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

ItzQuauhtli's Prophecy

ItzQuauhtli's Prophecy

Forged in Tonatiuh's heart, his feathers were slates of antimatter

ItzQuauhtli was recognized as a reflection of Great Cosmic Eagle

Which North-American Natives called: Thunderbird.

Analogous to Horus in Egyptian lore; whose eyes are equally solar and lunar.

Or Garuda in Hinduism, with Vishnu riding atop his back.

Like Mercury (closest to the sun) he served as a messenger.

The Aztecs associated this Eagle with Huitzilopochtli — god of war and patron of the arts.

Sent to Earth late during the Fifth age, he heralded Quetzalcoatl's return

While also warning that it would come hand-in-hand with Tezcatlipoca's release ...

For the nine lords of Xibalba known as Bolon Yokte are present at both the beginning and end of time!

A Priori Expressions

A Priori Expressions

On Earth there be no dearth of calumny
Living statues assume impromptu postures then wither withal
Cliffhanger moss wilts above hungover forests
Whole literal mackerel turns to figurative doggerel
While we peons amble about as if under a spell

It's a blitz baby | show your bones | you've a fever to tell

Memorable sayings get paraphrased in negative modalities
Totalities that boast Ultimate Truth are found fraught with technicalities
Why the nerve expressed via verbs amounts to loaded words
And the worst of all these? Verse! Spewing out terse blurbs fueled by burning herbs

Conniving versifiers smother signifiers with egotistic utterance
Happenstance may deliver us unto essence although purely perchance
The sky has fallen many times li'l chicken, so pick up its pieces and do try again
Jet lagged intuition hears not elision; unable to see purpose despite vision

The Nexus of The Next

The Nexus of The Next

What's next? Who's next? Where to next?
We're caught ever in "The Next"!
Though our landscape is always shifting
There is none thus come nor gone.

Solipsistic lapses undergoing therapy.
Palpitating fixity upon imaginary center.
Prehensile cogitation clutches straws —
Solidified Reality? Inadequate descriptors!

Latter day prophets predict doom;
Wise canonical inscriptions go unheard.
Disillusion becomes par for the course.
Wistful meaningless rhetoric bores...

Where to next? Who's next? What's next?
Flounder clever yet perplexed.
Sought but not found within text:
A moving landmass, unannexed!

 [ May wit lend levity when gravity weighs down our ways ]

Doctrine of Anatta (No-Self)

Author's Note: For an encyclopedic explanation of "Anatman", refer to: Britannica   

Doctrine of Anatta (No-Self)

- I -
What is the Self?
Where is the Self to be found?
Who is that Self we seek?
Is it dry (this Self)?

Never. Always. It is and yet isn't.
Clever. Foolish. Absolute but relative.
Simultaneous with thought, though not present even once. 
As elusive to one's mind as evasive to our senses.
Dare not pretend to know anything concrete about it.
Don't stand upon authority; assume no final stance.
Dive back into Atlantis. Sink down beneath thy Self...

Flex effort, effort, effort
Lather ~ rinse ~ wash off those stains!
Yes only effort, threefold effort
Can really clean off what remains.

- II -
Hey now, who's that?
Living, going, gone!
Playing hide and go seek
Can't quite put a finger on —

Who's escaping past perception?
Who's perceiving an escape?
Never the same twice for anyone to call it constant.
Dead or dying, Being reborn
During every moment (Bardo gaps).
Hollow and impermanent; still we try to hold on tight.
Hands of haze sweeping the tides 
Unable to clutch a single drop.

So just flow dear Comatose
Like, with, and as the ocean.
Quit pretending at forevers
Void all ego, then just ≈ flow 

Image: Bond of Union by M.C. Escher

Qualified Non-Dualism

Qualified Non-Dualism

Everything comes together  
Folding back in on itself
When objective observance collapses then

Subjective lucidity dawns in the dreamer's sky
Bathing sense faculties with absolute clarity

The edges of perception are defined by limited awareness
But now basic consciousness reasserts its boundlessness
Attention engulfs whole body-mind spectrum
Stretching out among forms from amorphous fullness
As ardor burns brightly in ascending and descending evolutionary currents

Breath ignites blood to animate pneuma 

Poised at that perfect equilibrium
Where all waves weave cognitive patterns
While an integral system properly interprets

Glimmering movements through either implicit or explicit orders of Being

Meta-Poetics Vol. 2: Prophetic Conflations

Author's Note: This is the first follow-up for a series that commenced on new year's day. Original post can be found here (beware, it's a doozy): Meta-Poetics: Vol. 1   

Meta-Poetics Vol. 2:  Prophetic Conflations

As the Ubermensch will be to Homo Sapiens, so shall Anti-Poets become for Poets:
Escapees from that vapid madhouse centered around a cult of personalities
Exodus wandering into wilderness where tumble-words drift through desert
Vainglorious bardic bastards vanish vanquished, after tasting just desserts
Their successors assimilate similar techniques but expand far beyond them
Creatively subverting what held inordinate esteem among subordinate soles
Never apologizing to any sounder for hanging pearls high over swine heard
Centuries later these verses are still misread; echoes deafen scholars
Append another end until disenchanting childhood notebooks are unearthed
Anonymity and public apathy afford a better cover story than plain obscurity
Explanandum sans explanans demands lifted arms drop surrendered in defeat

Cosmic Clock Strikes Eleven

Cosmic Clock Strikes Eleven

At last it's high time to accept
That the Gregorian calendar centered around a mythic Christ
And whose holy dates were superimposed onto Pagan rites
Has put us out of phase with our planet as well as all else

Supermoon at perigee
Signified an era's end
NASA spotted exploding galaxy
Coincidence or portend?

Every day another cataclysm
As the countdown grows intense
Increased consciousness a catalyst
But will it ever bear us hence?

Blister packed sedation
Dystopic governments push on
Flawed Capitalist equation
When shall we witness brave new dawn?

Pluto renders elder powers inept
Yet it makes for a most morbid zeitgeist
Fires, floods, and pandemics (to name a few blights)
Only fallen angels are fit to tread through these fell hells...

Dilutions of Splendor

Dilutions of Splendor

May finally have cracked
But Etinbroke's sitting here
Smoking slims from ivory holder
Wrapped up in wispy metaphors — she dreams as if she slept.
Could be wrong
But Etinbroke admonishes:
"Remain firm and irreproachable
 it isn't princely to be fallible — so reject all human doubt!"

One thin eyebrow raised inquisitively
She sifts through Tarot with free hand
Singeing this fool's ego with her steady sapphire gaze
From center spread draws out a card dubbed STRENGTH.

"Behold, that which was misplaced
 among the rubble of spent youth.
 Conferred back now as your gall reaches an end
 lessons have been learned that portend glorious new days."

Perhaps she's but a figment
But her glory-talk rings true
For one whose lust was sublimated surreptitiously at night
Within the vacuous wellspring of ineffable omniscience.

Although possibly a Dæmon
She knows these insides like no other.
Together we shall accomplish things few mortal men can fathom
A preeminent contrarian, overseen by astral madam.

Major Arcana: Strength

Querulous Quanta

Querulous Quanta

Where hath thou gone, entangled phantom particle?

Our magnetic dipoles now spin out of sync
Once we were non-local as well as atemporal
Transcending bounds of space-time continuum
Yet liminal constraints inhibit subatomic orbits
Macroscopic systems become subject to entropy
Force of ill-bred habits subdues all organisms
Thought overtakes Consciousness by quantity not quality
Feeling lost within false realms — stunted, numb and mute
Entities must learn transmutation from raw elements to highest Ether

It is presently passing; make good on this opportunity or else be extinguished!

Image: Doctor Manhattan from Watchmen.

We Are Not Our Eidolons

We Are Not Our Eidolons

In an ideal world we would all see clearly into each other's psyches
Whether Cancer, Capricorn, Aries or Libra
Without needing to get too verbal

But personal feelings muddle what might have otherwise been clear

Ah the gifts of hypocrisy in a wayward democracy
Constitution ruptured atop foundational mores
Wherefore such typical tragedy?

Stock responses perfunctory
Adjudication in lover's court
A dismal dreg deemed exemplary

Captivated by the composer's grand symphony, one's broken lens gives false report

Bodhisattva Curse

Author's Note: Some hard-liners may take this Anti-Poem's message / title a little too seriously, but it's rather tongue-in-cheek, since Bodhisattvas are higher beings who give everyone else inexhaustible compassion and are therefore incapable of pronouncing such curses. However, true Tantrikas can balance on either edge of truth's sword.

Bodhisattva Curse

Itinerant little automatons,
rolled fresh off an assembly line
with a billion more behind:

You will wander all six Bardos until this universe collapses
and be amongst the last sentients to cross the ocean of conditioned existence
unto supreme Parinirvana.

Dream lives of untold shame and sorrow
Final memory at birth, first one following tomorrow...

  • Déjà vu
  • Eternal Recurrence
  • False Awakenings
  • Moebius
  • Ouroboros
  • Tabula Rasa
Death and Rebirth everlasting.

Reverberate toward Stillness — or you simply won't stand a chance!

Image: Yamantaka Yidam (signifying the victory of wisdom over death, evil and suffering).

The Dead of Winter

"Behold, I tell you the sacred secret now: we shall not all sleep in death." from Philip K. Dick's A Scanner Darkly (Also 1st Corinthians 15:51).

The Dead of Winter

Welcome brothers, sisters, enter!
Behold the nightmare from now to hereafter
Our departed file down esplanades of spectral alabaster
Who among us can discern design amid such seeming disaster?

And yet all is not so cut and dry as that which meets the eye
No tears need one cry for close kin even when they die
Though life seems awry — it's not over when we lie

Light is rendered brighter still by a dark tomb
Summer gestates warmly within winter's womb

Glorious rebirth occurs rather soon, despite any naysayer's doom and gloom!

Guest Star by Guest Bard Colin James

Writer's Bio: Colin James has a chapbook of his poems out from Thunderclap Press. He works in Energy Conservation and is a great admirer of the Scottish landscape painter, John Mackenzie.
Kudos to Colin for picking up the AntiPoetic gauntlet of poésie sans poète!


                                 That scene where you wake up
                                 early at a friend's house,
                                 wander down stairs, start the coffee maker
                                 and make your way to your favorite chair,
                                 when you spot something creepy sitting there.
                                 A species with the head of a dog
                                 and the body of a deer,
                                 lounging provocatively in your chair.
                                 You file it in the category
                                 of sexual ambiguity,
                                 all the while drinking your coffee
                                 careful not to make eye contact
                                 or heavens forbid, engage it in
                                 any sort of polite conversation.
                                 The rest of the house won't be up for hours,
                                 and you resist the urge to
                                 look back over your shoulder as
                                 you head down the stone path
                                 to retrieve the morning paper.
                                 With your luck—it'll be late!

Irrelephant by Guest Bard Kathleen Radigan

Writer's Bio: Kathleen Radigan was a high school student (when she wrote this).  She loves talking to people, reading books, reading people and talking to books.  She also writes music and swings on swings regularly.

Kudos to Kathleen for picking up the Antipoetic gauntlet of poésie sans poète!


The intelligence of elephants

irrelevant, but eloquent

their clumsy sort of elegance

is one of many elements.
And when that wisdom elevates

it’s difficult to celebrate

for once we see our cells relate
thoughts start to accelerate.
Well wisdom seems aristocratic

dusted down from someone’s attic

pulled apart and cleared of static

(fluctuations are erratic).
Oh how we trace the web life spins

parts swept away like bowling pins!

Neither consciousness nor human prints

will never match an elephant's.

Meta-Poetics Vol.1: AntiPoetic Rhetoric

Meta-Poetics Vol.1:  AntiPoetic Rhetoric

Author's Note: January 1 2011 marked the first year anniversary of ye olde Blasphemous Bazaar's establishment.  To commemorate that milestone, the editor presented his findings regarding what he'd learned thus far by renouncing the title of 'Poet' and embracing the 'Anti-Poet' rubric instead...

Antipoetic, Anti-Poets, Anti-Poetry—all these are misnomers because they allude to a new offshoot of Poetics going strong against the grain.

Those who misunderstand Anti-Poets and Anti-Poetry don't realize how easy it is to reflect what Poets do, like backwards letters in a mirror.

Poets cannot fulfill a dialectic of transcendence without first confronting their own shadow selves and synthesizing right-brain Poetry with left-brain Anti-Poetry.

Contrary to what many think, Anti-Poets have low antipathy toward Poetry. Instead, they work hard to hone said Art, and raise it over ego.

It often seems as if Poets have forgotten that Poems aren't simply a platform for personal aggrandizement but a cultural dialectic relevant to ALL.

Poets are mistaken in assuming that Poetry serves their selfish ends when they're actually there to serve as spokespeople for interpersonal inspiration.

Too much of what passes for Poetry is really just self-indulgent tripe with little if any attention paid to detail. Who teaches these Poets to write?

Anti-Poets question the sacred place that Poets occupy in literature by challenging and satirizing their counterparts.

Newbies need to concentrate on the classics to temper their tastes, whereas sophomores ought to become more aware of self-reference and repetition.

Adopting a Nom de Plume (Pen Name) is an Antipoetic maneuver because it makes Poets anonymous and less concerned about their public appearance.

Some Anti-Poets are in fact Poets gone rogue in a literary class struggle between writers and publishers; freelance mercenaries of the Word.

It is evident from their writing that most Poets have little interest in linguistics or literary theory, which is a shame for this art form.

Poems ABOUT Poetry are rather Antipoetic because they take a critical stand on the craft and who better for this job than former Poets?

From an Antipoetic perspective most regular Poets come across as conformists and/or narcissists.

Anti-Poets are conscientious dissenters yet ironically because of this, they might be considered elitists.

Since Poets often neglect to do so, it falls on their Anti-Poet counterparts to critique Poetry and engage in thoroughgoing exegeses of Poems.

Poets should not be afraid to wax philosophic as well as poetic. Poems can definitely be an intellectual exercise
—don't dumb down your message for anybody!

Epistemology and Etymology are underused disciplines in the Poets' toolkit these days. Poetry may benefit greatly from a Ludic Telos as well as Semiosis.

We living Poets tend to be full of ourselves while the dearly departed ones are usually recognized for their contributions to the whole of humanity.

Next time you read or write a Poem keep an eye out for first-person pronouns; you might notice how needlessly they are repeated.

Removing first-person from Poetry is a decidedly Antipoetic maneuver since Poems tend to be centered around the gravity of those who produce them.

Even without first-person pronouns, Poems remain inescapably personal, but removing those references is a step towards broadening the overall art form.

Picasso said that Artists only ever portray themselves, and this is equally true of Poets. Except that radical Poems can also become a somewhat 'transpersonal' affair.

Poems centered on one's SELF don't always have universal relevance. Words may be æsthetically pleasing but even then, they may lack merit.

Poetry is no crude implement nor trifle but a higher form of language that can enliven as well as enlighten; Poets should treat it accordingly.

Poets often seem  afraid or altogether incapable of being didactic with verse (as if knowledge was offensive and only flowery words mattered).

Poets, don't be afraid to offend your audience! Sometimes (for better or worse) a little upset is necessary to spur upheaval among the masses.

Anti-Poetry is stricter is many ways than ordinary Poetry but in other ways it is also far more playful and irreverent toward romanticized norms.

Anti-Poets demystify Poetry so as to catalyze mutations in wordplay much like physicists split the atom then named new particles and quarks.

Anti-Poets explore the wild outback of language in ways that may flummox readers as reality is subverted via versification.

Anti-Poets huff and puff on the caterpillar-pipe of bombast and enjoy smashing misconceptions as would any iconoclast.

Anti-Poetry launches beyond Poetry proper into semantic spaces where Anti-Poems pull out the rug from under readers and send them into mental freefall...

Anti-Poets ambush the reader's mind in a manner that might be deemed dishonorable by others; using words as weapons in psychic combat.

Anti-Poets must work twice as hard as regular Poets to earn half as much respect. Preachy Poetry isn't exactly popular.

Poets tinker with language in their efforts to be published. Anti-Poets weaponize Poetry in order to spur metabolic change outside the range of commercial publications.

It's probably too much to ask for Poets to respect Anti-Poets and Anti-Poetry since they barely get their own Poetry or themselves to begin with.



* Except on Wall of Worthies
whereon rights are retained by respective authors.