The Lost Lineage
Truth is not a democracy
Yet we vote for it daily
Research the market
Gather a focus group
Test the waters
And if your version of truth
The consumer’s want
Then let it out
Blether crap, bleach your face
Package retreats with three-course meals
Secure celebrity endorsements —
3 Steps, 5 Steps, 7 Steps —
Consumers want numbers
Reach millions —
Mock the sacred —
Balls in chains
Emotions excised, cast away
To the fringes and freak shows
Down the mobs’ screaming throats
Across borders —
Spewed as blood-curdling vows
Of sophists, zealots, and evangelists —
Fleecing the herds
Numbing their souls
When did spirituality
Lose its fire —
Retreat to serene zendos—
Cracking sticks swapped for bell chimes
Drunken rants for dokusans, satsangs
And soft platitudes
Students like statues — sheep
Furniture before the master —
Unfazed, half-lidded, smirking
Guarded by a silent security detail
What happened to spitting fire
Whirling gales, frenzied dance —
Curses, sneers, full-blown tantrums
Blood-flecked howls and weeping
Self flagellating thunder
Snarls and storms —
Did they all go on sale
Bought robes, turbans, cushions and chairs —
Traded grit for shiny props
Sweat for incense
Donkeys for SUVs
Where’s the shock that shook your bones
Of the raging, gut-spilling fools —
Naked, screaming, wild old souls
Hauling, cursing, living raw
Spitting, fucking — unashamed
Where’s that fire, that reckless spark —
The lost lineage
Of castrated hearts
Like a porn star
Hoisted on a lofty throne
By wankers who can’t touch —
Only jerk off
Circling words, quoting talks —
Each dreaming of climbing one day
To join the ring
Of circle-jerking saints
Could a teacher, a guru survive
Ranting this to their flock
Of course not
Slice off their fire
Don the robe
Become the drone —
Smile, pander
Cloaked in calm
Never let the passion spill
Never scream aloud, run amok
Where the fuck is your emotion
You truth-speaking bastards
Sex workers, fucking on camera
Holding nothing back —
Have more verity than you
Soul-sellers who can’t even scream
But boast your wits
And marketing tricks
But, hey —
What are we, really
Just another act in the circus
You, in your mask
Selling your soul
On the stage that’s yours
And me —
With a hand up my ass
Purging blood
On a frigging page