The Mad God Who Rolled the Boulder

O Mother who begot twelve children;
I am the madman among your progeny.
There are no faggots feasting on my dreadlocks,
Neither are my eyes blinded by solid darkness,
Neither is there the naked, base lust that blows with friction
Causing sparks in the flinty corner of my heart.

In the cemetery where the creaky doors to life close,
Where heaps of ash slowly rest their panting breaths,
Sitting in vigilant meditation,like a wick
That burns without burning, I who scavenge
For the Truth am the madman; I who suffer silently am the fool.

For eons, I have built a fire and sat guard
With a filariatic leg, to that Temple where
All temples dissolve into, where all puppetry
Of nobility burns down, the cemetery of life.
I have pushed the boulder up that Hill of
Bloated and sickening dreams of Desire.

As the eight quarters slowly entwine with
The silent creeper of peace and cover my eyes,
Somewhere in my memory a trail takes a turn
To the ancient straight bloodline of Vararuchi.

(To be continued...)