So you are a god; now what?

Are you impotent or just plain lazy? Is there nothing to do?

Is it Maya or Yama? The Devil or Pan?

Is there anything that advaitism cannot do? There is no question and only one vase to be nudged
over with your enlightened foot. Avadhuta or silly, silly boy; both and neither.

My throbbing heart calls attention to the divine, and my search for wisdom makes a prostitute of
me, hawking words like flesh in a market. Such trickery and deceit gets the old blood pumping. Thou
shalt all ways be wrong.

Semantic shock or big red cock? Abraxas. It breaks us – and so it should.

The street-stained ragamuffin swears like a cunt as I feel God and Death’s fingers in my chest. Maya,
Yama, or even Lila. The Lila of Pan. The Maya of the Devil.

Oh, thou, Satan, frighten the little children with terrible bed-time stories. Invert. Reverse. Flip it.
Your mirror is dirty and tainted. The shocking clarity of that which cannot be spoken for there are no
words. Like a reality TV star dupe. There are no words.

So; do thou track, scanning with an electronic eye? Do thou scream for vengeance, like a gay leather-
man in a rock and roll band? Or will thou slip, unhindered, into a lover’s warm bed on a chill winter’s
morn? Aye, that is to be seen.

And anyway; I am confused. A plethora of images that squeal “This is it!” until the self-deception is
unmasked again and again and again. Thus onward the weary pilgrim travelled.

A shouting, screaming, roaring mass of made up drivel and old man’s spittle. The Old Ones, the New
Ones, the Ones Not Yet Invented…

But the black snakes in the belly will remain forever hungry, driving our hosts onward to ever greater
heights of duplicity and treachery against self, self, self, and other. Still, such is the way, such is the
day. Such is the price that we all must pay. As was once said in the circle – “You’ll keep…”

And you’ll weep. For joy and sadness, badness, and gladness. For the starving child and the
regretting pensioner, frail and passing into the realm of death; skin as paper with veins dried and
shrivelled like a dead lizard in the sun. A weakened heart with valves near shut, milky eyes, and a
fear of this world and the next, and the next, and the next.

Rise Siva. Recall those songs of youthful vigour, when the trees towered over us, fifty, seventy, one
hundred feet tall, and the throb of the sap in the veins of the tree were chants in our mind that set
us free. Worship thus! Worship us.

The siddhis as a lure, the wealth, the women, the cure. The ability to grow in size beyond this world
– such naughty tricks! I manifest self to self, in self and others, under the covers, with and without
lovers. To offer the flowers of utter respect to an altar barren and bare, dry and dusty. What a
mockery. Smash the crockery. Oh no, not grandma’s good china…
Xingor! Thringor! All the vowels and consonants awry to make the strange and exotic names of our
incantations and Elder Gods. Stop making shit up – unless (of course) it Works.

I grow weary of thine Zigraffa, thine Opeptasis of Oongabby, thine Scribberdeedoo.

But thou dost not grow weary. Thou grow richer and fatter. “Two grand for a fucking grimoire?
You’re fucking kidding me?”

Oh, but the power of the Red Goat’s eye will deliver thee greatness, and gnosis, and fat cheques.

Better conjure up some stuff then.