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.

There were idols in days of old
Made of wood stone silver & gold
They had a mouth eyes & ears
But they could not speak see or hear.

And there were also idols of flesh
Filled with God's own breath
The same images we worship today
Creating physical & spiritual decay.

These idols of flesh we're exalting
These idols of flesh we wallow in
These idols of flesh we're consuming
Will consume our mind & our spirit.

Taking away what we can't live without
Replacing inner peace with fear & doubt
Precious time spent covering up our tracks
Looking ahead but still looking back.

Burning on the ancient altar of lust
Occasionally saying we've had enough
Sheepishly returning to the altar again
Learning to live with the scars & the pain.

They are flesh & blood just like me & you
Filled with emptiness when the act is through.

You're a hideous creature.
A disgusting slave
To your emotions
Of lust and pain.
Have some self respect.
Give yourself some love.
But irksome are you;
your yields are not enough.
Familiarise yourself
with self control; restraint.
You're a demon imp,
Though claim to be a saint.
Neither prayers nor witchery
Can help you now.
For all your life,
to this idol you've bowed.

I’ve studied the lore of your Dark Arts.
I’ve read the book; I’ve learned it by heart.
But try as I may, I can’t play the part.

Though I know spells, and magic potions,
and practice the craft, with much devotion,
of the powers you wield, I haven’t a notion.
Black magic eludes me;
I’m not one of the chosen.

Though I can’t cast a spell in the way that you do,
with practicing magic, I don't think I"m through.
I find I enjoy the study and ritual--
in fact, I believe I may make it habitual.

The spirits I summon do clearly insist
that I work forever, as their alchemist.
This servitude, I accept with pride.
The end unknown, I’m enjoying the ride.

You're the Dark Lord; you are the master--
I may never achieve the goal that I’m after.
But on I toil, a servant of magic--
a lifelong apprenticeship--joyful, not tragic.

The Monetary Moai
Standing on the shore
Making sure you worship them
Making sure they get more.

More of your offerings
More of your respect
Even if the have to take you
And hang you by the neck.

The Moai are important
With their grant-faced stare.
You may or may not like them
But they don’t have to care.

They are the gods to you,
And you the fools that revere them.
You put them on their pedestals;
Stop others from coming near them.

You, the ones who refuse
To question them and their power
Have made them the gods they are
Right up until their final hour.

It they ever revert to the truth
As just strange hunks of stone
Maybe then you will leave them
Ignored, disintegrating and alone.

But as long as these monoliths
Represent something good to you
There is nothing that the rest of us
Can, by resisting them, can ever do.

We can talk and chant and rant
And tell you that you are all fools
But it was your hands that put them up
Your effort, superstitions and tools.

Certain people see things
differently.
Now why do we do that?
Is it a lack of closeness?
Maybe communication?

I have questions
for the pastor/Pete Campbell clone
at Immanuel Bible Church.
Like,
why does your sermon feel derivative?

How often are songs played in-between the sermons?
Are these songs a necessary transition?
A slideshow?
A distraction?
I still don’t know how to sing,

or keep tempo with claps.
Pavlov’s dog is hated,
by you.
Do you hate the dog?
Or do you hate the results of the experiment?

Is science,
a deceitful ex-girlfriend to you?
Someone you don’t trust?
If so I can understand you.
But I don’t understand you.

Because you have your truth.
And I have my truth.
Peter said to me truth is an abstraction.
I’m telling you your truth is yours.
But,
cup your hand and press it against the wall of my truth,
listen and you will hear a man and a man talking to each other.

Their naked bodies are sealed by an anchor that you have never seen.
The first man leans forward
and
kisses the second man on the nape of his neck.
Then, the second man kisses the first man on the left part of his chest.

Should I stop?
Am I scaring you?
Do you want to watch a blonde girl stick her tongue down another blonde girl’s throat,
Until her breath cannot escape and float and trail off her lips.
Like the dove white spaceships that launch into the expanding horizon of darkness.

Am I making sense?
I want you to follow my words.
I want you to respect me.
The first man is talking. The second man has his arms folded behind his back like a
Korean man, and he’s looking out the window, gazing at the dove white spaceship
Propelling into the incredible shadow, the one that is swallowing up everything we love.

Pete Campbell is the shadow.
Do you care about POV?
Are you bothered when another person is talking about a person in the third person?
I consider your opinion,

Even when you don’t consider mine.
Does that make me weak?
“Television turn off the mind,”
that is a quote that shot out of your mouth,
like an arrow from the Green Arrow dressed in Cupid’s apparel.

Or is that the flesh?
Carnal.
I digress.
Tangents happen.
I was rude. I am sorry,

And I know sorry is a word,
And you do not value words.
But I am a poet.
Words are my salmon and red wine
Rewind the cassette.

An avalanche.
Rocks coming stumbling towards me. The warmth of lava makes me perspire but when I run fast, progress is recessed.
Languish buries my feet from underneath. My only supplies are useless... the desire to leave my heavy knapsack is relentless. The rush for survival going on, you think it would be first to dispose... but I am latched onto materialism

Even though false idols like Baal no longer exist, many people still idolize things today.
These people idolize money and *** when they should only idolize Jehovah God always.
God is offended when people idolize things other than him, it's something that he hates.
If you're such a person, you'd better change because it's something God won't tolerate.
God is the only one who should be idolized, not other wicked things.
People who idolize anything other than God had better watch out because disaster is what it will bring.