Extreme poetry: “In the valley of the Kingdom”.

Photography by Adam Donaldson Powell

“In the valley of the Kingdom” is part of my book entitled “Rapture: endings of space and time”.

IN THE VALLEY OF THE KINGDOM: a poetic fantasy.



In the great Valley of the Kingdom,
over-shadowed by Dorje Lakpa, Gauri Shankar,
Gyachungkang and Sagarmatha, the
rantings of a poet savant in the Old City
signal the commencement of Nawa Ratri.
Her sole audience consists of the monkeys and
the beggar children, for all citizens and pilgrims
are otherwise disposed; but all sense the onset
of imminent menstruation with innate fervour.
Scurrying about under the waxing moon,
last-minute shoppers scour marketplaces
and stalls in preparation for the coming rituals
of purification by blood and offerings in
supplication to the Goddess Durga, in all
her manifestations of life force and fertility.
And wafting from open windows is the
scent of Vijaya Dashami, flowers and
cooking vegetables, increasingly overcoming the
diesel fumes from the trafficked streets below.
Through an ajar door I glimpse a prayer in progress,
in salutation to the God in us all and I smile,
murmuring “Namaste” to the tilak-adorned
inhabitants chanting in submission to the Almighty.
My heart pains for the unfortunate beyond the
Kingdom who suffer loneliness, hunger,
war and terror without ultimate joy and release;
strangers to our ways although still brothers and
sisters in the Great Scheme.
They live in Iraq, Gaza and Darfur, and even in the
sprawling urban centres of the Americas and Asia.
In my mind’s eye I give an offering of Light
for these beloved neighbours and pray that also
their darkness and burdens find relief in the bosom
of Divine favour, while a gentle rain shower
soothes the heat from my own transgressions.
I awaken with a start .. in a pool of sweat and tears.
Gazing toward the window I can see the rising sun
juxtaposed against the crumbling rose-coloured
temple in the foreground; almost mocking the
distant luxury hotels, still caught in the shadows.
A cock is crowing – to the accompaniment of
the poet savant; both announcing the advent of
the Ghatasthapana.



“I invite the Lord into my heart .. I invite the Lord into my heart ..”
Mesmerized by the chanting and the intoxicating incense,
I fall into a trance and enter the Dashain Ghar.
As I approach the sacred kalash my heart quickens,
much like the rushing of life energy through the
veins of the surrounding mountains.
“I invite the Lord into my heart .. I invite the Lord into my heart ..”
The sprinkling of holy water upon the kalash and the surrounding
sands recalls the primordial Spring of my first awakening;
giving birth to divine offspring in the form of jamara.
“I invite the Lord into my heart .. I invite the Lord into my heart ..”
My pulse slowly returns to normalcy, and I smile knowing
that the Goddess Durga is pleased but not yet sated.
She hungers for the very essence of creation .. for the
blood of yesteryear’s abundance .. and that hunger seems
as insatiable as our requests are endless ..
No sacrifice is too great for the Divine Durga, and
the consequence of failure is unthinkable.
“I invite the Lord into my heart .. I invite the Lord into my heart ..”
Meanwhile, in another time zone in another part of the world
a child cries, a funeral takes place and a meal begins.
Across town, a marching band fades into silence and succumbs to
boisterous laughter from the last straggling nightclub guests
as they spill out into the streets.
The poet savant has finally fallen silent, but I still hear
her breathless incantations as loudly as the beating of
madal drums against the stillness of the early morning drowsiness;
goat-skin stretched tautly over wood, creating tension –
inviting rigid palms to strike and fingertips to caress.
In my spiritual drunkenness I envision one thousand and
one manifestations of the Goddess, arms flailing about in
an exotic dance – enticing and sensual, maternal
and protective; wildly fertile yet chaste.
A kaleidoscope of lotus flowers and orchids, unfolding, pulsing;
elephant gods dancing with water buffaloes in a building
frenzy of singing bowls, brass bells and cymbals.
“I invite the Lord into my heart .. I invite the Lord into my heart ..”
A television in the house next door brings news of
bombs falling in faraway lands, of famine and tsunamis,
volcanic eruptions, elections, stock markets and
football matches; and suddenly the Goddess snuffs out
the electricity and the whole world as I know it falls
captive to the silence signalling the start of the puja.
And as the first candle is lit I can feel the eyelids
of the savant closing heavily …. and I murmur:
“I invite the Lord into my heart .. May the puja begin………..”



The words of the poet savant are forever imprinted
upon my palms, forehead and heart – as clearly as the
unmistakable image of the great bodhisattva Kuan Yin.
The secret of the veil behind the veil is encoded
in the diamond; for while there are many ways to
enlightenment the highest wisdom is attained through
the Great Compassion, and self-realization is the only
homecoming recognized by the disciples of Vajrayana.
And thus, we step beyond the world outside of worlds
where karma is but a balancing act together with
punya-making, chance, luck and physical laws;
and approach the inner reaches of devotion with
complete individual and collective unity – for
all else belongs to the world of maya.
The vajracarya in me receives the Lord as my
guest and personal extension, and together we
dance through barriers known as illusion.
Our devoted compassion together with the refraction
of the light of the candles activates our heart, throat
and crown chakras – thus creating the perfect
Adamantine vehicle for illumination known as the
Great Source and Center, and all mantras coalesce
into one as flames and thunderbolts consume our
delusion and transform our essence:
And finally we give birth to the God within ..
without reservation; and in generous libation.



And on the seventh day, all subjects of the Valley and
beyond are ecstatic as the awaited procession arrives
from the royal house in Gorkha – bearing the jamara and
other provisions for the Tika.
So grand is their finery on the Day of the Fulpati;
and all hearts beat as one as the parade makes its way
to the Hanuman Dhoka Royal Palace.
In the midst of the celebrants and onlookers I see the
poet savant, smiling and keeping watch over the
splendid palanquin carrying the royal kalash, stalks of
banana, sugar cane and jamara.
His Majesty the King oversees the magnificent ceremonies
at Tundikhel, and the sounds of guns fill the Valley in
commemoration of the great thunderbolts which so resolutely
echoed over the mountains in the time of our forefathers.
As the last gunshots resound and the jubilant crowd breaks out
into a deafening cheer, the royal fulpati disappears inside
the Dashain ghar, and the feasting begins to the
accompaniment of a rock band.
And while the joyous crowds dance and make merry the
poet savant has already retired to her designated spot in the park
and prostrates to the Goddess offering incantations and
flowers – certain that the gods will be generous.



My inner meditative state is all but silent;
for every bit of my Self reverberates the
heartbeat of two six-pointed diamond stars
merging into the perfect Tantric Merkebah.
The emotional wetness of my transformation
process pulls me out to sea again and again ..
I both swell and am consumed by the riveting pulse:
tum ta-ta-ta-ta tuhhhhm…. tum ta-ta-ta-ta tuhhhhm….
tum ta-ta-ta-ta tuhhhhm…. tum ta-ta-ta-ta tuhhhhm….
thus transporting my body consciousness beyond hunger
to the world in between worlds, leaving me captive
to vision and hallucination; entreating me to choose
between Truth and illusion.


And across town, the poet savant acquiesces
to the rhythms of the Maha Asthami,
prostrating mechanically .. again and again and again ..
until she finally awakens in ecstasy to the sought after
reality of her dreams.
And as she robotically forsakes the Dashain ghar and
throws open a window, she discovers that all life has
indeed come to a standstill with the exception of
a few tourists snapping photographs.
But the poet savant remains lost in her own deep transformation.
The setting sun forewarns the approach of Kal Ratri,
and the darkness of the darkest night weighs
heavy and pungent with the odour of meat.

2WF (2)


Knee-deep in blood,
the poet savant wades
through the temple of Taleju –
marching in step
to the military band
and gun salutes
in honour of
the Goddess Durga
and Vishwa Karma,
God of Creativity.
The air is black
with the smell of
slaughtered buffaloes.
Protection is assured;
and all are blessed –
by the army
of the Divine.



The secret of the blessing lay in the
passing of divine compassion and
goodwill from generation to generation.
The embodiment of my love
is in the tika and the jamara.
And together we will wait for Laxmi.
This is my promise .. this is my prayer.
This is my gift to you.



Dizzily, I stumble out onto the pavement of
Freak Street, my mind still awhirl with the
images, tastes and sounds of the past fortnight.
In the maze of bustling pedestrians bumping into me,
and taxis, rickshaws and bicycles whizzing by,
I vaguely recognize the poet savant –
now in disguise as a common beggar.
All seems to have returned to normal in the Valley,
now that the blessings of Durga have been received;
so much so that I begin to wonder how much was real
and what was, in fact, fantasy – when suddenly I find myself
face-to-face with a child of some seven or eight years –
barefoot, in tattered clothes and with outstretched palms:
“Coins, cigarette, milk or chocolate???” he pleads.
As I place a few coins into his hands he smiles and says:
“Bless you kind Sir. May Good transcend Evil, and
Light lessen the Darkness you carry within you.”
And I smile to myself, certain that I am carrying
the treasures of Dasain deep inside me for at least
the next twelve moons while mumbling
“Om Mani Padme Hum .. Om Mani Padme Hum ….”



Extreme poetry: “Whore / Putain” (from my book entitled “Le Paradis”).


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 …







“There is no doubt that Powell, Robert Lowell, Elizabeth Bishop, Sylvia Plath, John Berryman, Randall Jarrell, and Delmore Schwartz are the most talented American poets of the modern age.” — Dr. Santosh Kumar, Allahabad University, 2010, from his recent book entitled: Adam Donaldson Powell: the making of a poet.

“Adam Donaldson Powell: The Making of a Poet”, a critical analysis of the published works of Adam Donaldson Powell. Order the book from Cyberwit.net.

Extreme poetry (English + Russian): Adam Donaldson Powell & 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). Introduction 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
bearing 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)