Intoxication
"I could while away the hours
conferrin' with the flowers...
if I only had a brain."
The Scarecrow, Wizard of Oz
The sweetest Sauterne
from d' Yquem
flows in the tiniest
capillaries
and veins
intoxicating my brain:
I see myself in
the mirror that
stands ever before me,
reflecting all that is,
was and shall be
in a single blinding
big-bang of ME
This was for such
a long time a shame,
a blight, a disease of
being tossed into the
coliseum arena,
going head to head
with a
heavy-muscled Spartacus,
way outta my league,
in a word: FREE.
Absolutely free.
It is this very freedom
that is the source of our
existential dysphoria,
drunken brawl of a life,
a motion sickness of
the Soul,
set apart from our Self,
fooled into believing
that many exist
and not One:
of here-being whether
or not I wish-- tossed
into so much meaning ,
endless sensations,
and consequences for
everything,
the mere
occupation of a
face and a body
and a vagina--
why oh why did I
marry him instead
of her?
Why, sweetest
lover, did I abandon
my babies for the career
I have never found?
For art still
awaiting birth,
Degrees yet
unconferred,
paralyzed compassion.
When, beloved Pee,
did the disease
become the cure?
Peterson, I will address
the question you have
not asked--
How came I to
be in love with
inebriation alone,
so powerfully
that every sensation,
all thoughts and passions
become intoxicating
merely because they
are, not only
what they are.
Blissful monks in India
have been witnessed
dressing their naked
bodies in feces,
tears of joy
streaming down
their Awakened cheeks.
Why is this so?
We follow the path
of the Exquisite Pain.
There, yes, I've said it.
The Exquisite Pain.
This is the most sacred
secret of tantra yoga.
Worship surrender.
Poor words.
Worship the sensation,
of surrender.
Now, surrender
is always painful.
So fall in love with
pain.
The pain of muscles
stretching,
the pain of
sitting still
hours at a time,
the pain of
displacing thoughts,
opinions and judgments--
what we think is
our personality--
with endlessly repeated
sacred sounds,
primeval prayers;
And, finally, even the
exquisite pain of seeing
the who that you are,
the innermost
essence of your
lifelong Me
playing on the stage
before your eyes
without ceasing,
and you surrender
to the persistent
presence of
that mundane me
until it occurs
that that I
am the Me of all mes,
and that no matter
what I am doing
here and now
I am intoxicated
by the sexy
friction of myself.
Tantra yoga
is falling in love
with the sensation
of being alive.
How many times,
Peterson, have I demanded
of myself: why, girl,
are you doing this?
Why do you work
so hard and are
so in love with
sitting alone
and still
for so
many
hours?
Why do I chant
for days without ceasing?
Cultivate perpetual awareness
of my One and only Self?
Why mainline on
this awareness
of the very fact
of my own life
in all its glory and
ignominy?
I am an addict.
Simple as that.
Addicted to intoxication.
Not satisfied with
wine or needles
or herbs,
lusting for everlasting,
unconditional Uniphoria,
for abandoning all
sensation of being
alone to the
Grace-filled awareness
of being One Community,
a single Personality
infinitely diverse and
marvelous,
a humungous
red heart beating,
a big clit
pulsing with pleasure
and all the
love that's fit
to present.
Surrender what ails
you long and diligently
and by Grace
the disease
recognizes itself
as the cure.
All addiction ends
in a steady fix
of One Big Person's
personality--
looking, seeing,
smelling and hearing--
touching myself all over,
caressing my heavenly
blue breasts,
fingering my terra cotta
cunny,
laughing, oh yes, my
lover Peterson,
each day,
every moment,
watching Our Big
Reflection in the
mirror,
knowing that all this
Stuff is me:
The skin of my
man's rosy cock,
currents of His thoughts
convecting in the
cauldron of his goofy
Peterson mind.
I am Kate Bush
singing to me now
about the hounds of
love, swapping places,
and running up
hills, and down into
valleys and canyons.
Engaging switchbacks
zig-zagging a spiraling
path upward toward
where the clouds
break and that
sky is so clear
and sweet that
only one rhapsodic
gulp is required
to change forever
the pattern of
this eternal instant
of spontaneous ME.
Madhya Nandi
"I could while away the hours
conferrin' with the flowers...
if I only had a brain."
The Scarecrow, Wizard of Oz
The sweetest Sauterne
from d' Yquem
flows in the tiniest
capillaries
and veins
intoxicating my brain:
I see myself in
the mirror that
stands ever before me,
reflecting all that is,
was and shall be
in a single blinding
big-bang of ME
This was for such
a long time a shame,
a blight, a disease of
being tossed into the
coliseum arena,
going head to head
with a
heavy-muscled Spartacus,
way outta my league,
in a word: FREE.
Absolutely free.
It is this very freedom
that is the source of our
existential dysphoria,
drunken brawl of a life,
a motion sickness of
the Soul,
set apart from our Self,
fooled into believing
that many exist
and not One:
of here-being whether
or not I wish-- tossed
into so much meaning ,
endless sensations,
and consequences for
everything,
the mere
occupation of a
face and a body
and a vagina--
why oh why did I
marry him instead
of her?
Why, sweetest
lover, did I abandon
my babies for the career
I have never found?
For art still
awaiting birth,
Degrees yet
unconferred,
paralyzed compassion.
When, beloved Pee,
did the disease
become the cure?
Peterson, I will address
the question you have
not asked--
How came I to
be in love with
inebriation alone,
so powerfully
that every sensation,
all thoughts and passions
become intoxicating
merely because they
are, not only
what they are.
Blissful monks in India
have been witnessed
dressing their naked
bodies in feces,
tears of joy
streaming down
their Awakened cheeks.
Why is this so?
We follow the path
of the Exquisite Pain.
There, yes, I've said it.
The Exquisite Pain.
This is the most sacred
secret of tantra yoga.
Worship surrender.
Poor words.
Worship the sensation,
of surrender.
Now, surrender
is always painful.
So fall in love with
pain.
The pain of muscles
stretching,
the pain of
sitting still
hours at a time,
the pain of
displacing thoughts,
opinions and judgments--
what we think is
our personality--
with endlessly repeated
sacred sounds,
primeval prayers;
And, finally, even the
exquisite pain of seeing
the who that you are,
the innermost
essence of your
lifelong Me
playing on the stage
before your eyes
without ceasing,
and you surrender
to the persistent
presence of
that mundane me
until it occurs
that that I
am the Me of all mes,
and that no matter
what I am doing
here and now
I am intoxicated
by the sexy
friction of myself.
Tantra yoga
is falling in love
with the sensation
of being alive.
How many times,
Peterson, have I demanded
of myself: why, girl,
are you doing this?
Why do you work
so hard and are
so in love with
sitting alone
and still
for so
many
hours?
Why do I chant
for days without ceasing?
Cultivate perpetual awareness
of my One and only Self?
Why mainline on
this awareness
of the very fact
of my own life
in all its glory and
ignominy?
I am an addict.
Simple as that.
Addicted to intoxication.
Not satisfied with
wine or needles
or herbs,
lusting for everlasting,
unconditional Uniphoria,
for abandoning all
sensation of being
alone to the
Grace-filled awareness
of being One Community,
a single Personality
infinitely diverse and
marvelous,
a humungous
red heart beating,
a big clit
pulsing with pleasure
and all the
love that's fit
to present.
Surrender what ails
you long and diligently
and by Grace
the disease
recognizes itself
as the cure.
All addiction ends
in a steady fix
of One Big Person's
personality--
looking, seeing,
smelling and hearing--
touching myself all over,
caressing my heavenly
blue breasts,
fingering my terra cotta
cunny,
laughing, oh yes, my
lover Peterson,
each day,
every moment,
watching Our Big
Reflection in the
mirror,
knowing that all this
Stuff is me:
The skin of my
man's rosy cock,
currents of His thoughts
convecting in the
cauldron of his goofy
Peterson mind.
I am Kate Bush
singing to me now
about the hounds of
love, swapping places,
and running up
hills, and down into
valleys and canyons.
Engaging switchbacks
zig-zagging a spiraling
path upward toward
where the clouds
break and that
sky is so clear
and sweet that
only one rhapsodic
gulp is required
to change forever
the pattern of
this eternal instant
of spontaneous ME.
Madhya Nandi
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