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"vina" poems
तत् त्वम् असि *for sitar, mridangam, vina, musical spoons, washboard, Jew’s harp and banjo* (*the names Swami and Guru-ji can be replaced by any other mystic names the reader wishes to substitute*) Swami and Guru-ji went to the river to wash their souls in the ***** water filled brass pots while they were at it, singing: “These are Gods – worship them, worship them, these are Gods – won’t you worship them please” Guru and Swami-ji flexed contortions twisted minds and limbs in knots sold each other secret mantras to erase akashic records when the body rots Swami and Guru-ji taught disciples how to fast and hum and chant; bound their ***** with priestly garments, saying “These are Gods – worship them, worship them, these are Gods – won’t you worship them please” Guru and Swami-ji swallowed prana purged their guts, then farted light launched their chakras into oneness in the ida and pingala of their third-eye sight Swami and Guru-ji built a temple around a monstrous calf of gold bowed before the six-armed idols chanting “These are Gods – worship them, worship them, these are Gods – won’t you worship them please” Guru and Swami-ji studied parchments by the dim light of a feeble ray railed and wailed at the sinful heathen in the filthy Kali-yuga of the dying day Swami and Guru-ji made ablutions offered incense and holy foods ate their share and smoked the profit, humming “These are Gods – worship them, worship them, these are Gods – won’t you worship them please” Guru and Swami’s blissed devotions entwined their members with the temple belles; stuck their yonis up their lingams in the twenty-seventh circle of the seven hells. Swami and Guru-ji offered puja wrote it all off as a karmic debt – forced a shudra to bear the burden, screaming “These are Gods – worship them, worship them, these are Gods – won’t you worship them please” Guru and Swami-ji meditated: pure omniscience in eternal now – drank fresh ***** from a heifer’s bladder for they knew that it was soma from a holy cow. Swami and the Guru merged with Brahman – then went home to the wife and kids. Told the servants to polish statues, saying “These are Gods – worship them, worship them, these are Gods – won’t you worship them please” THE MORAL: (slower solemn rhythm, no banjo or Jew’s harp) Aaron’s calf is ground to powder, cast upon the Ganges’ tide. Every tribe shall taste its poison. “This is God –worship Him, worship Him – this is God – let us worship Him now…”
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Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 8:33 AM UTC
Hindoo Folk Song
तत् त्वम् असि *for sitar, mridangam, vina, musical spoons, washboard, Jew’s harp and banjo* (*the names Swami and Guru-ji can be replaced by any other mystic names the reader wishes to substitute*) Swami and Guru-ji went to the river to wash their souls in the ***** water filled brass pots while they were at it, singing: “These are Gods – worship them, worship them, these are Gods – won’t you worship them please” Guru and Swami-ji flexed contortions twisted minds and limbs in knots sold each other secret mantras to erase akashic records when the body rots Swami and Guru-ji taught disciples how to fast and hum and chant; bound their ***** with priestly garments, saying “These are Gods – worship them, worship them, these are Gods – won’t you worship them please” Guru and Swami-ji swallowed prana purged their guts, then farted light launched their chakras into oneness in the ida and pingala of their third-eye sight Swami and Guru-ji built a temple around a monstrous calf of gold bowed before the six-armed idols chanting “These are Gods – worship them, worship them, these are Gods – won’t you worship them please” Guru and Swami-ji studied parchments by the dim light of a feeble ray railed and wailed at the sinful heathen in the filthy Kali-yuga of the dying day Swami and Guru-ji made ablutions offered incense and holy foods ate their share and smoked the profit, humming “These are Gods – worship them, worship them, these are Gods – won’t you worship them please” Guru and Swami’s blissed devotions entwined their members with the temple belles; stuck their yonis up their lingams in the twenty-seventh circle of the seven hells. Swami and Guru-ji offered puja wrote it all off as a karmic debt – forced a shudra to bear the burden, screaming “These are Gods – worship them, worship them, these are Gods – won’t you worship them please” Guru and Swami-ji meditated: pure omniscience in eternal now – drank fresh ***** from a heifer’s bladder for they knew that it was soma from a holy cow. Swami and the Guru merged with Brahman – then went home to the wife and kids. Told the servants to polish statues, saying “These are Gods – worship them, worship them, these are Gods – won’t you worship them please” THE MORAL: (slower solemn rhythm, no banjo or Jew’s harp) Aaron’s calf is ground to powder, cast upon the Ganges’ tide. Every tribe shall taste its poison. “This is God –worship Him, worship Him – this is God – let us worship Him now…”
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On píseň lásce mrtvé zpívá Tak smutnou až měsíc pláče A slunce v noci neusíná Ona jak z ledového kamene oči Upřené na sklenku vína On na štěstí víc si nevzpomíná Bílýma nedosažitelnýma rukama svýma Pohladí mu tváře zčernalé Jeho slza už ji nedojímá A když odchází spočine v její náruči- Sám ještě do noci světla nezhasíná Kapka slzy, potok krve, koho vina ?
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Jan 4, 2017
Jan 4, 2017 at 6:22 AM UTC
Báseň (pro Vaness)
Luna își arata fața întoarsă Eu aștept primăvara roasă De crude adevăruri și ochi întredeschişi. Mi-am spus că-ți voi da 2 săptămâni să miști, Că până pe 14 februarie îmi voi recupera afecțiunea efemeră și mirosul distins Care mă adormea atât de violent. Mama făcuse deja pariuri că ne distrugem, E vina mea, am avut prea multă încredere în mine sincer. Rupe-mă de realitate, nu eram prea trează înainte Să scânteieze cerul a regrete vorbite, Împielițând vântul ăsta crud. Căci oricât de mult aș spera la primăvară, el tot bate și eu rămân... Înfrigurată de furie înlocuind o fire, Impertinentă oricum. Am avut dreptate bilateral, Nu ne-am putut păstra. Am și vrut asta. *** era să trăim orice altceva decât o altă banală suferință? *** era să avem speranță? Devastator probabil, Strigător la cer! Pune-mi la loc mâinile care au rămas pironite undeva la tine în creier căci doresc amar să mă trezesc vie.
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Feb 4, 2022
Feb 4, 2022 at 10:44 AM UTC
6:18 autocar apus
How many death in the life of him? This is Viki; This is his dance. How much space in the life of a form? This is Vina; She the unborn. Together they sway, Forward and back, Viki the fire, Vina the blue. As lovers they exchange, Put to sleep and awake, With grace and love, Compassion and joy.
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Jun 8, 2018
Jun 8, 2018 at 5:28 AM UTC
Egalitarianism love.