que l'on arrive à plaisir”
To be given grapes and bread is a reward not a
privilege
One must starve for as long as his master deems fit
Mdvanii is the master of all couturiers!

Her coiled black whip is made from the skin of
deceased orphans
Oiled each day by her esclave’s sweat
It shines under the dusty ceiling light
With one lash she frightens her shivering putain

Aldric begs for a lengthy bruising by the chipped
paddle
Unfortunately, Mdvanii will not relax her firm hold
on his body this time
She is in control of the narcissistic esclave’s ego
Its skin is punctured by the heels of her ruby-studded
shoes

A few nights ago it dawned on her: great pleasure can
be achieved if one walks all over this vermin’s chest
Ripping bits off the skin with her glue-covered red
heels
He will scream as a torrent of blood flows down his
chest
A poor old German seamster being forced to endure
heightened torture!

Dragged by his owner across the muddy floorboards
Aldric’s hair is pulled harder with each grunt
The scalp rips off an unwashed head every time!
Mdvanii reminds him a good designer never succumbs
to arrogance: afin de connaître la vertu,
nous devons d'abord nous familiariser avec le vice

The room is made out of solid steel to keep the crying
of a belittling artist sealed

It is un prostitué’s screams of enlarged pleasure
drowning out the neighbor dogs’ barking
Mdvanii puts cotton balls in her ears when the nipples
of her fat cochon are stretched to the waist by two short
chains with unpolished hooks
This toy is attached to a block of cement stained covered
with his tears

Aldric cleans dirt off the floor with his tongue, exposing
his scarred derrière
His chest swells and dries till skin sags from the bones
A pêche freshly picked from the nobleman’s garden
becomes mushy right before the farmer’s eyes
Perhaps Mdvanii is a domestique, tilling the soil of
centuries worth of bitter pride

It must be broken and put back together so the world
will lower their heads in respect
Flaming torches shall no longer melt the king’s palace!
Instead, they will turn on the noblemen for betraying
their loyal domestiques!
Preaching of false notions for an ideal reality

A calm muse sits in her chair to read a newspaper on
politics
She is interested in the behavior of noble rulers and
tyrants
To her their power lay in the twisting and beautifying
of the people
Everyone becomes a victim of another person’s ignorant
mind or the partaker in the fruits of carefully constructed
labor

It is a world so tightly wound yet absorbing all the
sweets and stale bread one can get their hands on
Functioning as a monstrous machine with oil flowing
from one end of the pipe to the other
Devouring the human essence as if it were un gâteau
aux fraises
A field covered in white balls of joy disappear with
each grab: l'ordre social au détriment de la liberté n'est
guère une bonne affaire

Our dear Antonia tortured by self-destructive authority

A poor Austrian girl who simply wanted to fit in
No one could stand looking at the images of her dressed
luxuriously like Déesse Vénus
She was a symbol of unfiltered disgust

The clock struck midnight and Mdvanii must retire to
her opal chamber
She bids goodnight to Déesse Diane for her friend
Remains hushed when the screams of Aldric fill
fill the foggy streets of Paris
He finally falls asleep despite having not been fed
scraps of old sandwiches

Our grande dame never tires herself of debasing elite
couturiers
She is a humbled secret covered in diamond dresses
Only those with greedy claws can unveil the violent
nature of a cursed muse
If they are daring enough to rip her skin off that is!

Nearly a century ago, her dominating Charles died
leaving her empty of satisfaction
He taught her to be quiet and grateful for his kindness
In her heart she always yearned for the excitement all
women experience when visiting a new boutique de
marque: lecteurs sensual excédentaire pitié chez
l'homme
It is the only jewel she held onto during her escape
when he lost himself in glasses of bière

Mdvanii begin to hop from couturier to couturier, noticing
the chic girls were too involved in their looks
Their blue purses and fur-coats were the new trend of
Paris
Decades ago, all of a sudden a rainbow splashed the
imagination
Everyone had to own velvet gloves with gold sewn
into the edges or shoes adorned with a diamond rose
on the front

Mdvanii sighed in disappointment at how obsessed
the city became with her new lover’s collections
There is more to life than luscious garments or jewelry
made of black pearls

By nature, it is her duty to dissolve the extravagant
culture imprisoning the wealthy people of Paris
The pain seamsters both grande and petit experienced
in the beginning is incomparable to the mutilation in
the end

She witnessed generations of couturiers indulge in
yards of bright fabrics made of crushed gemstones
for the sake of it
Smiling as domestiques dress them in silk and satin
when their money could be used to feed the starving
children
The artists of Paris no longer remember their simple
childhoods
For they excitedly jumped into the river of fame: ce
n'est pas mon mode de pensée qui a causé mon malheur,
mais le mode de pensée des autres

A Swan Who Wallows In Lotus Laden Ponds by Guest Bard Sunil Narayan

2011-02-11T02:06:00.009-05:00

This is the second part of three in a running series for February.

A Swan Who Wallows In Lotus Laden Ponds by Guest Bard Sunil Narayan

She walks into the banquet room of the Château de Versailles feeling out of place
Such a refined lady with skin as soft as a doe’s coat
Pearls that dangle above her swan-like neck
Eyes so tranquil, flutter like butterflies in a garden

A woman who floats from room to room unaware of everyone’s presence
They look into those lotus petal shaped eyes to see a secret world
Gardens stretching for miles fill the air with the scent of roses
Uṣás-Devī cannot help but inhale this sweet perfume

Radiant marigolds bask in the Sun’s warmth
Jasmine trees stand tall to give shade for all of Pṛthivī’s critters
They lay at the base sighing for amour had consumed them
A gazelle who once nestled at the feet of Pṛthivī-Devī is now an elegant lady

Yes! Suraiyā is the child of Pṛthivī-Devī
Her hands decorated in emerald rings have fingers that flow like the Gangā
So pure and gentle men have followed her around the world just to be caressed by those fingers
They are savages who have succumbed to the feminine power of an untainted goddess

Yet, why does she not look at these men?
At the far end of the room gourmet Indian dishes line up a long glass table
An aroma of mixed spices travels through the air
Men who smell it divert their eyes to Suraiyā

She stands before the table delighted by such a sumptuous feast
Her hands move towards the glass spoon dipped in the dāl bowl
Ashamed by bad manners Suraiyā pulls her hand back
The host who has been seduced by Suraiyā’s beauty tells her
it is quite alright

A smile transforms Suraiyā’s face like Uṣás-Devī bathing the world in light
Those eyes of her enchants the host, bringing him to his knees
His heart grew ten times with each pulse sighing in joy
A goddess has locked eyes with a humble king

An elegant lady created in the nest of the Pṛthivī-Devī looks into the eyes of many
The pain, the happiness, the frustration, the excitement, the joy!
These emotions are the colors in her gardens

And all men, women and children have their own inner gardens

Suraiyā’s lotus-petal eyes see the world’s inner beauty permeating all things
Even the Sky, an ocean for the Devás, is a jewel created by Pṛthivī-Devī!
Suraiyā’s śāṭī is fashioned from the Devás’ water
A long train from her shoulders floats above the floor as she walks around the room

All guests spend hours watching Suraiyā create a stream with her śāṭī
The scent of lilacs flows from the fabric into their noses
Śakra-Devá’s heaven cannot compare to the moment they are lost in!
A rarity in this world is locked away for centuries but comes out when humanity
has submerged in harmonious bliss

Mdvanii Stirs Her Lover’s Desire! by Guest Bard Sunil Narayan

2011-02-04T00:34:00.069-05:00

This is the first part of three in a running series for February.

Mdvanii Stirs Her Lover’s Desire!

The designers of Paris say Mdvanii is an immortal muse who lives in the heart of every artist
From her chair she imparts ideas to a grand couturier expecting nothing in return
Sitting on a silk seat containing the feathers of Zeús’eagle
The legs made from the crushed material of diamonds

She sees her master in all directions, a large man standing proudly
Yet, is trapped in a luxurious home with no one to keep her company
How can an emotional lady survive this arduous life?
Her enlarged heart and sophisticated walk enchanted the socialites of the city

Now, the reality of Mdvanii is a preserved muse for a demanding couturier
She looks upwards to see lust and creativity colliding
From such a powerful fight pearls strung with gold fall into her hands
A meager compensation for a sumptuous lady!

She sighs before changing into her evening dress
The spring season once blossomed like her marigolds
Surprising all who lounged at the saloons
As if Gaïa was splashed with the color of the forest trees!

In the corner of her room a closet with shelves perfectly lined with
shoes made from colors of the rainbow
Pink, blue, red, orange and yellow!
Each day she picks a pair to match her silk gloves
A string of pearls to tie around her waist, gold bracelets to place on her light wrists, and moonstone pins to hold her thick hair in a chignon

A refined lady has choices, choices and choices!
Twenty evening dresses made for the Queen of Norway hang from the hooks
They’re waterfalls of creamy colors from the Amazon jungles
For each one gold thread was sewn into the fabric to form a blossoming magnolia

As she puts on her heels Charles wraps a silk shawl made of crushed rose quartz
around her supple body
He adorns her smooth neck with a ruby necklace so long it rests between her breasts
She barely notices this sweet gesture while applying pink blush
Her eyes in the shape of the waning Selēnē are lost in serenity

A man who drinks to squash his guilt must continue to lavish his goddess with pieces befitting the Queen of the Universe!
Gemstones smuggled from India are crushed into light powder
He sprinkles it onto white strips of cloth then smoothes it out
Although, a doubt pricks his mind, making him feel guilty for doing a cruel deed

His clients knock on the rotting door of his studio demanding their garments
Charles shoos them away as if they are wandering beggars
His mind fixated on a refined woman entrapped in his heart
He gives her potent lust to taste yet Mdvanii rejects it

What seems to be the magnificence of couturier is in fact Mdvanii!
She runs along his arms tickling him
With one hand the resplendent muse blows blue petals into his mind
To her surprise the wind snatches her white hat snickering in delight

Mdvanii’s eyes turn red with bubbling anger
She’s a cat ready to pounce a taunting mouse!
On his sewing table a large red gemstone manifests
Cut in the shape of a tulip, its sharp edge is hardly noticeable
Passion gives it color for which Charles fixates on

He rubs the edge unaware of blood sliding down the treasure
Mdvanii plays her games without giving a reason
She is a muse of few words but her actions have a language of their own
Charles will never see her inner world for he was devoured by his own

The Dead of Winter

2011-01-31T12:23:00.000-05:00

Currently Reading:

"Behold, I tell you the sacred secret now: we shall not all sleep in death." from Philip K. Dick's A Scanner Darkly (Also 1st Corinthians 15:51).

The Dead of Winter

Welcome brothers, sisters, enter!

Behold the nightmare from now to hereafter

Our departed file down esplanades of spectral alabaster

Who among us can discern design amid such seeming disaster?

And yet all is not so cut and dry as that which meets the eye

No tears need one cry for close kin even when they die

Though life appears awry its not over when we lie

Light rendered brighter still by a dark tomb

Summer gestates within winter's womb

Glorious rebirth occurs despite gloom!

Guest Star by Guest Bard Colin James

2011-01-16T09:26:00.001-05:00

Writer's Bio: Colin James has a chapbook of his poems out from Thunderclap Press. He works in Energy Conservation and is a great admirer of the Scottish landscape painter, John Mackenzie.

Kudos to Colin for picking up the AntiPoetic gauntlet of poésie sans poète!

GUEST STAR

                                 That scene where you wake up
                                 early at a friend's house,
                                 wander down stairs, start the coffee
                                 and make your way to your favorite chair,
                                 when you spot something creepy sitting there.
                                 A species with the head of a dog
                                 and the body of a deer,
                                 lounging provocatively in your chair.
                                 You file it in the category
                                 of sexual ambiguity,
                                 all the while drinking your coffee
                                 careful not to make eye contact
                                 or myths forbid, engage it in
                                 any sort of polite conversation.
                                 The rest of the house won't be up for hours,
                                 and you resist the urge to
                                 look back over your shoulder as
                                 you head down the stone path
                                 to retrieve the morning paper.
                                 With your luck it will be late.

Irrelephant by Guest Bard Kathleen Radigan

2011-01-09T22:55:00.006-05:00

Writer's Bio: Kathleen Radigan is a high school student. She loves talking to people, reading books, reading people and talking to books. She also writes music and swings on swings regularly. You can follow her on tumblr at http://elephant-potholders.tumblr.com

Kudos to Kathleen for picking up the AntiPoetic gauntlet of poésie sans poète!

Irrelephant

The intelligence of elephants

irrelevant, but eloquent

their clumsy sort of elegance

is one of many elements.

And when that wisdom elevates

it’s difficult to celebrate

for once we see our cells relate

thoughts start to accelerate.

Well wisdom seems aristocratic

dusted down from someone’s attic

pulled apart and cleared of static

(fluctuations are erratic).

Oh how we trace the web life spins

parts swept away like bowling pins

still, consciousness, our human prints

will never match an elephant's.

Meta-Poetics Vol.1: AntiPoetic Rhetoric

2011-01-01T11:32:00.281-05:00

Currently Reading:

Meta-Poetics Vol.1: AntiPoetic Rhetoric

Author's Note: It has been a year since OE's Blasphemous Bazaar was established. To commemorate this milestone, the editor will now present what he has learned so far by renouncing the title "Poet" and embracing that of AntiPoet instead.

AntiPoetic, AntiPoets, AntiPoetry - all these are misnomers because they allude to a new offshoot of Poetics going strong against the grain.

Those who don't believe in or understand AntiPoets and AntiPoetry don't realize how easy it is to reflect what Poets do like backwards letters in a mirror.

Poets cannot fulfill a dialectic of transcendence without first confronting their own shadow and synthesizing right-brain Poetry with left-brain AntiPoetry.

Contrary to what many think, AntiPoets have little antipathy toward Poetry. Instead, they work hard to hone that Art and raise it over Ego.

It often seems as if Poets have forgotten that Poems are not simply a platform for personal aggrandizement but a cultural dialect relevant to all.

Poets are mistaken if assuming that Poetry serves their selfish ends when they are in fact there to act as as spokespeople for inspiration.

Too much of what passes for Poetry is really just self-indulgent tripe with little if any attention to craft. Who teaches Poets to write?

AntiPoets question the sacred place that Poets occupy in literature by challenging and satirizing their counterparts.

New Poets need to read classic and modern Poetry to learn whereas the educated ones need to become more aware of self-reference and repetition.

Adopting a Nom de Plume (Pen Name) is an AntiPoetic maneuver because it makes Poets anonymous and less concerned about their public image.

Some AntiPoets are in fact Poets gone rogue in a literary class struggle between writers and publishers as freelance mercenaries of the Word.

It is evident from their writing that most Poets have little interest in literary theory or linguistics, which is a shame for this art form.

Poems ABOUT Poetry are decidedly AntiPoetic because they must take a critical stand on the art form and who better for the job than Poets?

From an AntiPoetic perspective most regular Poets are conformists and/or narcissists; yet conscientious dissenters are considered elitists.

Since Poets generally neglect to do so, it falls on their AntiPoet counterparts to critique Poetry and engage in thorough exegesis of Poems.

Poets should not be afraid to wax philosophic as well as poetic. Poems can be a properly intellectual exercise — don't dumb down your message!

Philology and Etymology are underused tools in a Poet's repertoire these days. Poems can benefit greatly from semiotics and a ludic logos.

Living Poets tend to be full of themselves while the departed ones are usually recognized for their contributions to the whole of humanity.

Next time you read or write a Poem keep an eye out for first-person pronouns; you might notice how needlessly they are repeated.

Removing first-person pronouns from Poetry is a decidedly AntiPoetic maneuver since Poems tend to be centered around vain Poets.

Even without first-person references, Poems are inescapably personal but removing those words is a step towards broader poetic art.

Picasso said that the Artist only ever portrays his/her self, this is equally true of Poets but good Poems can become a transpersonal affair.

Poems centered on the SELF can but don't always have universal relevance. Words may be aesthetically pleasing but even then may lack meaning.

Poetry is not merely a toy or a tool but a higher form of language that can enliven as well as enlighten. Poets should treat it responsibly.

Poets are often afraid or altogether incapable of being didactic with verse, as if knowledge was offensive and only pretty words counted.

Poets should not be afraid to offend their audience, sometimes (whether right or wrong) a little upset is necessary to cause upheaval.

AntiPoetry is stricter is some ways than regular Poetry but in other ways it is also far more playful and irreverent to traditional romanticism.

AntiPoets demystify Poetry so as to catalyze mutations in wordplay like physicists take some mystery out of matter to create new inventions.

AntiPoets are really Philosopher Poets; willing to put Poetry under the microscope and dissecting its cultural significance to benefit all.

AntiPoets love Poetry so much that they sacrifice their egos to serve the muses. It takes conviction and courage for Poets to turn.

AntiPoets deliberate on the implicit nature of language in ways that might make a reader uncomfortable as reality is subverted through verse.

AntiPoets use Poetic paradox to undermine the entrapment of language over mind and Rodomontade to inspire humility in Poets.

AntiPoets purposefully huff and puff on the caterpillar-pipe of Bombast and don't mind giving audiences a blast of hot air as iconoclasts.

AntiPoetry launches beyond proper Poetry into semantic spaces where Poems pull the rug out from under readers to send them into mental freefall.

AntiPoets ambush a reader's mind in ways that might be considered dishonorable by regular Poets; using words as weapons in psychic combat.

AntiPoets must work twice as hard as regular Poets to earn half as much respect. Prosaic Poems are not very popular with one's average reader.

Whereas Poets are content to voice verse and be recognized, AntiPoets verse a voice of discontent for confrontational reckoning; a subtle distinction.

Poets toy with Language in their efforts to be published. AntiPoets weaponize Poetry in order to spur metabolic change beyond commercialized publication.

It is too much to ask for most Poets to understand AntiPoets and AntiPoetry since they barely get ordinary Poetry or SELF to begin with.

The Dharma Heruka

2010-12-31T14:02:00.001-05:00

Currently Reading:

The Dharma Heruka

According to Buddha-Dharma there are six realms of incarnation within Dukkha-Samsara:

Naraka-Gati: Infernal suffering ad infinitum.
Preta-Gati: Eternal famine of hungry ghosts.
Tiryagyoni-Gati: Bestial existence, wild as well as domestic.
Manusya-Gati: Human condition; Nirvana close but elusive.
Ashura-Gati: Jealous demigods locked in perpetual combat.
Deva-Gati: Heavenly beings lost through blissful absorption.

Ideally, Humans should be capable of breaking the whole vicious cycle but since these realms are both literal and allegorical, it appears this world borrows most heavily from Ashura-Gati.

Tantric doctrines further stress that chief demoniac Ashuras were pacified by Siddhartha-Gautama (historical Buddha) and enlisted as ferocious defenders of Dharma.

Consequentially, current circumstances call for a new breed of spiritual warrior to transcend even Devas when they elevate humanity upon self-sacrificial shoulders.

Enter The Dharma Heruka . . .

Image: Samvara Mandala

Caliginous Penumbra

2010-12-20T12:34:00.001-05:00

Currently Reading:

Caliginous Penumbra

Terra, Sol and Luna in winter solstice syzygy

From darkest day to brightest night

Dealing delayed epiphany

Seventh gamma ray drop

From on high down astral drain

Thunder crackle loudly through human brain

Ever softly strumming strings the spheres do gently weep

Fugacious florid script, etched with angles oh so steep

Here below all mortals sleep 'til death doth reap

Far above our demiurgic future-passe holds fast

On such succulent verbiage will infinite memory repast

Live unadulterated - boldly vaulting welkin although vast

First Will And Testament

2010-12-11T08:32:00.012-05:00

Currently Reading:

First Will And Testament

Worried about death coming for either of us 

Determined nevertheless not to make a fuss

That door's forever hinging upon our truss 

Spirits calling out may be a plus 

Too grand life's mystery for any to suss 

Repeal post-mortem prayers but don't you cuss

Ashes unto Ages, from every dawn to dusk

Obsidian Eagle feathers the four winds nonplus

Who needs answers to all questions just because _ ?

Few were born to drive; most ride tragic tour bus.

The Bright Side of Kali

2010-12-06T12:00:00.077-05:00

Currently Reading:

Note: Kali is Shiva’s female counterpart and is considered the ultimate destroyer because her power represents the inescapable march of time. Although her name means ‘black one’ – Sri Ramakrishna once said: “She appears black because She is viewed from a distance; but when intimately known She is no longer so.”

The Bright Side of Kali

There are times when she appears to one in dreams
Either donning the masks of bygone lovers
Or revealing a luminous visage
Her very presence gives fulfillment
Her silent voice calls through the void
When thou art pressed against that bosom
Manifestation be destroyed
Atman cremated on her altar
Baptized in light, so overjoyed!

She is embodied by every woman
But too few women, ever wake her
For who can hope to mirror Kalis'
All-encompassing allure?

The Tyranny of Words

2010-11-29T22:29:00.008-05:00

Currently Reading:

The Tyranny of Words

De Facto benefactor of every actor

Meaning outweighs these sounds by tons not pounds

Whether Pope, Prophet, Poet, Professor - etymology is the emperor's undresser

Across genetic world wars are waged for memetic primacy; prim petty piracy

Like order out from chaos, energy gives inertia gloss

Voice of authority drowns majority

Images make transparent apparent

But lies go unreported by what a sign has purported

Wherever joke, phrase, book, or essay has vexed (check your specs) find its subtext

Government, media and religion all continue to endorse neo-colonial discourse

Baby bard irresponsible cannot be lingual constable
Psychobabble way over vocal rabble

Wholesale Proverbs

2010-11-19T09:38:00.002-05:00

Currently Reading:

Wholesale Proverbs

Engage the flow and let its current take you where you need to go
It's better to be alone than in bad company
Everything should fuel that fire at your core
Treat rough people and experiences like a steady source of coal

Those who are unwilling to cooperate rarely pull their own weight
Anyone unneccessarily difficult is not worth the effort
Strive to maintain a balance betwixt temporary compromises
Fools dance on wise mens' graves right before the phoenix rises

Hence, look to many fine examples set by each preceding Mensch
[Cursed are the meek for it is nothing they'll inherit
By relying on a prophet whose ideals hold no merit]
Not unless one's will be brazen will one possess such strength to wrench -

Golden apples of immortality off Hesperides' branch.