Kali Eater of Worlds

Kali Anthem

2009-11-10T10:04:00.000-08:00

Not about destiny.
Not about love.

Not about honor,
nor filial duty.

Not about fairness,
nor justice, nor beauty.

Just eating, and dying,
and variations thereof.

Kali Goes to Market

2009-11-08T21:21:00.000-08:00

Dromy the junkie
cruisin' the aisles
of the produce section at the mobile mart-
big apple franchise!
Bruisin' the peaches, squeezin' the tomatoes.

On a zealot's whim...

and a wink from above...

he snatches his trusty penknife
from the secret hollow in his western style scanties,
popping its point into the ripe, young flesh
of a juicy pomegranate,
then writes his name across the clouds with its blood-like blood,
being careful not to actually touch it
since it hasn't been washed.

The letters drool down like drifting sand,
and none of the vegetables can read them.

Only the security guy up behind the magic mirrors has the cipher,
but he's too busy porkin' the pie with his
bureaucratic
pencil
dick.
The watermelons, carrots, and eggplants look on in horror,
as the shepherd from the wastelands goes on his

RAMPAGE OF LOVE! (buy the cd)

proceeding into the toy department,
flattening the tires of radio flyers,
and muttering guttural obscenities into the
big
big
microphone.

Eyes wide,
pupil's dilated 'round the schoolmaster's face-which-is-space,
Dromy pops his favorite tape into a see-and-say;
but it only drones maniacal nonsense,
tranquilizing Dromy like a desert horse led to slaughter.

Swing and sway to the carnage, baby...
this is NOT a test.

Kali's perfect breasts are smashed flat against Dromy's rounded back,
her tendoned elbow arched in the classic, reach-around position,
as her practiced hand langorously pumps his mother's cabalistic virgin
lollipop. She whispers false promises into his icepick ear concerning
her seventy-two illusory sisters awaiting his
everlasting,
never failing,
cosmic
gangbang.

Dromy wears the idiot's grin.

He sees her thighs spread out before him, her cockpit window winking,
its vertical rainbow smile a garrote strangling the sky.
Gasping for air, the face of the sun turns blue, then black.
Two needle shafts explode out of the New Amsterdam cabbage patch;
bible belt suspenders, with the heart of the American dream
beating between them. All quiet on the Eastern front-business as usual.
But, not for long.

Dromy wears his dick to the right,
and follows its lead.
The monolith has landed! But, guess what!
Arthur C. was wrong-
it turns men into monkeys:
Damn you dirty apes! ! ! You blew it all up!

All emergency services have been permanently suspended...
Allah be praised.

COMMENTARY: Gnats in a roomful of incense. Kali feels each bite. She bites back. Ouroborus lies in the corner, bloated and empty.

Kali Villanelle

2009-11-08T21:18:00.000-08:00

The wounds they bear are none could ever heal.
Survivors on a field of battle won.
All plowed into the soil ‘neath time’s great wheel.

The sun shines down today on all who feel,
As creatures of the starlight are undone.
The wounds they bear are none could ever heal.

Childe entropy is stern, applies the weal.
In fields of blood He wields his scythe anon.
All plowed into the soil ‘neath time’s great wheel.

Black Kali dismounts for her evening meal.
Her jaws grind down upon the victors’ song.
The wounds they bear are none could ever heal.

She sets away the memories in her creel,
An urn of prayers charred by a dying sun,
All plowed into the soil ‘neath time’s great wheel.

Their yearnings came to naught, their fates all sealed.
Each generation born beneath the gun.
The wounds they bear are none could ever heal.
All plowed into the soil ‘neath time’s great wheel.

COMMENTARY: Bearing her empty litter, she moves on. There are always new battlefields. The indefatigable force moves the exhausted object, though not without effort.

Kali Goes Undercover

2009-11-07T18:31:00.000-08:00

Two children of the Goddess kneel
at the foot of Cassiopeia's Chair,
under the auspices of the heavenly gathered host;
taking their vows of love and constancy,
one to the other-wed.
They breathe each other,
as the wildflowers of the glade genuflect
in wonderment and humility.
What favor bestowed upon these two!
What grace poured into these earthen vessels,
molded in passion's crucible,
tempered beneath fingers lissome and fey,
intended only for this moment,
and for the ten thousand moments which would
emerge from this one, like the spreading
leaves of a hale and potent bough.

They utter the words, which flow from them
like perfect music to embrace in subtle,
harmonic resonances above the heads of the gathered.
Wizened faces turn upward, and, for a moment,
they are transformed into the visages of babes,
as the miracle washes over them.
Tears fall unashamedly, like spring rain;
then, consonance ebbs into silence,
breathing stops,
lips brush,
and the second to last alchemic knowing is fulfilled
before these witnesses to divinity made flesh.

They float within the circle of the consecrated entourage;
water lilies suspended in a grail fashioned for holy purpose.
Finally, deposted at the chosen tabernacle of invisibility.
The attendants withdraw with unforced haste,
and the couple is left to the wood, and to the sky...
and to themselves.
They enter the simple cottage, fashioned of polished birch,
adorned with heather, and spray of primrose;
her lithe form lifted and carried across the sacred threshold
in his sure and caring arms. The air is delicately laced
with lavender, and in the subdued light filtering into the single
room, through narrow but expertly cut casements,
he lays her down upon the bed.

Ah, how to describe that moment between hesitance,
and bliss? The time for words is past, and yet...
She senses the tension between the two poles of
his masculinity. Then...the hint of a smile. A gentle touch
against his cheek with the back of her dainty hand.
All is well. All is very, very well.
They are meant to be.

Still, he undresses himself; she, herself. Slowly, at first,
they begin the dance of consummation. He thinks to
linger, but the fever builds, and she is a match to it,
step for step, heart to heart. Mouths, and skin, and
fingers, and need intertwine, conflict, and reconcile.
Then...the rhythm begins; takes over. They become
slaves to a pulse older than record, more ancient by
far than humankind. The moment is at once too slow,
and too fast. They both know the climax is imminent,
and in that final few seconds before the summit is reached,
she whispers tersely in his ear,
'Let our child be the child of love...'

Kali bites down on her tongue; the blood of butchered
generations fills her mouth, gushes down her throat, to
form a lump in the depths of her black belly. She is sated.

Kali Backs Her Car Out of the Driveway

2009-11-07T18:11:00.000-08:00

When Kali looked herself in the eye-

Local heroes dove from their pedestals into the roiling moshpits of ambiguity.

Beggars took their bowls off their heads, and tipped rice carts into the gutters.

Night turned edgewise, vomiting up morning glories.

Jesus Christ mounted the horizontal spar of his cross, and rode it down Golgatha like Keith Emerson rocking his Hammond across the stage of the Isle of Wight festival in his coat of many colors.

Johnny Cochran climbed out of his grave, and gave Gloria Alred a blowjob.

Strangeness became normal...and wonderful!

Laps turned backwards, and a new industry was born.

Mohammed made out with Moses on a blanket at the Don Ho memorial luau.

The Academy Awards festivities were cancelled on account of lucidity.

The value of pi rounded itself off at the 123rd decimal place, and everybody noticed.

One thousand lemmings halted at the sea's edge, and pondered.

The World's Greatest Architect watched aghast as his T-square sprouted wings, and flew off in the direction of Calcutta.

5 caterwauling feminists holding hands in a circle got more than a passing glance from a surviving member of an underground splinter group of the for all intents and purposes defunct John Birch Society, and blushed.

A yuppie walked into an upscale Thai restaurant, and asked for a glass of tap water.

Cancer committed suicide.

Eleven lions in leotards cartwheeled across a lavender lawn, licking lambsheads all along the way.

Mouths became genitalia, and masturbation replaced mastication as the world's most indulged in pastime (to tell the truth, it had always been a close call) .

Scientists from around the world gathered in Stockholm to study a 101 year old infidel with the eyes of a child.

The Pope blessed the union of a homosexual couple.

Out of the West came a stranger, who roamed the earth and planted pennies across the face of the countryside, which swiftly grew into money trees- the populace rejoiced!

Potheads, alcoholics, and heroin freaks became addicted to giving.

Moths lit their cigarettes on candle flames, then flew back home to their wives.

Women grew penises, and stopped their bellyaching.

Men grew breasts on their backs, and war ceased to exist.

CRASHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

And a prize-worthy hedgerow of black dahlias is mowed down before its time. Kali glances around, embarrassed, straightens the wheel, then proceeds on her way.

God curse the guy who invented the automatic transmission! *insert groan here*

Kali Rune (as translated by Ms. Beck's third grade class)

2009-11-06T22:25:00.000-08:00

Kali is a warchild.
Kali is a whore.
Kali is the breathing space
beneath the cellar floor.

Kali likes to haggle.
Kali loves to cheat.
Kali is the heart attack
that lives between each beat.

Kali wrote the rulebook.
Kali breaks the rules.
Kali is the mischief
in the minds of saints, and fools.

Better run for cover.
Better hunker down.
Better slit your children's throats
when Kali comes around.

Kalisong

2009-11-06T22:15:00.001-08:00

I am Kali, and this is a song of myself...

I grip the drum between my thighs,
and beat it with a downward motion.
Insipient, seasonal rhythms perforate my metamorphic integument,
lodging in my atramentous womb;
carrion eaters returned to feast upon their
own saponaceous memories: quantum bubble repercussions.

I am Kali...

I cut with the upward motion:
wrist to elbow, wrist to elbow,
profoundly and everlastingly.
The threshold of my blade honed
on the misty strop of oblivion
clutched between teeth and feet.

Runaway erythrocytes pursue the vacuum,
hounds taking their cue from the fox
(Where did he go? Was he ever there?) .
Seeking extinction in forgetfulness,
then forgetting the collars which bind them,
and the biting, arterial cord forestalling their emancipation.

I am Kali, Mother of Worlds.
I feast on extinction's marrow,
and bathe in the excrement of time.
Look upon my works,
and know that hope is an idiot's simper-
gold in a drowning man's purse.

Somewhere, someone plants an orchard.
He tends the vines, spending blood for vigilance.
Proudly, he displays the fruit of his labor to his posterity,
only a moment before his knees buckle:
the grape is crushed in his spasming hand,
the vine withers within his clutch,
and his final vision is of the web he has caught his children in,
just before he returns to filth.
Returns? Ha! When did he ever leave it?

I am Kali...
spring is the season of my ascendancy,
green the tinge of my malice.

What unnoticed corner of existence would you flee into,
to escape your own knowledge of my presence?
Would you turn within,
as if you were a hollowed out carapace?
Truly, you are but a face;
a death mask I don purely for my own amusement's sake.
I rake my nails along the contours of your aspirations,
and display my gore-streaked hands before your purblindness,
before casting you aside like a macerated menstrual rag.

I grant you life, that I may steal it.
I give you love, that I might watch you grow, and shrink.
I lend you peace, only long enough to break it.
I offer you stamina, that you may falter.
I allow you hope, like you pat the head of the sacrificial lamb.
I show you heaven, that your taste of hell be made more acute.

I am Kali...
I give you gods, because even I require laughter
from time to time.

For one moment in your afflicted, imbecilic lives,
summon up enough courage to face the world directly,
and you will see me there, staring back at you.
I am the Life, and the Rot.
I am the Urge, and the hideous Culmination.
I am the One your nightmares fear.

I shall be with you tonight, as you sleep,
and tomorrow as you make your plans,
consume your flesh,
and exchange your bodily discharges.
Seek me or not, I shall find you,
and you shall return to me, utterly broken.

Come unto me, My children,
and I shall give you rest,
for I Am the gateway to Nirvana.
Enter my mouth,
and speak to me in the language of your pain.
Help me to understand the holy Cessation,
that I may learn to sleep, and not to dream,
and we shall usher each other into that place of Silence.

For I am Kali...

and this is a song of myself.

Kali Writes a Poem

2009-11-06T22:05:00.000-08:00

Roses putresce.
Violets decay.
If you haven't got scars,
then you've never been laid.

COMMENTARY: Love. Pain. A tautology.

Kali Sets the Table

2009-11-06T21:52:00.000-08:00

Broken glass carpets the deserted playground of the Divines;
they have left the field, and disappeared into a pocket
that was willing to receive them.
Call to them.
Hear the wind.
Call to them,
hear the wind roar through caverns saturated
with tears,
and with echoes of madness gone to seed.
Need is no more.
The shards' ragged edged, razor edged peace,
and the field is the hide of the unnameable monstrosity.

Even ecstasy MUST become uncomfortable over time;
it MUST!
Jesus Christ, it is my prayer...it MUST!

All is forsaken;
still, there is that one hope,
that unspeakable faith that,
well,
that justice may be served.

She smiles, the cracks in her lips
dripping teardrops of charred aspirations for requital.
She cracks her knuckles,
then sweeps away the debris from her pulpit.
A lone, tiny fragment lodges itself in the heel of her left hand.
Daintily she plucks it out with her right,
then drags the honed point across the surface of her livid tongue in two directions,
marking the sign of the Cross.

Her back is scarred.
The night is charged with her amusement.
She sets the board again.

COMMENTARY: After the party, there's always someone who's left to clean up.

Kali Goes To a Job Interview

2009-11-06T21:31:00.000-08:00

In the antechamber of the absolute compulsion,
the Encompassor of all infinities sharpens her
claws on time's dessicated outerskin, her revulsion
notwithstanding. Her boredom weaves worlds, unbinds them.

A stir

A flicker

A hint of autumnal frost, and another
passes into the negritude of her exclusive race
consciousness; her one-way, excremental door. This mother
of undoing, squeezing lemons without intent, a face

acid livid with the curses of mere pulp, eyes blood-red
with the fires of unacknowledged supplications, less than
ignored; laughed at, spit upon...folly of the ever dead
who for one moment forgot their station. This black woman,

this utter vacuum, refusing even light free egress;
rapacious whore without orgasmic reflex. Careless suck.
Empyrian sinkhole... A bell rings. She straightens her dress,
smiles big, crosses her fingers, and wishes herself good luck.

COMMENTARY: Everybody needs to make a living. Living is always at the expense of someone else.