Join My Cult!: September 2013

The streets are bustling highways of etheric energy gashed out in the astral-body of the Earth, as all modern cities are. One single strip of human consumption. Vast constructs programmed for profit and desire. Like a goat eating a sugar-coated pop-can, I take great delight in these creatures’ delicious little webs; but of course, the spider never catches me. I am a drop of dew among the flies.

I have found a suitable weapon…. Inside the “Silver Moon – Metaphysical Shoppe”. Shelf upon shelf of witchy mischief, profound revelations, and tales of sexual encounters with ghosts. Crystals harboring Atlantean spaceships within their etheric matrix, cauldrons emblazoned with leafy pentagrams, and wands made by someone’s grandmother. All the while, the smell of frankincense emitted solar wavelengths throughout the room, thrilling me with a spasmodic glee.

I decided to pick up and mind-meld with a few old Buddhist artifacts bought in a market in Nepal.

The first item to grab my attention was this magic dagger, called a phurba. It was alive and wriggling like a doggy-snake in a cage, waiting for someone to be its friend. Hmmm.

Snatching it in my paws, I held it to my chest and asked it to give me a little history lesson.

I was watching an old monk, with snot pouring out of his face, handing it to a white man in exchange for some coins. Misty, ice capped mountains thundered beneath his wrinkled feet, while millions of many-colored flags waved and danced mad love with the king of the wind, spreading prayer-filled semen to all corners of the Earth.

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The monk was stealing it from a young man in a cave while the youth was busy dreaming of rays of light, nothing but rays of light.

The youth was wearing only a thin, cotton cloth. He was holding the dagger for someone else in a box covered in strange, protective glyphs.

That someone else was a very tall man in red robes with a moustache for a pet, going for a long journey. Someone calls him Ngakpa.

Looking out through the eyes of Ngakpa. I see a small, dark, dusty room. A glorious, glittery altar bedecked with talking Buddha-dolls crowd its surface. On the floor lays a corpse, freshly dug up from the charnal-ground of his Mind. Ngakpa lays across it, his eyes reflecting its trance-like stare, his arms wrapped around its lifeless shell like a necro-lover, the muscles of his lips locking it open.

He breathes the sigil into its mouth, over and over and over again. Energy rushing through him and into the maggot-filled stomach. Damaru-drums beat like a sweaty, drug-blurred rave. Slowly, very slowly, the corpse begin to shake. A finger here, a twitch of the skin there. And then the whole thing begins trembling like a virgin girl in the arms of a rock-star. The drums are faster, faster, faster still.

Have you ever jumped off a cliff naked?

And suddenly, it stands up with a roar of rare energy, with Ngakpa still hanging on like a filthy cur, like a devil on sin. Eyes white and dead, it leaps and hops in the air like a rag-doll stuffed with jumping beans, Ngakpa bronco-riding the dead for all its worth, maggots falling to the floor, flitting mad and confused. Arms flailing, limbs smashing, the creature can’t shake its still and silent father, his lips still pornographically poised on his creation, waiting for his moment with the patience of empty space.

And finally it comes. A single gray tongue of raw, putrid meat slides in his mouth and with the speed of a darting fish, Ngakpa grabs the tongue with his teeth and rips it out.

And victory is sweet at last.

The corpse falls to the floor and fades with the soft radiance of a cloud in the sun.

As my vision fades, I watch the man exhale mantras over his prize and mould it into the semblance of a metal dagger.

“I would like to buy this, please.”