Old Man

Old Man

Loneliness is made of scented pine,
A penetrative depth that is never concealed,
By a glorious black dress, or a tinted suit,
Or a sweetened gesture; composed posture
Only a clean mind can truly be lonely,
A mind unaffected by the corruption,
Of man’s sensuous attachment to perfection

I watched a girl drop her empty glass of coffee,
With her momentous existence of a soul within it
As she suffered her way down the sidewalk,
In her needled heels that pierced the concrete street
I watched myself, clothed in tender grey,
Smelling like peach in the pale summer
Entirely sold to thieving dreams of ideality,
Dreams of a fine tomorrow,
That I seem to still believe,
Might be finer than today
You’ve got to wonder,
What a fool I am? Won’t you wonder?
Wonder for me, and for you.

The sun arose another Monday morning,
And we wasted 6:30 – 7:30 am,
Between the shrill annoyance,
Of four alarms, snoozed twice each
And 8:00 am taking us toward another charade,
Between the coffee shop and the office,
And the same old symphony of falsely exciting mundanity
I’ve always pondered, about the frequent visits of elder folk,
To the pews of tall churches,
And the circular centers,
Of dark-walled temples
I’m not surprised anymore; I’d be a fool if I was
Life eventually brings us to this strange place,
Where truth and absolute clarity don’t seem,
To hold such wonder anymore
There comes a time my love,
When all we seek, is comfort
Whether it be in the soft lies of a higher lord,
Or the deceitful embrace of an ancient holy book
There comes a time,
When the only truth in life,
Is peace; Any peace would do.
Such a strange narrative, aren’t it?

I slowly inch closer and closer,
To a place where the thick border,
Between truth and lies dissolves,
Into the heavy sweetness of my memory.
When all I seem to want,
Is to find the threads that make the remnants,
Of yesterday’s passing dreams,
And tomorrow’s lost hopes
So that I may continue to sew,
This fantastic epic of a drama,
That me and you, all those many years ago,
Decided to call a life
I’m inching there sweetheart,
Closer to that place.
When I will become the endless thing,
I never wanted to be.
Much closer. It isn’t quite the tragedy,
I might make it sound to be.
It’s just another page,
Amongst all those other pages,
Ah well, it just might be,
The last one.

It doesn’t take you fifty years to find,
The severe questions of old age.
Look at me, I’ve been here a quarter,
Of a hundred.
And I’m asking questions,
Even your granddaddy never dared ask.
People don’t grow old darling,
Humanity does. And we’ve gotten quite old,
Old enough,
To lay our dreams beneath the floor,
In the attic of our novels and paintings,
We’re old enough,
To waste away our youth,
With strange questions and cheap whisky,
We’re old enough,
To waste whatever we want.

I’ve told you my tale,
And it seems you’ve lived through it.
Get out now,
Go write your own story.

artwork: Alan Watts Quick Portrait – EightBitRemix 

Adam

Adam

I discovered that most things we say,
Are distant ramblings of the waves in us,
That are forged by unknown waters,
That burn and ache with each of our memories
I discovered that there’s no more wine remaining,
In all of the seventy-nine kingdoms of the misunderstood universe,
That can silence my curiosity to an endless darkness
I have found and danced in the light of knowing,
That all my dreams were source-less and uninspired,
Wavers and quivers of light that moved aimlessly,
In the sky, through the moon, through me, through you
And that all I believed to be the meaningful lyric in my head,
Was nothing but the wandering nothings of sunshine,
That came from some other galaxy

I have found and learnt to remember,
That nothing we can talk about,
Matters. That all things we describe,
Are more the violent repressions of our realer selves,
Are more the unfair destruction of our truer desires
I have learnt and understood the ways of remembering,
How the things we speak of throughout our days,
Are cravings for the seasons of the ancient mushroom,
The endless aching for the mystic, for magic, for love,
For dreams and color, for excess wine and lives of delight
I know the workings of your heart in the chasms of your nightmares,
Of how somewhere within, you remember the days,
When you walked Eden, by Eve, kissing her, moving her,
To endless orgasms by apple trees and gentle waterfalls
How sweet was that Eden? How sweet was Eve?
And now in this wilderness of several Eves and timber trees,
We’ve wandered away,
From our home of magic, from our eternal splendors of dancing, prancing,
Away into a wilderness of office doors and dimly lit floors
Before lit up screens and dead old dreams,
Writing the eulogy of our magic, that died within us,
Perhaps because of us, perhaps maybe not,
But dead anyway

I remember how Eve tasted,
And now when I sip through the many shades of fragrance,
That you wear, lavender, strawberry, peach,
I remember how you wore your one shade of eternity,
On your neck, with the beads of your magical being,
Dangling over your soft breasts, calling me,
To come drink in the splendor of your existence
And now I see you, my many Eves,
Wandering this world, lost, doomed to demise,
Hoping for me to come find you again
But now sweet Eve, now that you’re many,
And now that you want me to want only you
How will I ever find you again?
What was one, has splintered into galaxies of fragrances,
Millions of lips and trillions of breasts, the many minds,
Of all these many women
The many hearts that ache and creak for the embrace,
Of my one soul, that in delusion,
Mourns deeply at night,
Remembering his Eve, seeing her still, every morning,
But now as a thousand suns clouded by thick memories of disconnection,
Hatred, violence, betrayal, and the endless screaming of creation’s child

Sweet Eve, you who now walk the forests of this Earth in billions,
I remember that first morning in Eden
When I lifted your cheek to look into the gleaming eyes that peered all things,
And said, my goddess, my queen, let’s walk up to that stream,
And make love until the white orb in the sky,
Comes to dance to the vibrant tune of our mourning,
Our mourning that will create a great new world, a multitude of men

All things that were one, have now been made many,
And I’ve ceased to seek you in the throbbing of humanity’s ambition
I’ve ceased to seek you entirely,
As now I remember, that morning in Eden
Of how you sweet Eve, were no woman outside of me,
But the most cherished movement of my eternal imagination

And I, the man who moved the sand,
Was and is the most cherished movement of an ancient dream,
A dream that had no dreamer, has none now,
And a dream that answers only to eternity

Image by Thomas Cole – Garden of Eden

Rainfall

Rainfall

I acted like tragedy,
Was some bad thing
That would make life,
In the eventual sense,
An absolute tale of absolute nonsense
Wasted, to be forgotten,
A sprint in the wastelands of eternity,
That always ends badly, only badly

I don’t know, if I’m mistaken,
If I’m right
People value happiness so much,
Joy, and peace, and wonder, and magic
The world glorifies goodness,
Like it was the only thing worth living for
How can we forget pain?
We forget so easily,
Sorrow, tragedy, loss, death
How can we forget what these things teach us?
I’ve ended my dance between the edges of life
Between the colorful rainbows that piss happiness upon the world
And the fears and shivers of skulls, that remind us of our truer nature

I always doubted these prophets,
Who promised peace to the world
Like giving candy to babies who were crying,
Entirely unaware of what this playground was about
I have a thing against happiness now,
Against joy
I don’t want any of it anymore,
I don’t want pain either
Sorrow, neglect, hatred,
All of it seems like a lost dream
That I hold onto,
Not because of some high purpose,
But simply because they make me, me.

I am sorrow, I am happiness,
And I seek the two like they are different from me
I have said so many things in the many monsoons of humanity
I have shed tears and hated women,
Hurt parents and fed bullshit to young men,
Who needed security
But life makes weary of all men who give curiosity kisses in the darkness
I am weary, and life leaves me slowly,
Everyday,
Like ash that falls off the tip of a long cigarette

We take who we are for granted,
And live our lives like skeletons in a place we do not belong to
Who are we to belong anywhere?
The me that I thought was me is not there
I don’t see it anywhere
All I know that exists is the frustration of the search
And that frustration must end now

I am sorrow in the darkness of tomorrow’s fake twilight,
Spreading like a virus into the hearts of aging men
I am sorrow, like light in the graveyards of history,
Bringing solace to the dead,
Reminding them they never died
Nobody exists, and hence nobody dies

I want this sorrow to end
Symbols and paintings that light up,
The endless halls of this drunken god’s imagination
After losing blood to the psalms of goodness and salvation,
After being scathed and torn by the scrutiny of men like my own self
After losing every last bit of my sensible sociality,
I come to you today
Sweet mother of all mothers,
I come to you,
To die
And see for myself,
If I will be allowed to see
How I never was,
How I never will be,
And hence,
Never can die

In your arms sweet mother of the soil,
To the aching twinkle of your sweet singing,
I will shed this coat of bone and blood,
And see the nothingness of all nothings
The only thing there is, the sweet nothing,
Beyond the dream of this dreaming self
The nothing, in which all things, are.

Rambles and Shambles of an Old Young Man

Rambles and Shambles of an Old Young Man

You can’t say your work defines you,
It doesn’t
The excreta of human imagination is
The foundation of this society,
That is built and breathed,
On the utilities of work and working
Babies don’t like to work,
Hell, I don’t like to work
The whole thing’s a sham,
And we’re on like ants,
Going through it, daytime job,
And dreams at night,
And the same routine,
For years and years and years
And complain at the end of the whole thing,
Saying, dam, I wasted this life
And then you waste the next one,
Strange thing, being human, and worse, being social

Why do you think people write?
Writing doesn’t define you
Nothing does, nothing can
Writing’s just an action, born from inner emptiness,
And people go on and keep telling you,
That the stuff inside’s got to come out
There’s nothing inside, but emptiness
Even the confusion has no stuff to be made up of,
All of its just emptiness
And the words, are little notes of nonsense,
That dance out onto paper
Purposeless, for the entertainment of other people,
Lost like me, lost like the stars

Some people seek nothing,
But I, I want the whole dam world
You see, wanting the whole dam world,
Eventually makes you want none of it

I cannot see if you can see,
The sparkle that dances behind life’s movements
These things, these events, they’re meaningless,
But every woman who clothes herself in fine satin,
Those lovely curved angels in tight denim,
Who turn us on by ignoring us
The old women by the street who sell corn and nuts,
The thing about the weather, how it changes
All these things, there’s so much of it
I wonder if you’re able, to catch the magic in it
Most of it gets routine and rubbles us to boredom,
I guess that’s the challenge,
Seeing the magic, in this rubble of boredom
We can’t see the magic though,
Until we’re dead,
Until who we think we are,
Disappears into the endless void of the jeweled night sky
Until we forget time and reason,
And set our dreams aside to be lost into forgotten nonchalance
The price of wonder is the death of oneself
Or at least what one thinks of oneself

Seek ye not the fetters of time,
In the weary eyes of a beloved friend
Nor seek the dainty corners of nostalgia,
To which the hopes of man are confined
Beside the dreaming corpse of humanity,
Life lays down the norms of her movement
Through which wordless law perhaps we might,
See sensibility worked and showered upon us
No prayer or ritual will save this poet,
From the endless agony of his framed melancholy
All things of pleasure and good will come,
To naught and nothing before the end
Forgotten to words this memory shall,
Be gone and dead to a vainful past
All in vain, great world in vain,
Death brings to us the final holocaust

We don’t know much about time,
Except that it’s wrong, a conjuring,
A wrong conjuring, to understand,
The movement of light,
And the memories of few days,
Upon this green, green Earth
Time destroys us, the ideas of ourselves,
Time does not exist, and neither do we
And it’s funny, how I say that,
And you look on with beady eyes,
Believing me, or not

A thing of wonder cannot have purpose,
Neither can a poem, nor a good song
Anything that’s worth the candle,
Can have no purpose
Purpose destroys, distorts,
The very magic of existence,
Of wonderful things
Purpose, aim, ambition,
Things that point to some other point,
Away from now, behind, or forward
Anything that’s not now,
Is not worth the candle
Is not worth even construing or pondering for,
Life’s now, you see it, or you don’t
It’s all now, it starts off from now, it ends now
You can’t have it any other way,
The things you perceive, the music you dance to,
The women you kiss and make love to,
The dreams you conjure and the philosophies you use,
To understand your own dreams
It’s all now, you see it, or you don’t

Life’s not a gradual movement of meaningful things,
It’s a playful explosion taking form in the mind of a child
Everything honest is child-like, uncaring of perfection
What’s worth in life is what’s worth to children,
The scratches on the floor and the shapes of the clouds

I’m telling you, it’s now,
It’s all now,
You see it, or you don’t,
I can’t care much for that
It won’t matter if you do or don’t anyway,
Just don’t kill the other guy,
And unleash hell on the planet
It’s quite a beautiful place,
And eras older than you
I’d say it’s better if you see it,
Now,
You’d do a whole lot of splendorous magic,
For the whole lot of us all

I’m much for goodness and ecstatic things,
And I’d love to see the world smiling,
Every day, loving and caring
I like that sort of stuff, it feels sensible to me
But it isn’t happening through church charity,
Or faithful prayers, or philanthropy
You need to wake up child,
And understand that there’s no understanding
It’s all you, and you’re doing this thing,
And it’s all such a marvelous drama of magic and misery
And it’s great, you just have to see it,
That it’s all you
Cheers

The Story of Creation

The Story of Creation

Sometimes too often stuck with papers,
Some moments when two things are interesting
It’s too often that this daytime job,
Gets to become a string of dull choices

Do I want magic or money?
Food of leaves or golden beef,
Sometimes too often,
I’m wandering astray,
Into a maze in which color is non-existent,
Into a maze with no dance and music,
With no enchantment
And I’m lost,
With no inspiration to tickle my neck,
No fire to burn my emotions

Most people, are stuck

Life is this great LSD story,
At the beginning of which,
God had himself a champion dosage
And wandered off into this endless dream,
Of which we are all so sincerely part of
Becoming fragments and fractals of this ancient dream,
That spurted forth like paint on an invisible canvas

It’s true, life is God’s great LSD tale,
A psychedelic dilemma,
Forged into molecular abstraction,
An atomic explosion,
In the non-existent mind,
Of an eternal being
This great psychedelic story,
In which somehow,
Death became a feared antagonist

Somehow, this whole color show,
Turned out to be,
A social drama around death

Where are the champions of the light,
Who lovingly tripped this Earth up to ecstasy?

God’s tale, his color tale, his foolish tale,
His endless tale, his bloody tale his wretched tale,
A psychedelic tale, after all
And it’s still being told,
By that formless champion tripper,
Who’s decided to get sober for a while,
To get drunk with the characters,
Of his own delusional painting,
Of this life story
Who is God you might ask!
Tell me who’s asking the question,
And I’ll tell you,
About God

And after that,
We’ll take a walk through the garden of the void
As two gods clothed in light,
And start for ourselves another great dream,
Like children at dawn
Sewing cosmic works with Lego toys
We’ll create this other whole new world,
This other orderless color spur
And keep on dancing,
Till shit happens again
And change it again,
And again,
Again

The Mortality of Culture

The Mortality of Culture

History has seen a great number of traditions passing with the progress of time. When traditions coalesced into a socially acceptable collection of ritualized behaviors and actions, humanity called it a culture. There were cultures that had witch doctors healing their sick, those that openly kept their women within the possessive needs of men, those that richly celebrated dance, music, and art, and the advanced ones that had all these elements incorporated. Inevitably, culture was something native to its region of origin, rarely moving beyond the boundaries within which it was found to be rational and a thing of heritage to be protected and nurtured as time moved on. Culture is vital to building societies that need to be decorated with human intelligence. It gives a society the platform on which every individual can express his or her subjectivity and do it with the support of the community. It gives human beings a platform on which there can be recognition for subjective expressions of art, music, dance, and several other talents. However, this platform is created with the help of collective ideology and very rarely through spontaneous understanding. It would seem only plausible to support and help build such a thing as culture, but like all primitive things such as cannibalism and living in caves, culture must die. When an artificially created ideology meets with nature’s fierce forces of evolution, the mortality of the human mind is revealed, and the mortality of all the things that it has created.

Indian culture is one of the richest heritages not just the country, but humanity as a whole can cherish and exhibit as a beautiful development of intelligence through history. This culture saw the fruition of the world’s most intelligent spiritual seekers and spiritually realized men who not with their ideas but with their pure presence and articulate poetry showed this world the meaning of life. Civilization dates back to very old times here, and some of nature’s oldest secrets were discovered and revealed in this country. The spiritual texts here are rich and the purity of their interpretation lies entirely with the discretion of every individual. Like every culture, Indian culture has always had its flaws. The world for a very long time was ruled and grown by paternally dominated structures of society that failed to understand the role of the woman that was very vital to the growth and care of humanity’s most prized gift, intelligence. Several cultures around the world, excluding a few intelligent ones that had people who lived and taught much ahead of their time, entirely neglected the role of women in the evolution of this race. Using the lowest forms of power, physical and logical power, men through the years repressed women and eventually developed a strange sense of contempt for the opposite sex. If we scratch a little deeper through the layers of our conscious mind, deep in the unconscious, even the most open-minded men will find the psychotic attitude of dominion and power toward women, secretly camouflaged behind all the other ideas of poetry and romance that are associated with women.

While the rest of the world has socially been able to transcend the primitive attitude of the subjugation of the woman as a social sensibility, a few countries of which India is one have found it hard to do the same. The problem does not lie with failed holistic approaches toward the improvement of this social situation but with the inability to clean the inner psyche of a very stubborn past. The logical approach to solving a problem is to take into account all the factors on which the problem is dependent and then to take appropriate action on each of these factors to arrive at a reasonable solution. This approach does not work when the entire source of the problem lies not with the factors that create the problem but with the attitude which fuels and supports these factors. In the past, through ideology, men repressed women and kept them within their control. Ideologies are eventually nothing but relative ideas that connect and seem sensible to a thinking mind. But sensibility is dependent on thought and thought is nothing but a partial perception of an observation, and is wrong almost all of the time. The problem arises when we take our thoughts for truth and develop the attitude of absolute trust in our thinking processes. The time has come when our evolution has reached a stage in which we can look beyond thought and understand the follies of our past. There is no need for the empowerment of women, we need to understand that women have always been empowered. It is through the foolishness of male ideology that we failed to understand the inevitable fact that the equality of sexes is not something to be brought about, but something that has always been inevitable. If we can see this fact, the idiotic attitude of the majority of men toward women will disappear not through effort but through common sense.

We must begin with the understanding that man and woman are not opposites, they are two different functions of one process, human life. The opposing polarity is a superficial difference created by nature for the deeper understanding of union and love. The polarity is an illusion created to understand a reality that is much greater than the illusion. I understand that in the past, the collective human mind dwelt in a state of consciousness that was at a very low level. In this level it was easy to succumb to psychological illusions of separation. Look at where we stand now, entirely able to analyze the mistakes of our past as a species and to effect change in a manner that can be momentary and genuine. The difference between men and women is very superficial, you can say a man and a woman are like two waves that wave differently, but are both made by water and supported by the same ocean which is life in this universe. Look beyond these foolish social and political ideas, look at the utter truth that is burning before you. Isn’t such a thing as women empowerment so foolish? To even conceive that a culture would treat its women with such despicable and unevolved understanding is a shock! The woman is empowered, she is grown from the same soil that a man is grown from, nurtured and cared for by the same sun, wind, and water. If we cannot look beyond the patterns of form that dance on the canvas of existence, our illusions will lead us to much greater suffering, not just the suffering that they have created for women. Humanity as a whole lacks awareness. We have limited our intelligence to intellect and failed to see that spontaneous observation or momentary perception is the only reality that exists. Instead, we dwell on ideas of logic and morality, leaving our hearts to rot at the hands of the politic.

Morality is nothing but an idea, just like how the repression of women was an idea. The time has come when we have no more place for ideas. Intelligence is not born of thought, it comes through awareness. The man who believes in backward ideas such as repressing the role of women in society is like the Neanderthal who will find his place in the graveyards of this planet. If as a race, we do not take responsibility for our own evolution, and still put our faith and trust in the ideologies we have inherited from our ancestors, we will lose this game. The Earth is a mother, but she is as strict, as she is kind. What is our race but a virus that is creating so much trouble for the rest of Earth’s children? The beauty is we are a virus that is self-aware and bursting with intelligence. We have the ability to turn things around.

Like the human body, culture is mortal. Remember how we had to give up beating up people who were sick because we thought they were possessed by demons? We must give up culture when it turns out to be dysfunctional. Culture is ideology, it is not fresh, and it is not bursting with life! Look at the trees how they dance to the ever-refreshed breezes that beat through nature’s lovely painted skies. These dances show us what it means to be alive. Life begins when history is forgotten.

We teach our children how to value money, success, and reputation before we teach them how to value themselves. Self-dignity is not something through which you value yourself, it is a process of intellect through which your ego establishes itself and separates itself from the source of life. Instead of self-dignity, try self-enquiry. From the youngest years in school, society needs to encourage its children to look within for answers instead of looking outside. The outside world is a dysfunctional drama, a terribly damaged record tape repeating itself again and again. The answers to change are within each individual. We need to teach children to uncover the unconscious processes that still work inside. It is this that we can call ‘original sin.’ The unconscious tendencies and processes that are inherent in our very DNA! Through self-enquiry, each individual can understand for him or herself the dysfunctional working of the human system and take the responsibility of change unto oneself.

Understand this carefully, through the social and political approach, no change will ever be effected. If you have not understood this yet, you need to understand it now. Women will continue to be ill-treated by men, and they will continue to retaliate and fight. This fight is superficial. The inner psyche of man needs to change. Men need to understand the need for this change. Men are unable to understand that the repression of women is the repression of evolution itself. Man is afraid of the woman, for she is an aspect of the species that can look through and beyond logic into dimensions where man is almost incapable of reaching. To conceive that a form of life so tender, so easy to defeat can behold intelligence so great was befuddling to ancient man. He could only conceive things such as power and dominion, he could understand the axe but not the flower. Intelligence has evolved now, power has become a thing of the past. We are in a stage of evolution in which we need to pay attention to the subtle, the gross has lost its utility. Through forgiveness and understanding, our society can take a step forward to developing a world in which competition shall exist but lose its absolute value. The woman is inevitably equal to man, teach the children this, teach them to look beyond separation and understand their connection to their fellow beings and the rest of existence. Stop teaching them how to make money, how to be successful, how to develop a great reputation, these are things reserved for the miserly in understanding. We are gods of the galaxy and we shall step up and take our responsibility as sentient beings and live with love.

Culture is dead, you are alive. Wake up, the universe is calling you to dance.

 

“We have to stop consuming our culture. Create your own roadshow.” – Terence Mckenna