Obsidian Eagle's Blasphemous Bazaar - avant-garde poetics, indie publishing, nom-de-plume

Obsidian Eagle's

Blasphemous Bazaar


META-Poems For A New Millennium

<br>META-Poems For A New Millennium<br><br>

The Flagship of Anti-Poetry — est. 2010





Second Syntax

"Did the universe really begin?";
and, "Is the theory of the Big Bang true?"
These are not really questions, although they sound like they are.
The real question is whether or not
the only syntax that exists
is the syntax that requires,
as statements of fact
"beginnings", "developments", and "ends".
Other syntaxes exist.
There is one which demands
that varieties of intensity be taken as facts.
Within that syntax, "nothing begins" and "nothing ends".
Therefore, birth, for example, is not a clean, clear-cut event;
but rather, birth is a specific type of intensity;
and so is maturation;
and so is death.
A man of that syntax, looking over his equations,
finds that he has calculated enough varieties of intensity
to say with authority
that the universe never began,
and will never end.
He will conclude that the universe has gone through, is now going through, and will forever go through
endless fluctuations of intensity.
A man of that syntax could very well conclude that the universe itself
is the chariot of intensity,
and that a person can board it
to journey through changes without end.
He will conclude all that, and much more,
perhaps without ever realizing
that he is merely confirming
the syntax of his mother tongue.

~ Carlos Castaneda



Second Syntax

Incessant internal banter
The Tower of Babel spins
Yarns strewn throughout one's ego
Like play by play commentary
In a vessel that never fills

Do not distress overly much
If broken tape throws for a loop
When perception sullies memories
Everybody finds their mind fumbles
While understating sooth

Yet verbal thought be but a bough
Growing from the trunk of consciousness
There are countless others anyhow
Like silent knowledge (Gnosis)
Dreams, and consensual bliss

The Great Matter

The Great Matter

When the one who wrote this is gone, shall our species have gotten much further along?

We are each a brief candle, which no recounting can rekindle.

Within austere walls of Zendo (meditation halls), one question above all:

What means the Great Matter of life and death for those caught in the middle?

Who has ears for the Bards of yesteryear other than those Poets now here?

Why such aversion to departure when presence itself can be torture?

Where does a soul dream if its body leaves behind mundane stream?

Will we receive otherworldly consolation or face eternal damnation?

Were scriptures reliable then perhaps planning would be viable.

Without that however, each of us takes a lonesome dive into forever . . .

Didactus Proclaimeth

Didactus Proclaimeth:


Like a crystal shattered into countless fragments
The jagged, incongruent edges of each individual human
Refract the sacred light of ethereal Being through mundane imperfection
Our planet is a hall mirrors where illusion reigns and truth goes unnoticed

Nonetheless, such collective folly does not actually negate life's underlying sanctity
Godliness is next to us during every given moment if we can only bypass Ego
That pitiable byproduct derived from religious and sociological brainwash
Our peril inadvertently handed down through well-meaning predecessors

This vicious cycle must be broken!

People, may your poets serve as prophets in an age devoid of soul
For they're often secret heralds who portend a brave new world
Where the balance between materialism and mysticism thrives
Our single shards conglomerated into an iridescent prism

Let not these hours pass by idly, given to spectacle or speculation
Clutch the stars themselves and dare to reorganize creation
So that instead of lamenting over how pathetic their ancestors were
Our descendants might look up with beaming pride at novel constellations

Thus hath Didactus spoken!



Image: Cosmic Angel courtesy of Martin Mancha

Re-Union (side B) by Special Guest Earthen Hawk

Editor's Note: This current piece is a direct poetic response to: Re-UnionKudos to Earthen Hawk for maintaining the literary form of poésie sans poète (Poetry devoid of I, ME, MY and MINE).



Re-Union (side B)


Aural narcotics and literary highs
Scraps of nature in Crackton will have to suffice
Asanas at intervals
Anti-logos kinetic
Here it rains synchronicity
The mental climate is synesthetic
When judgments are suspended
Biorhythms show their wisdom
Overanalysis got traded for skin
and LCD Soundsystem

Image: Ardhanariswara — the fused form of Shiva-Shakti (masculine-feminine).

Re-Union

Re-Union


Reciting lines from Naked Lunch down by riverbank
An afternoon lit for Dharma Lion Beats
Language laden with superficial rank
Except when sung in the streets
Momentous Yogic absorption
Second Syntax cuts through
Phallogocentric subversion
Incantations read by you.

The song be well-known
Our ears hear its refrain:
"Naturally, entangled bones
Shall come together yet again!"
Chemical Brothers took us Further
Than we could have expected to ride
Wavelets of sound do commit ego murder
When worlds such as these two collide.


Enjoyed this piece? Read its SEQUEL: Re-Union (side B).

Allegorical Misadventure

Author's Note: Written for a friend suffering from a crippling addiction to crack-cocaine.




Allegorical Misadventure


Brought to the brink of desolation by his brother
Abel was unable to discern a valid pattern amid distorted ether
Where a threshold dividing sanity and insanity stretched on
For at least twelve hours spanning an interval within which
Friends seemed like enemies and strangers were strangely familiar

Minutes hung in the air like smoky strata
Hours flew by fast as photons
Memories mingled with living moments
Giving birth to future longings
Erratic yet static—until Cain fled without warning

Exiling himself into an inhospitable wilderness
Where he fed on thorns and drank what few drops
He could squeeze from the stones with raw fists
Not realizing that his brother had forgiven him
And bore him no ill will whatsoever

Though incredibly clever
Cain forsook his staunchest ally
In a foolhardy attempt to tempt heaven
For barring its gates against their parents
As well as the whole human species

Abel would recover over time
But could never feel quite complete
Since his heart had been maligned
Such is the cruel fate of our kind
From cradle to coffin—down six feet beneath

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