HIS DARK SIDE

His Dark Sutra: The Thugs

"Gimme some fuckin money."
I looked up, utterly confused.
“Gimme some money before I jook you up!”
He grabbed me. Or at least one of the trio grabbed me.
There were more words.
Angry words.
I recall rough hands digging through my pockets. My focus was lost on the one in front of me,my he periphery lost due to tunnel vision. His friends stood either side of him, yet they appeared invisible as the sudden shock of adrenaline coursed through my body.
I was being mugged in broad daylight.
The word thug is derived from a Hindi word meaning “thief”. In India during the mid-19th century, groups of bandits known as thuggees were growing in notoriety for sneaking up and mugging travellers. They would quite often using a trade mark orange scarf to asphyxiate the victim to death.
They took my money.
I managed to break free. There is a vague recollection of me bolting across the road through traffic half expecting them to make chase. They didn’t.
I was shaken.
And I was upset for letting my gran down.
I was angry at the world for making routine mundane aspects of life dangerous.
What I failed to realize aged 15 was that the world is dangerous all the time, irrespective of how much attention we pay to it. It is also loving, but sometimes love has to be relegated temporarily in favour of basic survival. We must harden ourselves to the brutality of an increasingly harsh world. And once we become confident, the ridges of the environment soften, to supple curves.
The stronger we become within ourselves, the more we are able to relate to the world with compassion.

His Dark Sutra: Love Before It’s Too Late

Sit with me a moment.
Hold open your arms
and let my hands smooth
across the cracks in your heart.
We live once.
This is it,
here and now.

We are blinded
By the woes of the world
Lost.
And no one comes to help us
Find our way.
We are born without wings
But dream of soaring through blue skies.
We were meant to love each other
Entirely and completely
Yet agendas cause fractions.
Replacing virtue with sin
And love with hate.
Technology has made us
Wild-eyed with attention deficits.
We focus on all the wrong things;
The news, video games and celebrity.
Our over consumed lives
are consuming us
with values that run no deeper than consumers
of consumables.
Obsolescence is written into the DNA
Of clothing, cars and dishwashers.
At a time when we believe we are free,
Big Brother watches us through clear lenses,
Listening surreptitiously to our lives.
There are 25 million slaves in the world right now.
And we are slaves to the ideological positions
That are about as far as Satan is from Lucifer,
And as far as sin is from war.

We sing less than we should.
We were meant to dance.
Once we were divine beings filled with light
Yet the world grows desperately dark.
So sit with me, here and now.
Let my heart rest against yours.
Give me hope that we will love again,
Before it’s too late.

His Dark Sutra: Ensnarled

Grab me with legs ensnarled
Snare me in your noose,
with love.
Fight me with claws,
buried into heaving chest,
with heavy breath.
Our struggle,
fought desperately,
under charred moon,
Without rest.
Let me splay you -
slaying you,
as Baphomet to a child.
The obsidian night has us,
cleaving sin.
Cleanse me in you,
let us achingly beg forgiveness
for moist sleeting of skin upon skin.
I, your Choronzon,
You, my sweet seraphim.

His Dark Sutra: Ascend - Sublimate (soulful erotica)

-Licking lips-

Slinking over you thighly, slippering tongue rhymes over beckoning body.
Savouring aromatic reservoir air and dampening warmth.

-Biting tongue-

Body swooning flitting with anticipatory delight, for your curvaceous shimmering wake.

-Mouth between legs-

Devouring droplets of fragrant oils, sleek rising heat as you unfold slender places. Bitter saccharine spoils, spills my lips, thirsting for insatiable filled floods.

-Hand on navel-

Angel lipped, silence escapes as gasping and moans, when your tide alights upon drooling crevices.

The taste of
(i) rain,
(ii) tears, and;
(iii) the heady musk of you.

Drowning gentle tides of taste, your flavor seals moistening mouth.

-Body on body-

Swelling, welling, searching your ripple skins with fingers, penetrate deeply, gliding darkly inside. Hip pushily shoves tight reaching, groppily tremblesome for your quake.

In I submerge, in lusting communion with your soft sheen. Quivering heave, breath dampening necking nape. Push against push, sinking and rise temperatures soaring, coming heartily.
Burning skin, parched mouth. Searing heat yet, drowning as we swimmely arrive, thigh dragging upon thigh until the next;

-Ascension-

And when you and I ascend, when we are lost in those beautiful moments of our love making or within the aggressive throes of fucking, I want you to know nothing else exists. Soul and body collide.

Nothing comes close to you and I, naked in the union of our own perfection. With each grinding push of my hip into yours, I pull you into the essence of my being.

You are the only one who can take me to a higher state of consciousness. You are my hearts ecstasy, awakening me with each shivering touch.

With you, I taste dispersing stars as silver slivers of pure divine illumination, on my tongue. With you, with our licking, sucking, touching, fucking, I sublimate.

I crave you darkly.

His Dark Sutra: Flowers at the Grave

The roses wilted this autumn. Summer came and I poured my life into the preservation of the flower bed. Nurturing it. I arrived early in the morning to make the soil sodden. Each afternoon I tended to the blossoms with their palette of fuchsia, scarlet and burnt ochre, with tenderness.

But the weather changed with the declining sun. It rained quite a bit. And there is already a cold snap in the air, which traces my breath in damp mist as I exhale.

Your heart broke in unison with mine. There is no strength of words, or straining action which will bring you back. The poets of the world have surrendered, unable to find sentences to convey, us.

We wilted like the roses. And the world which was once; scarlet red, piercing yellow, burnt ochre, (like these flowers) is at once become drab.

I have no hand to hold but my own, (when I get nervous). No one to make me Earl Grey in the morning or remind me to bring home milk. I lost my balance and injured my hip last week. But it was nothing, compared to losing you, my love.

I wish you were here, to help me rebalance.

His Dark Side: Training with a Kung Fu Master

The Master was less interactive that day. 

I had grown accustomed to him walking over to me, mapping the corrections of my movements by performing them president as I watched. The practice of Kung Fu forms required the same attention to detail set forth by the martial ancestors. And I would have to work harder to prevent my own biases interfering with the expression of the moves. I couldn’t tamper with the movements. Even the most delicate changes occurring as a result of my own idiosyncratic movements were gently corrected. The Master was patient, tolerating my ineptitude and forgetfulness, always willing to provide reminders of missed details. 

I warmed up and went through the forms one-by-one. As a departure from our usual lessons, he made no corrections. Instead, he sat in his chair, and I could hear him wheezing, his bronchioles fighting to oxygenate his body. His cough sounded wet, as if dampness had crept down his throat, into his lungs. 
At that movement I realized the strength of my bond because I immediately felt concerned for his health. The Master smoked a pipe which he would pack with tobacco whilst watching my movements as I darted and spun across the garden. His coughing was to signify a gradual decline in his health, which would eventually leave me without a guiding light.

His Dark Side: Training with a Kung Fu Master

The Master was less interactive that day.

I had grown accustomed to him walking over to me, mapping the corrections of my movements by performing them president as I watched. The practice of Kung Fu forms required the same attention to detail set forth by the martial ancestors. And I would have to work harder to prevent my own biases interfering with the expression of the moves. I couldn’t tamper with the movements. Even the most delicate changes occurring as a result of my own idiosyncratic movements were gently corrected. The Master was patient, tolerating my ineptitude and forgetfulness, always willing to provide reminders of missed details.

I warmed up and went through the forms one-by-one. As a departure from our usual lessons, he made no corrections. Instead, he sat in his chair, and I could hear him wheezing, his bronchioles fighting to oxygenate his body. His cough sounded wet, as if dampness had crept down his throat, into his lungs.
At that movement I realized the strength of my bond because I immediately felt concerned for his health. The Master smoked a pipe which he would pack with tobacco whilst watching my movements as I darted and spun across the garden. His coughing was to signify a gradual decline in his health, which would eventually leave me without a guiding light.

"You carry your wound. With the ego, your whole being is a wound. And you carry it around. Nobody is interested in hurting you, nobody is positively waiting to hurt you; everybody is engaged in safeguarding his own wound. Who has got the energy? But still it happens, because you are so ready to be wounded, so ready, just waiting on the brink for anything.

You cannot touch a man of Tao. Why? - because there is no one to be touched. There is no wound. He is healthy, healed, whole. This word whole is beautiful. The word heal comes from the whole, and the word holy also comes from the whole. He is whole, healed, holy.

Be aware of your wound. Don’t help it to grow, let it be healed; and it will be healed only when you move to the roots. The less the head, the more the wound will heal; with no head there is no wound. Live a headless life. Move as a total being, and accept things.

Just for twenty-four hours, try it - total acceptance, whatsoever happens. Someone insults you, accept it; don’t react, and see what happens. Suddenly you will feel an energy flowing in you that you have not felt before.” 

Osho

"You carry your wound. With the ego, your whole being is a wound. And you carry it around. Nobody is interested in hurting you, nobody is positively waiting to hurt you; everybody is engaged in safeguarding his own wound. Who has got the energy? But still it happens, because you are so ready to be wounded, so ready, just waiting on the brink for anything.

You cannot touch a man of Tao. Why? - because there is no one to be touched. There is no wound. He is healthy, healed, whole. This word whole is beautiful. The word heal comes from the whole, and the word holy also comes from the whole. He is whole, healed, holy.

Be aware of your wound. Don’t help it to grow, let it be healed; and it will be healed only when you move to the roots. The less the head, the more the wound will heal; with no head there is no wound. Live a headless life. Move as a total being, and accept things.

Just for twenty-four hours, try it - total acceptance, whatsoever happens. Someone insults you, accept it; don’t react, and see what happens. Suddenly you will feel an energy flowing in you that you have not felt before.”

Osho

Finally I saw through the clouds. I saw that I had never learned how to enjoy life, only how to achieve.

All my life I had been busy seeking happiness,
but never finding or sustaining it.

—Dan Millman
Way of the Peaceful Warrior

We declare our right on this earth…to be a human being, to be respected as a human being, to be given the rights of a human being in this society, on this earth, in this day, which we intend to bring into existence by any means necessary.

—Malcolm X

His Dark Sutra: Death Thoughts

Are you aware of your imminent death?

It may arrive, in a minute, or in several decades. But in the universal scheme, it will be here within a blink of the cosmic eye.

Death holds me.

I think about it to the point of desperate obsession. And I’ve held the cadavers of so many people that I feel intimately connected to each aspect.

Don’t worry about the cause.

However it comes, the destination will be the same.

Lifelessness. The point at which your divine illuminated soul, dims, leaving nothing more than shadows…

An online footprint that gently erodes with each new technology…

The imprint on the lives of others, who will continue to endure and suffer their own burdens.

So, celebrate this moment of existence in all it’s dark perfection!

This gentle breath, as you exhale…

The casual glance of a stranger, where for a flicker, your souls become interwoven and connected…

And within every nuance of every action, here and now, be… Love.

Shout!

Let it all out!

—Tears for Fears

His Dark Sutra: The Smile

I watch the empty people, slope past me. My legs are bent back, resting on the rungs of a cold metallic framed chair. The upper quadrant of my back pressed lazily against a dark wall as I stare at the vacant faces. I observe, with a stillness that is only betrayed by the flicker of my snaked eyes as they dart across the busy Starbucks.

How many of us, dull our quest for meaning in favour of routine engagements that govern the misery of our lives. We wake, munch on dried brittle toast and sip on the sediment strewn dregs of charred coffee. Incongruity creeps across our limp smiles as we try to evoke a sense of connection with friends who are contending with their own despair.

Sunlight flickers in. Yet I am I am shadowed, pressed into the corner of this place, which is the cafe equivalent of Novocain. It dulls me. Yet, the edges of my lips lift.

Smiling.

A facade.

Discipline your life. Minimize distractions. All things must be aligned; thoughts, nutrition, strength. Seek fulfillment. Find a path and follow it. Know thyself. Always learn. Make the attainment of happiness your major purpose.

To everyone who loves me,

I love me as well.

There can never be justice,

on stolen land.

—KRS1