Each day reminds me that I am depraved
fixated, titillated still with sin
and thinking I’m smart, I’ve ranted and raved
only to wake up again in this skin
wondering if I am actually saved.
Behold the deep cesspool I find within:
unhallowed Self, to whom I am enslaved,
doomed to start over every day. Begin
again Lord Christ, that sanctifying work
you promised to accomplish through your Word.
Kill the vipers that in our garden lurk;
tell of your blood and all that it conferred.
Explain—as on the road to Emmaus;
or dull mortality may dismay us.
insanely bent on multi-
to the esteemed B.J.P
Six-armed things of Asiatic trances,
temple belles entwined in temple dances:
mantra in one hand, the other holds naan.
One holding chutney and the other, paan.
Two hands left (befitting of deity):
one offers curry, one incense. Aseity
signifies self-contented wonderment.
(One wonders as well what that mantra meant…)
Note the third eye in the figure’s forehead:
a spare one in case left or right go dead?
But really—how freakish these idols look:
a psycho-pantheon from a nightmare book.
(Outdone only by the Aztecs for fright
along with demons born of tribal night.)
Cobra-crowned elephant-headed mutants
sickly-sweet incense, divine pollutants
mix in with the stench of bodies burning
alongside the filthy Ganges churning
flowing with ashes from funeral ghats
excrement, corpses of humans and rats
that swarmed humble hovels of Hindustan
where gods are mass-produced for fallen man.
Maidens in saris with red tinted lips;
glossy vulgarity, loose at the hips
now growing more arms; an insect vision
enough to make one gag on religion.
The ubiquitous trident looms, a sign:
the eternally present un-divine.
Instead, it ought to stick some sacred cow
in its bovine buttocks, and so allow
beef curry for a hungry avatar
craving fresh meat in his juggernaut car.
Turn from this antediluvian scene
in sincerity, ask: what does it mean?
Were you created in these gods’ image?
Is anything real behind their visage?
Blue skin and sick smiles, anointed with ghee:
exotic… but wrong theologically.
Till lingams are yonis I’ll spell it out;
these Aryan idols should merit your doubt.
Such weirdness deserves some analysis
(as did old Diana of Ephesus).
Would you tingle if such a god showed up
and offered to refill your soma cup,
sending siddhis up your spinal column
with you in full lotus, clueless, solemn.
Would you offer puja in their temple,
bedeck your soul in a robe to sample
veggie-masalas, chapatis and dal,
peruse the Upanishads, and enthrall
your mind with the mystic old Rig-Vedas
fall for idolatrous sin conveyed
as spiritual truth when it’s just a big lie…
bow before a multi-armed freak? Not I.
Not for all the visions in Satan’s world.
Better to call B.S. than to be hurled
to hell for living and loving this lie
embracing monstrosities. By and by
the books will be opened. The Lord will judge.
Consider this your transcendental nudge
toward something less false, less fearfully fake
than the idols Antichrist nations make.
wrote highbrow literary
( inspired by Mustard Seed Budget’s recent posts on celebrites )
“God has a plan for everybody. I look at my life and I think, ‘How is it possible that I didn’t die?’” he said. “God’s chipping away at your life all the time to try to make you more like Him. That’s what a Christian is, a person that’s being molded and shaped all their life. I think the Lord expects you to do your best in His name. I had to struggle a long time about rock and roll. I realized it’s not really the music. It’s what’s being said with the music. So I think you have to be careful of what you’re writing, what you’re representing.”
Vincent Furnier became shock-rocker Alice Cooper