Religion Is Consumerism Too

if this world’s of metal and plastic, and madness
sneers at another’s flag, mocking tongue
religion and whatever it is you’re looking at
with lopsided dances and trickster type joy,
remain peaceful, remember gandhi’s undying words
in moments of bone-grinding agony,
remember what gandhi said, don’t lash out just yet
“be the change you want to see”,
smoke butts out of ashtrays
and hope for peep holes in women’s clothes, Oh! Indian man,
before you pick the knife and assert your place,
remember, it’s better being a pacifist,
lay down opinions burn them in wastepaper baskets,
chant hare rama hare krishna,
now look to the sky — the gray film of petroleum wax
disembodied from beating heart desire of man turned inside out guts out by eyeball kicks of monastic pacifists — completely null and void
up the ranks of reincarnation — bodhisattva — Daisy Buddhism
and the people who bed long drawls of flowering mouth’s calcified ignorance end up throwing everyone else into a fire,
but peace must remain nonetheless, no marijuana, no alcohol, only religious beads and obsequious mantric bullshit,
religion tipped arrows shot at intelligence — decades and ongoing,
propaganda — the dalai lama urges the west not to convert, tibetans give me half assed half hearted broken looks, skewed eyes (I could care less), muslims wanna bomb bomb bomb, hindus deny fucking each others brains out at the banks of the ganges, punjab is breezy-wheezy, content beneath the shade of Benzedrine hallucinations, but fathers, mothers, grandfathers and grandmothers — the real sinners — who for fear of their own childhood wild cooking debauchery slap thunderbolts down their children’s spine,
and wonder what plastic is wrong in skull
when the roar of belts and chainsaws and relentless phantasm of sun and moon and power in the palm of their fists turns to dust — a sad sad dream —
religious cocks and cunts in massive orgy like maneuvers, bring down temple domes in a single aum — stomachs exposed to god — backs bent, broken old age, mental faculties gone to abyss,
but plastic floats on the tops of hills dipping and rising in waves gently through white fog,
along the imperfection of mountain-brow and screeching metal boxes and ashcan rantings of rivers of wind,
and reach whole mandalas on plastic (milky way and beyond) in one stretch of the imagination — consumerism benefits all

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Religion Is Consumerism Too

To My-Self

dear friend,
who is in the thick of things
up to his neck surviving twisted hinge
have you ever knelt on both skinned knees
before the picture stationed on the mantle
yes I know they never look the same
catch yourself thinking in all vividness
a good thought you ought to give coercion
authority is not meant to be questioned
turn your head away salvage your bones
and flesh and blood and mind now grown cold
with independence wear the age of the old
humility comes from slavery
Mother Teresa who was ground under a groan
gave up skin for lepers and her bones
in the long run speak of how you or I
should devote leather retire an old drone
mortal assembly cannot, better not follow time
sing like the parakeets do ironed in their cage
taking pride in master’s stuffed shirt
speak to yourself alone write a poem
when tears turn to anger and anger bemoans
you would’ve made art out of your crazy tone

To My-Self

It’s All About

It’s all about slavery, starvation, drying flower pots
lets never water them but water them down
the industrial wash
It’s all about breasts taken by surprise, trembling limbs, little girls
lets all gather around and tell them it’s ok at 12
to be the bang for the buck
It’s all about awareness, depression, swimming in self vomit
night after night searing torsos in nightmares’ sea of flames
no ears would hear you talk about it
It’s all about war, survival of the fittest, lying under the sun cut eyeballs
where these homes are built atop human skull gasoline
I put all my eggs in a single basket
It’s all about suicide, weeping slashed jaws, maternal-child genocide
bring my dysentery cup of soup enriched with blood
gushing from the world’s bosom
It’s all about turning this mountain of shit
into good craftsmanship
It’s all about being the platoon
corrupted by the dark spot on the moon
It’s all about the speech of a clown
It’s all about who cares what it is
Or who is another ten fingers two eyes
It’s all about those holistic moments of labour
when all she wanted was to get rid of it
It’s all about the lie
our hearts pump
It’s all about the machinery
of human existence

It’s All About