Eat The Guru

    Sometimes the concrete walls of the Guru’s vast earthly residence alchemise to become the pure gold body of the sun.

    At those times all the spaces between the walls are filled with a white and amethyst mist of light, and the inside of all things shines bright and wondrous.

    The sky above the acres of corrugated roofs disappears as if it was never there, along with the roofs themselves.

    Infinite space descends, through atmospheres vacated by density, to become the medium in which we think and move.

    Beneath our feet the Earth is a breathing sentience. Her dark flesh feels like velvet or creamed honey to the sole of every foot.

    Each step we take falls effortlessly into the rhythm of an ecstatic ceremony in which absolutely everything that occurs is both the offering and the Brahmanical fire.

    Angels, moved from a centre-less source, effulgent with impersonal love, pearls of awakened energy radiating on their brows, speak our names to us in ways that transform them into a prayer, our own deepest and most secret prayer.

    I could fall into the arms of everyone I encounter. The stars are not more magnificent that each one’s pulsing soul.


    This is one face of the guru’s grace.


    At other times the asbestos in the walls off-gassing into the dirty spaces is mirrored by poisoned words and toxic glances emptied into a social environment of bitter survival and desperate ambition.

    The reeking smoke of burning plastic fills the mind and colours every barred window of the soul with a contemptuous jaundice of perception.

    Hierarchy screams insults on every staircase.

    There is no ground anywhere, and so people are forced to walk upon each other’s hearts.

    The machine-gun-carrying guards patrolling the precincts seem the most truthful expressions in the whole ashram, contrasting with the jaggery-sweet smile on the several thousand photographs of Her face beaming from every wall.

    The insulated arrogance of saffron-clad swamis makes me wish rather to be gunned down by reality than to give any of my burden of desperate longing for the divine into the hands of institutionalised hypocrisy.

    Devotees wait and queue for hours upon hours to fawn for few moments at the feet of the Master, who dispenses to them like it’s a black-market currency exchange.

    The eyes of any prostitute hold more light than the faces of these strip-lit supplicants in this stinking backwater-market of synthetic holiness.

    I could machete Her, and everyone who adulates Her.


    This is another face.


    I’d like to see more photos of this face around the ash-pile, so that people don’t have to scare themselves so often in the mirror.


    The omniscient is present everywhere—in the sacred ash, in the smouldering plastic, in the weave of every bleached-white polyester body-wrap, in the venom of every young renunciate’s suppressed and seething lust, in the de-husked grain on every stainless-steel banana-leaf, in the mournful call of every haggard crow.


    She jibbers in every madwoman railing against her invisible tormentors.

    She festers in the wounds of every dying dog.

    Yes, stars are born and die in Her eyes—and likewise dreams.


    Inside the inside of all things She is black, inscrutable, utterly devoid of human emotion, existing without discernible edge or shade of meaning.

    And yet we can say that She is the hidden root of the perpetual blossoming of loving presence itself, the very source of life and every possibility.


    But who needs a fucking guru anyway?

    Is this world not a sufficiently crushing miracle?


    Love in human form! Yes, but Her Grace is not pretty.

    It is a pig eating the excrement straight out of our own bleeding arsehole as we squat, deathly ill and as vulnerable as the dawn, on the edge of total despair.

    It is also the dawn.


    Still hungry for enlightenment?


    If your own intrinsically self-transcending Earth-fed heart isn’t guide enough for you,

    Uther says:

    Go on then, eat the blue-black bitch!


    She’ll murder you quick and slow until you’ve chewed Her into froth on the ocean’s waves.

    Then, only then, will you taste the nectar of immortal bliss that she is.



    AUM AMRITESHWARYAI NAMAHA

    AUM AMRITESHWARYAI NAMAHA

    AUM AMRITESHWARYAI NAMAHA