I'd like to think that they are all One,
Even the old stories said so,
But the same stories created multiple ones,
Where is the truth in all these tales?
Hidden between the lines of the translator?
Or within the words of the narrator?
Or convoluted by the repeated writings of many hands?
I guess that a journey inspired by any one of a tale,
Shall also be a tale by itself.
You may not need to verify the source,
May you be the source for others,
When we look for inspirations Upstairs,
Why not look among ourselves ?

Six-armed things of Asiatic trances,
temple belles entwined in temple dances:
mantra in one hand, the other holds naan.
One holding chutney and the other, paan.
Two hands left (befitting of deity):
one offers curry, one incense.  Aseity
signifies self-contented wonderment.
(One wonders as well what that mantra meant...)

Note the third eye in the figure's forehead:
a spare one in case left or right go dead?
But really—how freakish these idols look:
a ******-pantheon from a nightmare book.
(Outdone only by the Aztecs for fright
along with demons born of tribal night.)

Cobra-crowned elephant-headed mutants
sickly-sweet incense, divine pollutants
mix in with the stench of bodies burning
alongside the filthy Ganges churning
flowing with ashes from funeral ghats
excrement, corpses of humans and rats
that swarmed humble hovels of Hindustan
where gods are mass-produced for fallen man.

Maidens in saris with red tinted lips;
glossy vulgarity, loose at the hips
now growing more arms; an insect vision
enough to make one gag on religion.
The ubiquitous trident looms, a sign:
the eternally present un-divine.
Instead, it ought to stick some sacred cow
in its bovine buttocks, and so allow
beef curry for a hungry avatar
craving fresh meat in his juggernaut car.

Turn from this antediluvian scene
in sincerity, ask: what does it mean?
Were you created in these gods' image?
Is anything real behind their visage?
Blue skin and sick smiles, anointed with ghee:
exotic... but wrong theologically.
Till lingams are yonis I'll spell it out;
these Aryan idols should merit your doubt.
Such weirdness deserves some analysis
(as did old Diana of Ephesus).

Would you tingle if such a god showed up
and offered to refill your soma cup,
sending siddhis up your spinal column
with you in full lotus, clueless, solemn.
Would you offer puja in their temple,
bedeck your soul in a robe to sample
veggie-masalas, chapatis and dal,
peruse the Upanishads, and enthrall
your mind with the mystic old Rig-Vedas
fall for idolatrous sin conveyed
as spiritual truth when it's just a big lie...
bow before a multi-armed freak?  Not I.
Not for all the visions in Satan's world.
Better to call B.S. than to be hurled
to hell for living and loving this lie
embracing monstrosities. By and by
the books will be opened. The Lord will judge.
Consider this your transcendental nudge
toward something less false, less fearfully fake
than the idols Antichrist nations make.

The crippled bull has yet to live Another Day
It proudly ambles on Year to Year
Its discordant song
Triumphant

Is an iron sword that clefts, rips apart The Age
Four hundred and thirty-two thousand
Times over and over
Gutting the

Detested coward and honored brave alike
‘Tis the stench of war and of hot oil
Quickly seeping o’er the
Horizon

With the armies aflame and howling for battle
Crimson red bloodlust and scarlet wrath
‘Tis the jewels that adorn
The tyrant’s

Crown, gleaming and fiery with authority
‘Tis the wedding bed of the wretch’d *****,
Defil’d, soil’d, forsook
No man can

Deny the captivating, luxurious tune
O mighty bull, your song may last from
age to age, and you may
Hobble on

your single leg

Bellowing
and roaring victory
and dominion o’er the nations
But even you must fall down, bow, and come to rest

At

the feet of

A humble

Lamb.

that He alone - held the lightning in
His hands - was the flash -
that lit up reality better than anything else.

Better than - the Sun -
can't run from - Crepuscular Rays
that brought forth irregular days
to which we - were blinded -
in a popular daze.

the conductor of this -
Splitting Storm - Blue streaks -
enfolded around us -
'til filled - with single-minded Zeal -
And - to seal the deal.
Gave us bolts of our own.

Those who showed resistance -
were shot down - and burned -
in a series of dazzling flashes -
now turned - to ashes

All that is left is a glimmer -
a glint of doubt -
that flickers - unsteady -
till it burns out -
beginning the blackout - that -