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 words.
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 sweep tides 
Unable to grasp 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 to 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 Virgo
Without needing to get too verbal

But formulaic emotion tinges 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

While seized by 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).

Un Lourd Secret by Guest Bard Sunil Narayan

Writer's Bio: Sunil Narayan's work has been a long, enriching journey that absorbed the world's eccentricities to create a masterpiece of color, surrealism and human sentiment. The past two years witnessed a climatic moment in which his writing churned out many emotion-inducing poems. It is his intent to help people access feelings that they rarely get to experience.

This is the third part of three in a running series during February.

Un Lourd Secret

Mdvanii spoke to her brushed chienne when he
whimpered at the sight of a still empty bowl: “Il est
toujours par voie de douleur que l'on arrive à plaisir”
To be given grapes and bread is a reward not a
One must starve for as long as his master deems fit
Mdvanii is the master of all couturiers!

Her coiled black whip is made from the skin of
deceased orphans
Oiled each day by her esclave’s sweat
It shines under the dusty ceiling light
With one lash she frightens her shivering putain

Aldric begs for a lengthy bruising by the chipped
Unfortunately, Mdvanii will not relax her firm hold
on his body this time
She is in control of the narcissistic esclave’s ego
Its skin is punctured by the heels of her ruby-studded
A few nights ago it dawned on her: great pleasure can
be achieved if one walks all over this vermin’s chest
Ripping bits off the skin with her glue-covered red
He will scream as a torrent of blood flows down his
A poor old German seamster being forced to endure
heightened torture!

Dragged by his owner across the muddy floorboards
Aldric’s hair is pulled harder with each grunt
The scalp rips off an unwashed head every time!
Mdvanii reminds him a good designer never succumbs
to arrogance: afin de connaître la vertu,
nous devons d'abord nous familiariser avec le vice   

The room is made out of solid steel to keep the crying
of a belittling artist sealed
It is un prostitué’s screams of enlarged pleasure
drowning out the neighbor dogs’ barking
Mdvanii puts cotton balls in her ears when the nipples
of her fat cochon are stretched to the waist by two short
chains with unpolished hooks
This toy is attached to a block of cement stained covered
with his tears

Aldric cleans dirt off the floor with his tongue, exposing
his scarred derrière
His chest swells and dries till skin sags from the bones  
A pêche freshly picked from the nobleman’s garden
becomes mushy right before the farmer’s eyes
Perhaps Mdvanii is a domestique, tilling the soil of
centuries worth of bitter pride

It must be broken and put back together so the world
will lower their heads in respect
Flaming torches shall no longer melt the king’s palace!
Instead, they will turn on the noblemen for betraying
their loyal domestiques!
Preaching of false notions for an ideal reality

A calm muse sits in her chair to read a newspaper on
She is interested in the behavior of noble rulers and
To her their power lay in the twisting and beautifying
of the people
Everyone becomes a victim of another person’s ignorant
mind or the partaker in the fruits of carefully constructed

It is a world so tightly wound yet absorbing all the
sweets and stale bread one can get their hands on
Functioning as a monstrous machine with oil flowing
from one end of the pipe to the other
Devouring the human essence as if it were un gâteau
aux fraises
A field covered in white balls of joy disappear with
each grab: l'ordre social au détriment de la liberté n'est
guère une bonne affaire

Our dear Antonia tortured by self-destructive authority

A poor Austrian girl who simply wanted to fit in
No one could stand looking at the images of her dressed
luxuriously like Déesse Vénus
She was a symbol of unfiltered disgust

The clock struck midnight and Mdvanii must retire to
her opal chamber
She bids goodnight to Déesse Diane for her friend
Remains hushed when the screams of Aldric fill
fill the foggy streets of Paris
He finally falls asleep despite having not been fed
scraps of old sandwiches

Our grande dame never tires herself of debasing elite
She is a humbled secret covered in diamond dresses
Only those with greedy claws can unveil the violent
nature of a cursed muse
If they are daring enough to rip her skin off that is!

Nearly a century ago, her dominating Charles died
leaving her empty of satisfaction
He taught her to be quiet and grateful for his kindness
In her heart she always yearned for the excitement all
women experience when visiting a new boutique de
marque: lecteurs sensual excédentaire pitié chez
It is the only jewel she held onto during her escape
when he lost himself in glasses of bière

Mdvanii begin to hop from couturier to couturier, noticing
the chic girls were too involved in their looks
Their blue purses and fur-coats were the new trend of
Decades ago, all of a sudden a rainbow splashed the
Everyone had to own velvet gloves with gold sewn
into the edges or shoes adorned with a diamond rose
on the front

Mdvanii sighed in disappointment at how obsessed
the city became with her new lover’s collections
There is more to life than luscious garments or jewelry
made of black pearls

By nature, it is her duty to dissolve the extravagant
culture imprisoning the wealthy people of Paris
The pain seamsters both grande and petit experienced
in the beginning is incomparable to the mutilation in
the end

She witnessed generations of couturiers indulge in
yards of bright fabrics made of crushed gemstones
for the sake of it
Smiling as domestiques dress them in silk and satin
when their money could be used to feed the starving
The artists of Paris no longer remember their simple
For they excitedly jumped into the river of fame: 

ce n'est pas mon mode de pensée qui a causé mon malheur, mais le mode de pensée des autres

 Mdvanii is a registered trademarked and copyright 2010 by BillyBoy*. It is used with permission from BillyBoy* & Lala

A Swan Who Wallows In Lotus Laden Ponds by Guest Bard Sunil Narayan

Writer's Bio: Sunil Narayan's work has been a long, enriching journey that absorbed the world's eccentricities to create a masterpiece of color, surrealism and human sentiment. The past two years witnessed a climatic moment in which his writing churned out many emotion-inducing poems. It is his intent to help people access feelings that they rarely get to experience.

This is the second part of three in a running series for February.


A Swan Who Wallows In Lotus Laden Ponds by Guest Bard Sunil Narayan

She walks into the banquet room of the Château de Versailles feeling out of place
Such a refined lady with skin as soft as a doe’s coat
Pearls that dangle above her swan-like neck
Eyes so tranquil, flutter like butterflies in a garden

A woman who floats from room to room unaware of everyone’s presence

They look into those lotus petal shaped eyes to see a secret world
Gardens stretching for miles fill the air with the scent of roses 
Uṣás-Devī cannot help but inhale this sweet perfume

Radiant marigolds bask in the Sun’s warmth
Jasmine trees stand tall to give shade for all of Pṛthivī’s critters

They lay at the base sighing for amour had consumed them
A gazelle who once nestled at the feet of Pṛthivī-Devī is now an elegant lady

Yes! Suraiyā is the child of Pṛthivī-Devī
Her hands decorated in emerald rings have fingers that flow like the Gangā
So pure and gentle men have followed her around the world just to be caressed by those fingers
They are savages who have succumbed to the feminine power of an untainted goddess


Yet, why does she not look at these men?
At the far end of the room gourmet Indian dishes line up a long glass table
An aroma of mixed spices travels through the air
Men who smell it divert their eyes to Suraiyā

She stands before the table delighted by such a sumptuous feast
Her hands move towards the glass spoon dipped in the dāl bowl

Ashamed by bad manners Suraiyā pulls her hand back
The host who has been seduced by Suraiyā’s beauty tells her it is quite alright

A smile transforms Suraiyā’s face like Uṣás-Devī bathing the world in light
Those eyes of her enchants the host, bringing him to his knees
His heart grew ten times with each pulse sighing in joy

A goddess has locked eyes with a humble king
An elegant lady created in the nest of the Pṛthivī-Devī looks into the eyes of many
The pain, the happiness, the frustration, the excitement, the joy!
These emotions are the colors in her gardens

And all men, women and children have their own inner gardens

Suraiyā’s lotus-petal eyes see the world’s inner beauty permeating all things

Even the Sky, an ocean for the Devás, is a jewel created by Pṛthivī-Devī!
Suraiyā’s śāṭī is fashioned from the Devás’ water
A long train from her shoulders floats above the floor as she walks around the room

All guests spend hours watching Suraiyā create a stream with her śāṭī

The scent of lilacs flows from the fabric into their noses
Śakra-Devá’s  heaven cannot compare to the moment they are lost in!
A rarity in this world is locked away for centuries but comes out when humanity
has submerged in harmonious bliss

Mdvanii Stirs Her Lover’s Desire! by Guest Bard Sunil Narayan

Writer's Bio: Sunil Narayan's work has been a long, enriching journey that absorbed the world's eccentricities to create a masterpiece of color, surrealism and human sentiment. The past two years witnessed a climatic moment in which his writing churned out many emotion-inducing poems. It is his intent to help people access feelings that they rarely get to experience.

This is the first part of three in a running series for February.

Mdvanii Stirs Her Lover’s Desire!

The designers of Paris say Mdvanii is an immortal muse who lives in the heart of every artist
From her chair she imparts ideas to a grand couturier expecting nothing in return
Sitting on a silk seat containing the feathers of Zeús’eagle
The legs made from the crushed material of diamonds
She sees her master in all directions, a large man standing proudly
Yet, is trapped in a luxurious home with no one to keep her company
How can an emotional lady survive this arduous life?
Her enlarged heart and sophisticated walk enchanted the socialites of the city

Now, the reality of Mdvanii is a preserved muse for a demanding couturier
She looks upwards to see lust and creativity colliding
From such a powerful fight pearls strung with gold fall into her hands
A meager compensation for a sumptuous lady!

She sighs before changing into her evening dress
The spring season once blossomed like her marigolds
Surprising all who lounged at the saloons 
As if Gaïa was splashed with the color of the forest trees!

In the corner of her room a closet with shelves perfectly lined with
shoes made from colors of the rainbow
Pink, blue, red, orange and yellow!
Each day she picks a pair to match her silk gloves
A string of pearls to tie around her waist, gold bracelets to place on her light wrists, and moonstone pins to hold her thick hair in a chignon

A refined lady has choices, choices and choices!
Twenty evening dresses made for the Queen of Norway hang from the hooks
They’re waterfalls of creamy colors from the Amazon jungles
For each one gold thread was sewn into the fabric to form a blossoming magnolia

As she puts on her heels Charles wraps a silk shawl made of crushed rose quartz
around her supple body
He adorns her smooth neck with a ruby necklace so long it rests between her breasts
She barely notices this sweet gesture while applying pink blush
Her eyes in the shape of the waning Selēnē are lost in serenity

A man who drinks to squash his guilt must continue to lavish his goddess with pieces befitting the Queen of the Universe!
Gemstones smuggled from India are crushed into light powder
He sprinkles it onto white strips of cloth then smoothes it out 
Although, a doubt pricks his mind, making him feel guilty for doing a cruel deed

His clients knock on the rotting door of his studio demanding their garments
Charles shoos them away as if they are wandering beggars
His mind fixated on a refined woman entrapped in his heart
He gives her potent lust to taste yet Mdvanii rejects it

What seems to be the magnificence of couturier is in fact Mdvanii!
She runs along his arms tickling him
With one hand the resplendent muse blows blue petals into his mind
To her surprise the wind snatches her white hat snickering in delight

Mdvanii’s eyes turn red with bubbling anger 
She’s a cat ready to pounce a taunting mouse!
On his sewing table a large red gemstone manifests
Cut in the shape of a tulip, its sharp edge is hardly noticeable
Passion gives it color for which Charles fixates on

He rubs the edge unaware of blood sliding down the treasure
Mdvanii plays her games without giving a reason
She is a muse of few words but her actions have a language of their own
Charles will never see her inner world for he was devoured by his own

Mdvanii is a registered trademarked and copyright 2010 by BillyBoy*. It is used with permission from BillyBoy* & Lala

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!



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