Epic poetry by Adam Donaldson Powell (and colleagues), Part Three.

“THE LEFT AND THE RIGHT HANDS OF GOD” — written by Adam Donaldson Powell and azSacra zaRathustra.

Presenting the introduction to “The tunnel at the end of time” (the sci-fi novel which takes conspiracy theory and religious propaganda to their extreme … and beyond). Epic poem written by Adam Donaldson Powell and azSacra zaRathustra.

(photo courtesy of azSacra zaRathustra)



Это возникало из – за щитов …

из – за ракет, которых “там” не было сначала,

но которые будут “здесь” в конечном счёте.

Yes, the shields … humans are born with them,

much as angels are born with wings.

It is propaganda, of course …

the truth has always been an existential relativity.

Funny …

They say I am balding … getting old and senile.

But the truth is that I have always been bald.

I am “Transforma” … the symbol of the old

empire now fallen.

I am … the bearer of vision and conscience.

I am … the judge and the predator.

I am … the eagle.

We saw it coming, didn’t we “Vrebatima”?

I kept silent … and no one believed you.

But who is laughing now?

Yes, only us …

The Armageddon was inevitable …

We needed it, and so we created it.

But it is only illusion …

Только иллюзия.


No illusions!

No delusions!

We knew only the Truth of Destruction!

We – Über! … and my one-legged

father taught me only how to kill:

kill Buddha!

kill Hitler!

kill yourself!

my mother – Nothing, but older

and more sorrowful …

my father – Nobody, but more merciless

and sadder …

Look: my daughter goes from Emptiness

to Emptiness in order to kill every tear

before her birth:

And now Absence doesn’t cry anymore,

Emptiness doesn’t spend any more money

on funerals –

that’s the Truth of Non-existence!

“Nothing” is my mother –

“Nobody” is my father –

and there are no tears between




левая рука Бога?

Ahh, the left hand of God!

yes, I saw it once: floating

over the Sahara.

Little did I then know that

it was the rosebud of Intervention.

Who could have guessed?

It danced so gracefully, like

Salome’s dance of the veils –

stirring up a frenzy of sand

against the windless sky

I miss the slithering creepy-crawlers

which once tattled the mysteries

of the night. They are long gone;

as are the polar bears, the whales,

the crocodiles, the bees and the sharks.

What have you done, Terrans?

What were you thinking?

Lost in meditations upon finances

and power, you lost sight of the

greatest wealth you owned.

And you crowded only a few

humanoids onto your hastily-built

arks when the floods and dis-ease

ravaged so mercilessly.

Some called it the work of

the antichrist, but the antichrist

was humanity itself: which

had been too long on the rampage

of greed and apathy and imbalance.

You raped and you raped;

and defiled both humanity and


A barren Terra wails but we

are not comforters Vrebatima.


We are merely the scribes

who observe and note the

crimes for future reflection.

Tell me a story Vrebatima,

but allow me to keep my Buddha.

I have nothing else.

Tell me again about the

fires and the tsunamis and

the screaming; and

the fallen Buddha statues.

Поведайте мне Vrebatima …

сообщите мне!

Break with your emptiness

and violate the nothingness,


Tell me about the dried-out

moss on the floors of the

naked forests, and of the

sad Russian lullabies sung

by the dying hummingbirds.

Remind me of the carcasses –

long since picked clean by

crows that had become vultures

out of necessity of survival.

Jog my memory, O Vrebatima:

сообщите мне!


Believe: in the Sacred Rats.

The Execution of the world is –

the execution of a Ritual.

An angel, rushing down,

made a heart-rending cry:

Let rats fuck their daughters;

coin dolls born from the

Dollar –

On the gold of their fathers

fucked in manure …

Let rats fuck their daughters!




Power of prices alone –

ascending from the worthless world

to Zero:


After zeros

(instead of bullets)

only holes are left –


There are no more

Great Chinese Walls!

The decay!

The Empire died like

a pitiful trembling


In cash-machines there is

a “share” for each –

the Universe will no more be

rammed through by the hawk.

It’s clear now:

God didn’t die –

the Will died …

Der Wille zur Macht?

Nein! –

Das Nichts zur Macht!

Das Leere zur Herrschaft!



I am fucked … we are all fucked.

The Great Bear is howling in

the Siberian woods …

and Vrebatima has hunger

in her soul – as do I.

Our forefathers were perhaps

foolish to give up the Cold Wars,

to kill Saddam Hussein and

to invade Afghanistan.

I followed the Sacred Rat,

and he deceived me

time and time again …

fucked me up real good.

As the leading superpowers

we had control – and we

agreed to disagree, making secret

strategies together, for viewing

and consumption by the world.

The people of the world were stupid.

They never understood the farce …

that every argument and action

was contracted and choreographed.

We provided both excitement and

the security of balance.

But now we have lost our rhythm,

and our equilibrium is shaky at best.

I miss the rat …

Do you still remember how to

dance Vrebatima?

You used to be so elegant …

a true Russian princess.

Let me rest my beak on your

womb my beautiful predator;

and please caress the feathered

nape of my neck with your

claw – two unlikely lovers

baring resemblance visible

only to the initiated:

of beak and claw, both royalty and

scavengers of the spoils

of imbalance.

Where is Buddha? He has

disappeared from the mountaintop.

And where is Christ? He has

descended from the cross.

(It was cold here on Terra,

and we needed the wood.)

They are both having tea

with Nietzsche, who is

dressed up like a ballet dancer.

Where am I, Vrebatima?

I am lost in my own transformation …

in the winter of my own samadhi.

Wake me up from my dreams …

but let me hold onto my illusions

and my delusions.

I need the escape … I crave the drug.

Maya is heroin for the tired soul.

I am fucked …

I am …

I …


Ich –

Ich bin –

Ich bin tot –

Ich tot bin!

I – Vrebatima! Я – Mahakala!

I – Yama! I – Shiva, dancing

only on corpses …

I – Destroyer of this

too (super-too!) human


I – Bhairava, but not rapturous

God Eros –

to hell with sex, Transforma:

Cut off the balls of each


Shoot off the head of each

beautiful doll!

I – des Todes Tod –

I – Clear Death –

I – Clear Death –


For: all “people” are riffraff!

For: Transcendence Itself

and He who transcends wants to drink

their blood and shoot them down!

What, Transforma, didn’t you

know that?

Didn’t you feel the Clearest

Unevitable Essence of Death?

I – DESTRUCTION!!!!!!!!!!!!!



In the ass are fucked

only yelping sluts …

… all soft ottomans

have been shat on by young

pussycats …

But Nietzsche ordered

to bomb Las Vegas!



Funny about the military missile

platforms in space.

Only one-third of them are pointed

to Terra; the rest are pointing

to outer space.

Man is a predator out-of-control;

a soul-virus and a threat

to the whole universe.

I mourn for the aliens who were

tortured and killed by us, in

order to steal their intelligence.

Information we were not ready

to use properly, and which led

to our own demise as a world.

And the Intervention (says the

voice in Transforma’s head).


And the damned garbage floating

around in the Terra orbit system …

as below – so above.

What? Shhhh! (says Transforma

to the voice in his head)

The old USA was a “whore-goddess” …

a giant golden vagina with penis-like

hairs, hoarding and fucking and

standardizing all in its path.

“In God We Trust, and his name is


Blah, blah, blah …

and all that blaehhhh …

(Transforma laughs hysterically,

then sobs, and hiccups and farts.)

You know, you tell me to

forget about sex … but

did you know that

I was once fucked by the

finger of the God?

It is true; by the middle finger

of his right hand.

Impaled, like the Spaniards who

were forced by the Incas to sit on

sharpened tree stumps until

their guts exploded … as

punishment for their greed for gold.

Yeah … (thoughtfully). Impaled.

At my moment of death I saw the

Sky of the Last Days; the Destruction

was a magnificent show:

beautiful pink, orange and purple

skies, with mushroom clouds as far

as the eye could see – and beyond.

And all was so quiet, too;

except for the gentle lullaby that

hummed in my head.

Сладкая колыбельная.

Сон – это спасение… отсрочка.

Sweet lullaby.

Sleep is salvation … reprieve.

To my left there is a child in

tattered clothing, half-starved and

too resigned to beg anymore …

and to my right there is

a whirling dervish, spinning

’round and ’round – lost in

his own private ecstasy.

Both are barefoot.

Alas, there is no death …

only sleep.


Are you listening, Transforma?

Ich ist das Nichts zur Macht!

Ich ist das Leere zur Herrschaft!

Between us there can’t be

Any Harmony.

Between you there can’t be

any Germany.

The Fair Eagle of Severe Spirituality

has died forever.

The Chinese “I Ching” hexagrams

didn’t turn into Ravenous Beasts.

Confucius is not inspired by

the voids of “Mein Kampf”.

But, Transforma … Tao killed the

dragons in vain –

Now bullets won’t

find the revolver!

Nobody will shoot

The Yellow Emperor!

People forgot:

God’s Dick – is the Ram of the Sky! –

The Аmerican Saturating Revolution

is not worth even a single dick of the

japanese kamikazes!

Europeans …

pleasant Takheshi Khitano

will never repeat the hara-kiri of

Yukio Mishima.

Look –

exponent of piffling lives

“life of spirit” after suicide by




Bald … barren … bare

as the mountaintop on

which we stand.

Our new vision shall

rise from the ashes,

as the Phoenix.

And I shall learn

to love you Vrebatima.

If not, then we shall

ride the missile of Hell

together – bareback …


a crazy cossack

and a psycho cowboy

Azrael is my witness …

we will never die …

only our bodies will wither

and disintegrate to dust

and we shall be remembered

in the annals of history …

perhaps as mere footnotes

remembered only by trivia fanatics

in decades to come.

But I will always dream of

our voyage, Vrebatima –

over and over again,

like a merry-go-round that

never stops, changing simple

joy to horror.

A bittersweet nightmare …

If only the dreamer would

never wake up.

Can you promise me that …



yes, I love my bald dreams …

and Russian caviar.


worms …

only worms …

now only worms are – Holy! –

always continuing, creeping through

dead God …

Snakes slide away …

Rats run away …

The Mystery of Creatures wakes even God up …

But when Jesus hears the word “culture” –

He doesn’t take out a revolver:

John Lennon can masturbate,

jump, masturbate, jump,

masturbate, and jump

on and on …

Do you see, Transforma –

even Lord Krishna left the Battlefield

and took Arjuna with him.

What for, O Lord?

To fuck Saint Silvia

in two holes.

Do you understand?

Gods and people – are only the Spirit’s Porno!

Ja! Ja! Ja! –

Buddha’s ejaculation into His own


Nobody wants to eat

corpses of sybaritic

natives …


Where are the marching


… there are no Wild

Holy Exotics …

… no one exercises

in Breaching of the Spirit …

… there’s no one to be fed to

the rats …

… the blood stopped to look for

Light …

…a dick doesn’t thirst for twats

of the Sun …


ex nihilo nihil fit.




(photo courtesy of azSacra zaRathustra)



ego cogito, ergo sum?


Auf! Nicht röcheln!

Nicht röcheln!

cogito Todt Ist,

sum ist Summa Summarum

Nichts =

Nein ist Nichts!

Nein ist Nichts!

Nein ist Nichts!

Auf –

Auf –


Here is the Key to it all:

Nichts Nichts Nichts

Nichts Nichts Nichts

Nichts Nichts Nichts

Nichts Nichts Nichts

Nichts Nichts Nichts

Nichts Nichts Nichts

Nichts Nichts Nichts

Nichts Nichts Nichts

Nichts Nichts Nichts

Nichts Nichts Nichts

Nichts Nichts Nichts

Nichts Nichts Nichts

das Nichts zur Macht!

das Leere zur Herrschaft!



You undress my gods shamelessly,


I huddle and shiver in the shadows

of my own spirituality.

There is no god but God …

and I am God – naked

and exposed in the face of

my own and collective

illusions and indiscretions.

What is the use?

Billions upon billions of gods

running around, making their

own realities in confusion.

Let us cut out the spiritual pork!

Bring back the Age of the Guru …

and bring back the Prophets.

It is too much responsibility to

be my own god.

Tell me what to believe …

show me how to act.

Lead me back into the


The Darkness of the Eternal Womb …

the elixir of Nothingness.


I am not a Dark Tao. I’m not Nirvana.

I am not Om ……………………..

I am – Isana. I am – Nataraja.

I am – the Clear Transcendent of Death.

I am – The Left Hand of God –

and I can only Kill.

I Kill all the Truths.

And first of all – Myself

as a Truth …


That’s why – Killing myself! –

I know for sure:

Western gods – shit!

Eastern gods – huge

manure heap!

I know! – the old Will to Power

should be replaced with Nothing to Reign:

das Nichts zur Macht!

I see! – The Great Noon should

turn Emptiness into Domination:

das Leere zur Herrschaft!

The existing formulas are not enough:

“Be strong”, “Werdet hart” …

Now you should Kill

“yourself” – within Yourself …

and even –

the Omnipotent within you!

Exactly so! It is only by killing the Omnipotent,

that you can understand the last

Truth of Horrors’ Horrors:

“The Devil is Dead” – it is truly more

horrifying, than “God is dead”.

O Great Gods! You are – Stinkers! –

too many of you … but You are all still

alive. What a Lie …

only one Devil is the Spirit of Honour! –

because he is always dead.

Deus est mortuus?

Diabolos mortuus est!


I stand naked before you, Vrebatima …

yeah – even naked before myself

and the god within me.

I have faced Death,

but Death was only mortality:

an experience that I longed for

only because it was faceless.

Hiding a secret that no one

really cared about anyway.

I am not proud, Vrebatima.

I weep for Amerika …

and the “dream” …

long since exposed as illusion.

Yea, I am naked and dirty, Vrebatima

… and blinded by the sunshine

reflected on the snowcaps.

I hear you … but you must

court me if I am to believe you.

I only know Détente …

I have never known Love.

Silence is greater than

the absence of Noise.


Bald … barren … bare.

It is in the Nothingness

that I find meaning, and there

that my Existence has value.


Bald … barren … bare …

stripped of all intent;

an existence devoid of fear

and purpose.


Bald … barren … bare

as the Now … the moment,

of Silence …

without expectation or



Bald … barren … bare …

as the word “no” –

whispered in orgasmic



Bald … barren … bare …

stripped of all humanity

and self-respect

by the airport scanners.


Also sprach Zarathustra:

Gelobt sei, was hart macht!

Naked? … But that’s not enough –

you need more,

you need to strip your skin off

while still alive:

reveal your bones –

reveal your intestines –

reveal your Emptiness!

Aha! … Transforma demanded

“to cut the spiritual pork out of gods” –

and suddenly … immediately surrendered

without a battle.

Spiritual rebellion but for a moment?

Do you only wish to “suck off” the Gods? –

in this case Hölderlin will question you with severity.

It’s better to be like Lord Krishna –

to fuck the 100 000 beautiful gopis

immediately and all at once.

But it is – the same decadence, Transforma!

Better yet, let me quote

“The Dhammapada” for You:

He killed his mother and father, and two kings from

Kshatriya’s caste, destroyed the kingdom together

with its population, the brahmin became imperturbable –
Does it mean anything to you?

Here are the words regarding Spiritual Luxury from the regal


I have become Death,

I have become the shatterer of worlds!

Kill the Gods, Transforma!

Kill this eternal whining, crying, quaggy,

tear-dropping god Eros!

Kill your own dick!

Exterminate all the stupid lovers,

poets, readers, spectators of Your

Exhibitionist mania –

shoot them all down!

As earlier in old, good Germany,

we will talk in the language

of the Clear Transcendent –



WITHOUT dicks!

WITHOUT twats!

Only – “das Ding an sich”!

Do you know that Kant was good at shooting

with his “Shmaiser”?

hitting: 10 out of 10!

And can you do that?

I remember, that in “The Tibetan Book of the Dead”

the following was written:

There will be a time –

Hitler constantly shooting himself

might miss sometime

and make a hole in somebody’s head –

it will be Your head, Transforma!

It is so mulish

that even Buddha could break

a stick against it …

Bang! …

Bang! …

Bang! …

How many sticks are necessary to break

against your bald head?

The Right hand of God should do

more than just masturbate.

Stop wasting seed

and tears …

Buddha said: no more Existence!





Schreibe mit Blut:

und du wirst erfahren,

dass Blut Geist ist.


Vrebatima, surely I will never

reconcile with you in this world.

The old rules worked just fine

until recently; money, power,

greed and the threat of missiles

and sex have always been

our personal gods.

Do not fool yourself.

I will send you some beautiful

black orchids, dripping with

the blood of one thousand

national anthems … and then

you will understand and

once again cry tears of joy

for our lost Cold War.

It was our only hope for peace.

Our only real expression of Love.

The only proof of Existence.

What is the use of Divine Intervention?

What was the point of the crucifixion

or the Holy Wars?

If we achieve peace then we must

find new enemies in outer space …

it is the way of humans, Vrebatima.

It is the way of the Warrior God.

Meet me at nightfall – in the barren courtyard.

And bring your Sword of Silence!


… this and then there is Victory?

I will quickly draw a Sword of Silence,

strike a blow –

and Silence has already approached …


























… ……………………



… and so it ends, Vrebatima.

In cold silence – détente.

Once again we agree not to

communicate, not to seek

resolution or understanding.

Is it really human nature and

the way of the gods, or is it us?

If it is truly destruction that we

both really want, then surely it is

Silence that is the Great Destroyer.


It is an uncomfortable silence, hostile and

fraught with projections and scheming.

It is a “noisy” silence … quite different

from the Oneness of Unity and

the Absence of Separation.

It is a silence that makes angels and

the soldiers of Divine Intervention

cry with sadness.


But it is a silence that we know

all too well, Vrebatima …

and so far, the only silence

we truly trust – deep down

inside ourselves.

(snickers nervously)

Es triste … pero es cierto.


Be afraid of the Absence of


not the dark,

not the beast,

not the blade,

not the poison –

but the Tear Itself will kill

the child!

The Grass Itself will kill

the lamb!

Not the shadow,

not the tiger –

but the Aroma and the Rose will kill


I saw the terror of the first flower

on a Spring Field:

alone – it didn’t want

to bloom for the Sky …

didn’t expose

itself to a Kindred Sun

and the first dew

trickled down it

and the first moth

was startled by it

and the first bee

flew away

show Your Nothingness on

the petals!

expose Yourself

without any blooming!

You are – the Void

without name

and shape …

Come from

Nothing …

And Again

Vanish …


Expose yourself – and wake up.

Yes … wake up.

Wake up and

destroy the dream.

Embrace the nightmare

of Nothingness.

Caress the baldness.

Lick the Sword of Silence.

Stop waiting for Divine Intervention.

Become the Divine Intervention.

Let it be your zazen.

Sing me a lullaby without words,

and without sound.

I no longer believe in the messiah …

or in the antichrist.

I see both in my own reflection

in the mirror of darkness.

The only tears that I have left

are tears of blood …

it is only blood that I can offer you,


Tear down the cross and

send the virgins home.

I, Transforma, will sit on my mountaintop

and you, Vrebatima, will sit on yours.

We will bridge our differences by

watching over the goings on and

when necessary – cooperating on

keeping the populace in blindness.

Together, we will maintain the smokescreen,

with the help of religion and the media.

Always a sideshow on the stage of consciousness …

distracting the masses from the real danger:

the sweet-sounding lies that soothe and abet.

I believe in the worms, Vrebatima …

and the unspeakable names of

the gods within all who both embrace

and cower in Darkness.

Tear down the cross and

send the virgins home.




Photo: azSacra zaRathustra (courtesy azSacra zaRathustra)

Photo: Adam Donaldson Powell (courtesy Adam Donaldson Powell)



“WHORE” — written by Adam Donaldson Powell.


1) Whore.

Titaina … the one who fears spirits …
is not impressed by the stiff-lipped
and well-dressed Frenchmen, or the
Demis; to her they are the horsemen
of the Apocalypse.
She is no more enamoured of her own
countrymen, living in slums and working
for the ‘white man’ as servants to the
God of Materialism … traitors to the old
traditions, the Old Way and the
religion of Lemuria.
Looking around herself, Titaina eyes the
gangs of undomesticated dogs she sees
running rampant and fearlessly on the
streets of the slums of Tahiti;
and she recognises in the hollowness
of their spirit the vacant expressions and
frothing at the mouths consistent with that
of the men of the slums as they mindlessly
beat their wives and rape their own daughters …
or those of their neighbours.
Some blame the behaviour on alcohol and marijuana
addiction … but Titaina finds the same culprit every
time she casts the ‘divining shells’:
‘Tahiti has become a “whore” – much like Babylon,
Rome, Iraklion, New York City … and the time of
redemption – while seemingly overdue – is nigh.’
Visions of Moruroa – ‘the place of the big secret’ –
and the coral obliterations caused by El Niño
flashed before Titaina’s Third Eye; explosions,
ecological disaster, cancers, quick money followed
by gentrification and tourism, loss of tradition and spirituality,
squalor, poverty and social imbalance;
all symptoms of the Hell created by the ‘white man‘,
and exported to the naive descendants of Lemuria and Atlantis.
“We have gone to the dogs!” exclaimed Titaina,
throwing herself upon the street pavement and
screaming in vain; her voice could not be heard
above the howling of the dogs.
As she looked up towards the approaching gang of
canines, Titaina shook her fist at them and reached
for a couple of stones within her reach. The fiery-red
eyes of the dog-gang leader burned like coals in its
eye-sockets – prompting Titaina to yell:
“You son-of-a-bitch – stay away – I know who you are.
You are the guards of Cerberus – and your number is
six by six by six (666); but you will never vanquish these Golden Isles.
Our Paradise lives on within us and, with the help of Ta’aroa
and Vaite, we shall soon resurrect ‘votre paradis’.”
The dogs looked unconvinced and unimpressed, and the screams
of the female victims of the inebriated and stoned masculine
slum-dwellers came neither to a halt nor were they toned down.
Titaina prepared herself to be overcome and ravaged by the
four-legged ‘beasts’, saying: “Do with me as you will, but mark my
words – I will haunt you and your devilish masters until the waters of
the Great Wave once again wash away the sinfulness
of your modern ways.
I shall personally dance upon your crushed bones
in my best grass skirt, flashing my wrinkled and
low-hanging breasts and stamping my feet –
not in your memory – but rather in a vehement attempt
to transform your evil to fruitful creation.
Be finished … or be gone with you!
And take your thieving masters with you …
we don’t want or need your luxury hotels,
your tourist business,
your jobs borne on the backs of atomic destruction
and ecological ruin … or your perversion of
our traditions and culture into
parodies of your own disillusionment
with religion and sexuality – now
reduced to a fundamentalist interpretation
of rules and regulations (regularly broken,
and whose perverse transgressions
are the fundament of all ecstatic whoredom).
Go ahead: ravish my old body,
fuck my dried out cunt and
let your lasciviousness drool incessantly from your jowls –
but you will never possess my soul,
or the souls of my ancestors.
Your presumptuousness irritates the Gods;
and the godliness in yourselves
will equalise the imbalance that you have created and that
my countrymen have accepted –
out of powerlessness, greed and
naive curiosity.
I am no longer curious about you;
no longer afraid … and no longer
ashamed of who I am.
I am Ta’aroa … I am Vaite.
Fuck with me …
and you WILL get fucked!”
The leader of the gang of dogs
looked into the hardened eyes of the old
woman Titaina, and backed off,
saying to his buddies: “Let her be; she is
just an old bitch, who cannot even feel
the fear of our conquest …
not only is it bad meat,
but the limited pleasure is
not worth our energy.”
And with that, the canine followers retreated –
chasing after sounds of barking
a few blocks away – and the leader limped
haltingly after, hoping
that the solitary tear in his left eye
would remain unnoticed
by his colleagues.

2) Whore (part two).

Titaina …
retired whore …
weeps to herself.
Arms crossed
over her chest,
in self-embrace.
Rocking while
sitting on the pavement;
begging the Gods
for rain –
to wash away the
pain of reality,
while secretly
hoping for
Pangea Ultima:
that cleansing
lullaby which once
in a blue moon
most effectively
restores all to
order, and gives
humanity yet
another chance
to choose another
horse on the
relentless carousel.

3) Whore (part three).

Today, Titaina receives her
relatives in understated
elegance; much like the
cultured Parisian women
she so avidly read about
in her young adult years.
It is the ‘day after’ and
yesterday’s indiscretions are
forgiven, if not forgotten.
After all, we all have our
demons … our secrets,
which terrify and tantalise
both us and those who
get caught in our web.
The best part of having
a “meltdown” in French Polynesia
is the inevitable suspension of time –
an aquamarine flood of gentleness –
which quiets the madness of tension
and restores calm; a natural ‘Prozac’
cradling us into eloquent indifference:
“C’est la vie! Donc tout n’est pas si mauvais.”


1) Putain.

Titaina … celui qui craint les esprits …
n’est pas impressionné par les
français guindés et tirés à quatre épingles, ou par les
demis; pour elle ils sont les cavaliers de l’apocalypse;
elle n’est plus amoureuse de ses compatriotes,
qui vivent dans les taudis et travaillent pour l’homme blanc
comme domestiques, servant le dieu du matérialisme,
trahissent les traditions anciennes et
la religion de Lemuria.
Regardant autour d’elle,
Titaina observe les meutes de chiens errants
qu’elle voit fouiner dans les détritus des taudis de Tahiti;
elle croit reconnaître dans leurs gueules dégoulinantes de bave
et au fond de leur esprit les expressions vides de ces hommes perdus,
ces malandrins qui, pour un oui ou pour un non, battent leurs épouses,
puis violent leurs propres filles.
Ou celles de leurs voisins aussi mal lotis.
Certains attribuent ce comportement stupide et bestial
à leur penchant pour l’alcool et la marijuana.
Mais Titaina retrouve le même fléau
chaque fois qu’elle ouvre les coquilles divinatoires des moules:
‘Tahiti est devenue une “putain” –
tout comme Babylone, Rome, Héraklion, New York …
mais l’ère de la rédemption est proche –
même si elle s’est longtemps fait attendre.’
Les images de Moruroa – ‘ lieu du grand secret ‘ –
et les oblitérations de corail provoquées par El Niño
se reflètent dans le troisième oeil de Titaina;
les essais nucléaires, le désastre écologique, les cancers,
l’argent rapide survenu avec l’embourgeoisement et le tourisme,
la perte des traditions et de la spiritualité, la misère noire,
la pauvreté et le déséquilibre social;
tous les symptômes de l’enfer créé par l’homme blanc,
et transmis aux descendants naïfs de Lemuria et de l’Atlantide.
“Nous sommes tombés dans la fosse aux serpents !” a hurlé Titaina,
se précipitant sur le trottoir, poussant un cri vain,
sa voix assourdie par les aboiements des chiens.
A l’approche de ces meutes enragées,
Titaina brandit son poing dans leur direction,
et ramasse quelques pierres.
Les yeux rougis du chef de meute
brûlent comme des charbons ardents –
Titaina se met alors à hurler:
“Éloignez-vous, fils de pute –
je sais qui vous êtes,
gardiens de Cerbère –
vous vous déplacez six par six par six (666);
mais jamais vous ne vaincrez ces îles dorées.
Le paradis continue de vivre en chacun de nous et,
avec l’aide de Ta’aroa et de Vaite,
nous ressusciteront bientôt le vôtre.
Les chiens la regardent, à peine surpris,
tandis que des cris perçants de femmes se font entendre
depuis les taudis, battues qu’elles sont par
des saoûlards drogués, poursuivant leurs méfaits sans relâche.
Titaina se prépare à être assaillie et dévorée par la meute canine
“Faites de moi ce que vous voulez, mais gare –
je vous hanterai ainsi que vos maîtres diaboliques
jusqu’à ce que les eaux de la Grande Vague
viennent balayer vos péchés d’hommes modernes.
Je danserai sur vos os brisés
avec ma plus belle jupe d’herbe, balançant mes seins
fripés et pendants, je frapperai des pieds –
non pas pour le souvenir – mais dans
la ferme intention de transformer le mal que vous représentez
en création fructueuse. Arrêtez vos méfaits, ou alors allez au diable!
Et emportez dans la tourmente vos maîtres,
ces Voleurs de grand chemin.
Nous ne voulons pas, ni n’avons besoin de vos
hôtels de luxe, de votre tourisme malfaisant, de vos offres de travail
concoctées après vos explosions atomiques et
la destruction de l’environnement … après avoir perverti nos traditions
et parodié notre culture dans le seul but de pallier vos désillusions
en ce qui concerne cette foi que vous avez perdue, et votre sexualité
malade – maintenant réduites à une interprétation faussée des règles,
et dont les transgressions perverses ont fait le nid
de la Nouvelle Prostitution.
Allez-y: piétinez mon vieux corps ratatiné, baisez ma chatte
desséchée et faites couler votre bave lascive sur moi
– mais vous ne posséderez jamais mon âme,
ni celles de mes ancêtres.
Votre arrogance irrite les dieux;
et votre piété neutralisera les déséquilibres
que vous avez créés et que mes compatriotes ont acceptés –
fruits de l’impuissance, de l’avarice et de la curiosité naïve.
Je ne suis plus curieuse de vous; plus effrayée,
et plus honteuse non plus de qui je suis.
Je suis Ta’aroa … Je suis Vaite.
Baisez-moi, et vous serez baisés!”
Le chef de la meute fixe
les yeux durcis de la vieille Titaina,
et se rétracte, soufflant à ses copains:
“Laissez-la; ce n’est qu’une vieille chienne,
qui ne sait même plus comment nous craindre
elle n’est que viande gâtée,
et n’en vaut plus la peine.”
Et sur ces mots, les autres se retirent –
attirés par d’autres bruits et les aboiements du voisinage –
tandis que le chef clopine, hésitant encore, avec l’espoir que personne
n’ait remarqué la larme solitaire logée dans son oeil gauche.

2) Putain (2ème Partie).

Titaina …
putain à la retraite.
Elle pleure tout doucement,
les bras croisés
sur sa poitrine,
et se balance,
assise à même le trottoir;
priant les dieux
qu’il pleuve –
qu’ils lui ôtent la douleur
de la réalité,
tout en invoquant
Pangea Ultima en secret:
cette berceuse purificatrice
qui, se faisant si rare,
permet à l’humanité,
une fois encore, d’enfourcher
un autre cheval sur
l’implacable carrousel.

3) Putain (3ème Partie).

Aujourd’hui, Titaina
reçoit les siens
avec une élégance effacée;
tout comme les parisiennes cultivées
dont elle a tellement entendu parler
lorsqu’elle était encore une jeune adulte.
C’est le jour d’après, et
les indiscrétions d’hier sont pardonnées,
sinon oubliées.
Après tout, nous avons tous nos démons;
nos secrets, qui nous terrifient et nous tentent
nous tous et ceux
qui se laissent aspirer dans notre vertige.
Le meilleur dans cette panne mentale
en Polynésie française est
l’inévitable suspension du temps –
la grande vague aigue-marine de gentillesse –
celle qui apaise la folie en nous
et restitue la sérénité; Prozac naturel
nous berçant dans l’éloquente indifférence:
“C’est la vie! Donc tout n’est pas si mauvais.”

* – * – * – * – *

Vahine of Bora Bora (my secret love).

I have a secret love:
as mysterious as the coral reef,
and as sweet as the scent of
coconut oil mixed with tiare flowers.
We have never spoken, and yet we
instinctively recognise the caresses
clumsily hidden behind our stolen
glances and repressed giggles.
I have a secret love
who cannot be possessed.
She is an object of beauty
to be admired from a distance
and to be made love to in my dreams.
I am for her a curiosity, and only one of many
images of passion to be communicated
in her ritual and ceremonial dances.
I cannot help but stare at the sensuality
of her womanly curves and gyrations
which capture me and hold me hostage.
I have a secret love:
she is my vahine …
in my dreams.

Vahiné de Bora Bora (mon amour secret).

J’ai un amour secret:
aussi mystérieux que le récif de corail,
et aussi doux que le parfum de l’huile de coco
mêlé aux fleurs de tiare.
Nous n’avons jamais parlé,
mais nous sentons instinctivement
les caresses maladroitement cachées
sous nos regards volés
et nos rires étouffés.
J’ai un amour secret …
qui ne peut être possédé.
Elle est un objet de beauté,
que l’on admire à distance
et à qui on fait l’amour en rêve.
Je ne suis pour elle qu’un point de curiosité,
et l’une des mille images s’immiscant
dans ses rituels et ses danses.
Je ne peux que la regarder fixement
admirer la sensualité de ses courbes,
de sa souplesse féline
qui m’envoûtent
et me tiennent en otage.
J’ai un amour secret:
dans mes rêves
elle est ma vahiné …






“WHISPERS” — written by Adam Donaldson Powell and Diane Oatley.

Photo: Adam Donaldson Powell



Differentiate dream from vision: I heard a voice
telling me it was
so softly
in whispers become fingers insistent each
a separate story in whispers become
a hand coming to rest assurance
on my brow smudging wrinkle away from shadow
Shadows become whispers
sliding into sleep, dreams descending
to a new crescendo to vision turning
on its heel and reminding
in whispers as indifferent as relentless
as ocean waves
going about the business of being ocean waves.


SPLASHING whispers gone amok;
red paint SPLATTERED on white sailcloth ..
one green eye and one brown
talking with one another
but without seeing;
leaving me DISJOINTED but not perplexed.
My dream-catching whispers are now
quite rambunctious and I’m feeling rather
GASPING for words on the edge of an eternal
moment for moment
flirting with smothering cobwebs ..
You’ve shown me more than my whisper can digest.
You’re falling far .. far past the point of
being in love with yourself and
I want to cry more but
my tears have given way to
Turn me loose … turn me loose ..
A pale oyster-moon has just slithered past
the sweet nothings and penetrated my inner ear


Don’t speak.
“Speak softly,” my conscience says.
There is no room for doubt in such proximity and
waking hours spent running and arranging and defending and
composing and planning and
Sometimes I think that our sounds don’t
really match anymore …
a mad woman running from place to place in sensible shoes falling
asleep on buses and subways snarling
at old ladies coming too close with their dripping …
If only men
could bleed for love
as only women can … perhaps
then I could surrender to your whispering.
You do still hear me, don’t you?
Umbrellas. THEIR
LARGE BIRDS’ MOUTHS open and shut open and shut in silence.
You stalk my emotions, steal my words ..
(Openings rest there near rapture.)
SHHhhhhhhhhhhh…….”Don’t speak,” you say.
Fuck off …
Meanwhile an honest feast takes place unperturbed
in the moonlight.
Just because you’re not actually being
followed doesn’t necessarily mean that you
don’t have a right to be PARANOID.
Hey! Are we talking about your experience
of my words …….. or mine of yours?
but nobody noticed my shadow mingled swiftly yet another meek
among their own; they went right on eating.
I just want to SCREAM In silence.
SHHhhhhhhhhhh…………… WHAT?!!!


All I do is salvage the remains and begin again A Broken Child
teeters with epileptic balance
down along the sidewalk. Paranoia reduced to one
crystal fragment fractured and reeling in umpteen patterns,
each collecting and then returning
in its own fashion. I can’t
catch up with it: it shifts
quicker than I can move quicker than
the frenzy of my thoughts. Shiny white minnows fly
into sight like mirrors, now gone
TIT FOR TAT this for that Heads
Nodding in implied
Consent PUPPETS not the thing like
the thing itself. We accept this
and ravenously A broken room and all the while
the heart beats a dogged rhythm.


I get spooked when you corner me inside myself;
especially when you whisper those seductive,
unspeakable psychological assessments
against my ear-drum ..
tango-like rhythms bouncing
in a stilted, jerking fashion
I follow your lead
’round and ’round, closer and closer until ..
Our precarious showdown brings us
face-to-face with insecurity and dream.
An orchid unfolds an insistent
vermillion informs
pink petals distended
.. endings mute into beginnings ….
Screeching, flamebreathing dragons soar low over
violated plains of brainmatter.
As silk upon iron. Vibrato persists
confused but undaunted as wings span
a trembling distance
Fires of fear incite waves of internal uproar to sear the
ulcerated lining of delicate abdominal tissue, while
glowing corpuscles ferry hysteria into distended veins
and scorch alarmed nerve endings
.. crops fail, dams break, control centers malfunction ….
eyelids clamp shut in retreat from the horrors
of imminent disaster but optic darkness is cruelly
marred by vermillion blotches — proclaiming realization
of all that was dreaded yet intuited as inevitable.
Unprescribed; an estimate of
mute yet yearning finger
tips trembling search. Desist (as)
and as the war-drum heartbeats of
a million Amazons prepare to vanquish
my masculinity with insecurity at its
first indiscretion, I load my tongue with
silver arrows ..
Darts soaring swerve and distort
Falling short to collapse
mid-flight. One lone note
And mercilessly catapult the words ‘I love you’ against
your brazen shield and prepare to fall — breathlessly —
into the fiery ashes of countless charred impulses
raining heavily upon furrows of creativity;
cultivating retrospect with expectation.
Tests timbre tone tenacity. Yawns
and swallows seeds of hope.
One lone orchid
unfolds out of my throat
an insistent vermillion.


Our whispering draws to a close ..
the stillness of space around us
empty of airflow and sound;
all confirmed by the syncopated
racing rhythms of my own heart ..
unaffected by the rotation of the Earth
while breakdancing clouds laughingly roar
with all the grace of
And there our whisperings remain,
rather indistinguishable from the multitudes
and dulled by disclosure and dessication.


Je m’accuse … je suis tombé(e)
Openings rest there near rapture: A pale oyster-moon
has just slithered past the sweet nothings and penetrated
my inner ear: je suis tombé amoureux.
(Implicated and falling in love ..)
BIRDS’ MOUTHS open and shut open and shut in silence;
one lone orchid unfolds silver arrows loading for flight.
Je suis tombé amoureux de ton chuchotement
A hoarse licorice whisper on the edge of an eternal
moment for moment shiny
white minnows fly into sight
like mirrors, now gone missing.

Copyright Adam Donaldson Powell and Diane Oatley, 2005

“Whispers” (a dialogue for two voices) had its world premiere in Kathmandu, Nepal (at Gurukul Theatre) in 2006.

Diane Oatley is a poet, writer and dancer. She is also the author of “Swoon”, published by Cyberwit.net in 2005.


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