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.

Draw ye a circle in salt and blood. Enter via a broomstick.

At the north point of the circle, lay offerings of charcoal and yellow flowers.

At the south point of the circle, lay an offering of a cup, filled water, or rum, or any other dark spirit.

Leave the east and west points bare. Strip naked and lie with thine head in the east and thine feet in
the west. Call in the desired spirit/s with the traditional methods (inflamed by prayer, fumigations,
appropriate sigils, etc).

Allow thyself to be taken by the spirits. Temporary negation of personality should be welcomed.
Endeavour to take note of all visions provided, feelings/thoughts – these should occur in a
particularly disassociated form so they may be difficult to recall. Endeavour.

Thou shalt keep silence over the bliss, the supreme bliss, and the best yet, new and improved bliss
that’s better than all the rest. Speak words in strange tongues. Rave. Rage. Shout like a goblin with
his foot shut in the door. Be the whore. Be the harlot. Be the empty holy wooded starlet. Spray again
and again. Again. Enflame.

Thou wilt be called out for your duplicity, your dishonesty, your ever onward tricky-wicksy. Smile,
tricker and tricked. Gasp, licker and licked. Drink deep the draught of soma, the dew on the rose, and
the analogy upon analogy – and what about the butterfly on the bell? Oh Lord!

The wand and the cup, the Vajra and the Padma, the nave and the steeple. People! People! It should
all be about the non-dual.

Make a million from books and lectures, open an Etsy shop and sell your shit smeared soul – nay!
Give it away ‘cos it’s worth fuck all. Fuck all. Be the pensioner, be the child, be the witch. Be the god
and the goddess, sexless with nowt but a smooth surface betwixt thy thighs. Tell your lies. Sell them
for tuppence a bag in the marketplace as you bring the mountains to the market. Yes, yes, yes, yes,
yes, yes, yes.

The uncontrolled and uninhibited moan of the impending is mantra enough for thee. But how to
engage while disengaged? Maintaining peace while still enraged? The knowledge beyond duality is
passed from mouth to mouth – though your head be in the east.