🐝her naked body of the coming fruit

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I’m sorry I can’t write much today, how can I find the words to say how or why you’re the only thing that’s real? I’ve been very taken into another place writing a book about a wild white horse and a lifetime far away from here. I get pulled into this place that seems more interesting to me, more vivid than talking about yoga or liberation. I want it now and I’m tired of talking even though I never shut up and my opinions and explanations abound. I do it all for you, I really do. I believe in you. You may think I don’t know you, not really, I haven’t seen your face but I have. I know every single person by heart who reads my words and I cannot help but think of how like me, you’d probably rather be in a world so far away from here, in another day, in a field of pink and yellow flowers with a wild white horse who brought you to her on the wind, the howling wind that you yourself became- and where words don’t even matter because she’s you -all of you with no more explanations or theories and so lives most of all in the silence between us already perfectly known. And you’re here with me and I want you to come into my story, it’s a long one because like I said, it’s far away from here- 2017 in the make believe glory of a modern made man, no my world is on the other side, ancient and creaking with jewels beneath the floor and voices that speak from out of nowhere. Invisible torrents that carry the torch of light that leads to the subtle surface of the next world and then even deeper into the next world beyond that- where rainbow bridges lead straight up and all you need to do is climb to the top and jump up into the sky, where we might decide to hang for ages- suspended with the wild white horse waiting in the wind to carry us eventually to wherever else we want to go. Waiting for us as we float in the bright sky of her memory- remembering that we are the radiant star bodies who are the record keepers of eternity. But that’s not what the book is about, no new age garble and even though it’s all true, just for you, I won’t go there. It’s about something more solid that I can claim such as our friendship or even a name tag…
and even that’s just because we claimed to be autonomous but really we’re just caught, caught in the wrong place with the wrong face and I think I have a plan to get us out. You know how I love you. I want to bring you this morning of sunlight where I write of a new world through flowers of white where blossoms open with messages that send a stranger version of heaven than we could have ever known…in the sound of bees, the movement of her halo above this blossoming tree, swirling in circles just barely above my head as I take this picture of her naked body of the coming fruit just for you to see how I miss you and I didn’t forget you at all. Bees making sweet life in the form of her crown, she is after all, the queen bee. This honeycomb world that I sit in and think of you and where we might ride on this wild white horse in my story is as sweet as any other lonely day with nothing to do but imagine new worlds. These worlds I should say are not imagined at all, I am simply remembering and writing it down. God has put up signs everywhere in people like you, and I listen and hear your thoughts about me and every dream of sad places unsaid- and you know what, we can go there too- because this wild white horse can have wings if I want her to and we can ride her together because she is very large. She glows and smells like jasmine or blossoms promising fruit and she knows all the ways around any rock or dark cloud. And so all I wanted to say is that I write to you because I know you and even if you don’t like me and you imagine me as a wicked green witch that’s just fine because we’re getting out of this stuck place, off this couch or desk chair forever and we’re going to another world that is so far away from here…but the truth is, it’s not.

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And I’m bringing you the promise of free fruit and flowers bunched up into bouquets everywhere you turn. I’m handing my heart to you in the bees and the throne where she plays like a tree. I’m bringing you long rides into the cool of night upon a white horse with wings as wide as an airplane and I’m bringing my love to you in the wind as the sound of your breath. Don’t struggle anymore, come to me so far inside and just outside of your eyelids too. Come to me as the sparkling dust falling from the ceiling to the floor in your room. Come to me as the sun setting beyond the mountain you once called home. Come to me as a memory of soft car fur upon your skin, as the sound of purring with no words attached. Oh how beautiful you are. Come to me as the dying pillow who has no head to hold. Come to me as anything you are and become the love I cherish.
I could be anywhere thinking of you and what I want to say through images described in my letters in a language so crude and obsolete it’s crushing and yet, however, this love reaches far and wide and the heart is a vast open space with a wild white horse living inside and I promise I’m writing it all down for the world to remember us when they’re sad and they find the book that says “read me” and they open it up and they find you as I found you in verse after verse, smiling and crying and making me move mountains and dark heavy things. Yes we broke through and thanks to someone like you we could be free. I read your thoughts and made these words and together we left the places that meant nothing, that couldn’t ever be described as better than before and you reminded me and we went there and it was all true, everything you ever thought that reminded me of that place so long ago and so far away…and I just knew it was you reminding me of that strangest heaven, like a magical mushroom trip from out of this world where I sat on your back and we rode into the wind, upon the wind into colors of rainbows and into sounds of harps that no one could see. We never needed to see anything but each other and so you can still think I don’t know you- but oh, yes I do. I’m writing a story all about you and not one of us will ever be lonely or broken by a saddle or a man with a whip or spurs on his boots again. We ride the howling wind and we go wherever we want. This isn’t my dream. This is my memory of you and the way that I describe the places you take me. The wild white horse is as real as the floor that I look at and watch the sun dancing in circles around my deaf dog who doesn’t hear anything but the jangle of my heart inside her peach colored soul. Oh yes, we wear colors. All of us do. And the color of you is the color of the sky inside the new world that I’m writing about just for you, to remind you of me. The silver sky raining stars is exactly how I saw you, and I, as the violet ray bringing diamonds through moon shadows was the one that you held, closest to your heart in the form of everything sacred- where we found her as simply the pebbles inside the stream of it all…I told you I know you and I’m writing it all down just because you might not believe me or you might just think how far we’ve come is enough- or you could wonder why we had to ever leave. But I found a way to get back and I’m writing it all down in a secret way so that only those who have been there before can return. We don’t let outsiders in, we don’t need anymore cities we only need blossoming trees and silver skies against her body and the sound of your eyes forever, violet ray. The wild white horse is real because I found her and now I’m just looking for the right words to say how much you mean…

beyond words. Sharada Devi 🐝

triple x in the bardo

A person’s growth may depend on the denied experiences in the bardo where death hangs her ugly head on me when I fear the inevitable need for change. Nobody can die for you or in your place- it must be you. And I know you think you already know this, but do you? Krishna said in the Bhagavad Gita, “I am more you than you yourself are.” What does that even mean? Get out of the way, you aren’t even here, the head of death is ugly and if you don’t chop it off someone else will. We don’t need to be the one to get the story straight, sort out the facts, present the evidence- oh no, we only need to be the one that goes away, gets out of our own way- the way being the path of the mystic- the writer of where his lover’s meet, where and when will I find you wrapped in black and sheets of melting ice? The bardo is long and hard and will fuck you back to death, nothing you’ve seen on your big computer screen can compare to the evil clown faces there, and no, you’re not prepared to know kali and it’s not her name that we conjure- it’s her self promoting flame of fear that lights every heart in the bardo- until whoops! born again straight to hell or maybe just another fido on the end of someone’s leash. Why should you blame your parents for anything- you’re the one watching them bleed into each other- and you’re the one still thinking it’s you. Obviously if you weren’t on some subversive S&M trip down on XXX row in the bardo of bestiality and wicked grinning kindergarten teachers- none of this would ever happen, trust me, pain isn’t sexy, it hurts like a big ruler on your little rear end. And the faces we take and we make in the bardo aren’t Krishna, the One, being heard, it’s just us again, totally full of ourselves and the same old shit and we blow out the smoke in everyone eyes thinking it isn’t us. We however are not any of it, there is no gag in your mouth, no blindfold on, no gold star for not wetting your pants- you’re just one step away from dementia and you still think the show must go on? That there’s still another foot for the shoe that won’t fit? Krishna isn’t a gimmick or really even a God, Krishna is a discovery that it didn’t have to hurt so bad after all, because when I give up my ludicrous version of me, then the love of the sound was at least as clear as the clanking of the vice, the vice known as thought. Krishna is so quiet it’s spooky- and so you don’t really blame “him” you blame “her” instead because she’s loud- yet they aren’t any more separate than you and I are- and I could use any other cultural version to make the same point, it’s the same effect- your head sucks metal sharks and your mouth is filled with barbed wire fangs, your feet are filled with lead and your hands are tied because your heart is dead- that’s the condition we’re in, like it or not. Your weary heart can’t even know its own silence because that would mean you’d have to stop chasing girls in short skirts and men with big houses and scam artists who paint pretty pictures of you and sell you some perfume to cover the scent of shit rising. “I am you more than you, yourself are.” Get out of the bardo now while you still have a chance, the inbetween this and that, the “I’m not really alive but haven’t died yet” hospital waiting room called America. You never belonged to this mind vice hell market of men selling God trinkets and yoga bags with sayings like, “be the change you want to see” right. you never needed the whips and chains to prove any false allegiance to Kali . Kali isn’t a God anyway, she’s a condition you get diagnosed with so that you can heal from the disease of attachment to your shit. Krishna isn’t a God either- but a cure to the disease of thinking either you are- it is- or you- need more shit in the form of false prophets called friends and places and things of remorse and regret -to fill your already aching gut. So this bardo is here now where we are and why won’t you believe me- crying about no lasting security or how you’re missing the gurus in white- right again. Wrong, you’re in shackles getting whipped and getting off on her denying you all sorts of fantasies aren’t you? Can’t wait to get the big prize for all the beating? The places outside that we pine for and devastate are the things we can’t see that we’ve done to ourselves. You’re cut, you’re bleeding, what happened? I don’t know, I can’t remember…does it hurt…I don’t know I can’t feel it…and so chasing the sticky bate that leads you further down the shit hole bardo of your own escapades and perversions unleashed -no prizes for losing the game and I’m sorry that you couldn’t ever replace the One that struck you senseless and whining for more mommy this, more mommy that…studded belts and snuff movies might not be the way to work this out after all huh, work out the warped methods of the antichrist who would have you tied to his bed forever being “Kali” boys or girls- who cares everyone comes with a tender hole- I’m not gross, I’m aware of where I’ve been and that it’s just another game boy- and there’s no way me, or you or anyone can define Kali as cruel or even Krishna as kind or whatever God and his people do during times of war, I don’t know- it depends on how long you think you can fight off the grim reaper’s cats- whose claws leave marks that become oracles- and so I can only attempt to paint a better picture with my interpretation in words- of the war at the end of the world-that’s still yet to come- for a place you might be, a person you might hear, a trip you might be on- a rollercoaster ride about to jump its bumpy tracks, and say, “hey, there might be a better way.” You are HERE. and I think you meant to be HERE. Which way do I go, how long is the show….long dingy hallways of half drawn nightmares- and besides me, there is no rest of you – it’s true- hell hath no fury like a woman scorned… the bardo is the pain lust left over from who we were- into who we will become- again to act out in a body made of meat, one S&M trip after another…

yet to perish now beneath her pure foot is another way to purge the pain lust of her liquid body, purge the identity with a slashing of sexuality misunderstood- that kink in sexiness that captivates you like no other desire…we, as this, “being somebody” with a tool or a box to get the job done once and for all is the fantasy- in truth are just “hoping to hump scabs” peeling away at layers of ourselves and causing astral std infections everywhere…dirty emblems of dried blood and semen oozing- talking too loud, eating too much, hoarding, colluding, taking food from children already half dead- and leaking our ignored sex pus out in the church pews while thinking we’ve done something good for God…of course I’m just another dreamer and “God” doesn’t need my shit either. This thing we’ve skillfully created that we like to call “God” is just another crutch of our making, like coffee or wheatgrass juice or a glass of red wine. We somehow couldn’t even figure out how to be sincere in our daddy mommy- me and you- projection fantasy enough to do something big with it, like discover the source of our allies- the allies who implanted us with the idea that there could be wise men up in the sky and even pretty women with wings and there could be a dark mean woman with a long red tongue and a beautiful pretty boy who dances with a flute while skulls roll across the earth thinking and waiting in line for their turn to be the One on the screen, their 15 minutes of fame, their winning lottery numbers…oh and the shit hole is deeper than I can even shovel myself out with the inspiration that I could be free to preach the glories of God through a blog and maybe be somebody with a new dream of helping others to reach as high as the sky too…fumes everywhere and I know I’m to blame, the one with layers of names and no covering at all. Why is the head of death ugly? Only because the mask makes you think you’re still alive. “I am more you than you yourself are” is in the roses we lay at her feet offering our goat head to Shiva as the One.

Hari Kari could be Hari Krishna if you let it, I bet you still don’t get it. Haha!

Seppuku, the samarai’s death is the story of the Bhagavad Gita in a nutshell. It’s all interwoven,
laced together by the fact that there is no culture- but the culture of giving back something for nothing. The nothing we wept when we died and cried over our dead body in the bardo and then we came back to life with a sword lying next to our body and we heard a voice say, “you just couldn’t do it huh?” Haha

What honor do I have as a sexy soldier or a seductive fairy, what solid noises do I make that actually mean love? What body can I cling to if it can’t be yours, where is the bardo I’d like to get this straight. Stop leaning on me and instead touch the tunnel’s skin where screams leak from the fleshy walls and spiders crawl up my neck and into my eyes like snakes somehow slither into the my bellybutton and thighs… and women are everywhere cutting open chickens without heads and men have long guns they think are penises and everyone is going off and making a mess of one dead body or another. Over my own dead body shall I bow victoriously and hold up my severed head for Krishna alone. Whose got the guts or the guns or a box big enough to carry it all- I ask you, who?! Proclaim the ending of a backfiring fate and stop messing around in this stewpot of sadistic glory…she held up a sign that said, “this shit is over.” Why can’t you believe anything she says? Is it because you think she’s a liar or is it because you know you couldn’t buy her?

Too many recipes I guess….your head is under my skirt and the saddest part is I moved out a long time ago. The bardo is gone, it was only a dream, you’ve been dead forever with me pretending to be your grieving mother. I’ve thrown away your things and I’ve burned every picture of then, I’ve forgotten the sound of your keys and the hook at the tip of your tongue. I’ve said goodbye to the cages and dungeons below, I’ve left everything misunderstood for the future to figure out, as if there was a place to go to find tomorrow without you…

this bardo, this triangular box, this core of desire that singes my cool voice in the dark, this piece of her tunnel that lies helpless in bed, tied up, tied down and laughing at the sword that no man could yet thrust…

into her as the conquest, topless and never tired, once a stripper always a stripper…with no body to hold,

triple x in the bardo.

Sharada Devi

honeymoon of mystical desire💫

We see what we want to see. We hear what we want to hear. Or maybe we hear only what we’re brave enough to see so that we can still feel like we’re hearing the words when really we’re only hearing what suits us and allows us to remain unthreatened by the immensity of what acting out of true, ruthless devotion would mean. I know you feel love and devotion and I know you mean well but these words and these emails and this tragedy is that I feel like I’m talking to a wall. And maybe I’m your wall, but I am the wall that rattles because I know there is a way out of here, a door through the excuses and denial that lead to the open field of a defenseless freedom. Some people think they need a billion dollars to fulfill their devotional aspirations while others are willing to hitchhike across a country of demons all alone holding up a sign that says, “GOD” just to reach the one they love- and so god in any form will deliver them here. Who is the one that reminds you of yourself without lights, who feels the deep eyes of sorrow just for you, who knows the words before you speak them, who erases the dollar signs from your heartbreak- this is the synchronicity of a love well equipped to fight any war for freedom. The heart is not a prison like the mind is- and yet you want to spin it and adapt it and give it conditions to express it’s highest culmination, which is the pure love of devotion. Your head flings me all sorts of words of an understanding of love, how you’re getting it or how you’ve got a long way to go but you’re doing your best and how you understand this now more than ever- but how it’s still just so bad that you’re all tied up in knots of survival and demand, that your responsibilities to your materialism in whatever worldly form are more all consuming than your grief of recognition that you are indeed, hearing what you want to hear and you are in denial of the One Great Noose that holds you back, the one great thing that keeps you from excelling, the one great excuse that keeps you circling in your samsaric karmic pit of endless doing, the household, the bank, the distance between us. Love is revolutionary and if you aren’t then you don’t. Love isn’t a vacation it’s a destination. Love isn’t a guru or a dirty river behind your house that you imagine must be holy, because after all India and enlightened beings don’t really effect the objects of their focus, because no, I see what I want to see, the answer that comforts me. I see the excuses disguised as solutions to the dilemma of my own impure mind stance. I have no freedom but if you tell me I don’t I’ll spend hours writing you long emails defending my free will and my position of servitude to my “normie” life that makes it oh, so much easier to deal with my childhood pains that have now gone so deep, I don’t even recognize who the man really is in my dreams or my bed anymore. I thank my enablers for their wisdom and I sigh in gratitude at how easy it could be to disown my dynamic, wild heart in exchange for my slave heart. No, I never got what I wanted. And so words are just trash no matter how clever we disguise them. I see what I want to see just as you do, the angle and perspective are inherent in the gem, the perspective gets clean with retrieval of the cause. But nobody pays any attention to the cause and so the effect is thwarted. Nobody wants to turn their “my life” radio down long enough to see that their life is mechanical and out of tune and singing along as if it isn’t- is insanity and that’s why you’re crying and running into the bathroom to hide, because this too, isn’t you any more than that hindu trip was. I never tried, cared or wanted to be your teacher and I also bind nobody to Bhagavan Das. Nobody signed their name in blood except for me. And so, I am only grading my experience of you based on my gauge of a love that is the sunlight you speak of. I am in love with love, I am attracted to attraction, I know the magnet is eternal and I want to go down as low as high is.
And so it’s obvious to me- something unhideable- when my sight of you in the astral light grows dim and murky and yet, you speak of this new order of ordinary human love- which is what any love is anyway- ordinary perfection inherent in the grief that precedes it. Death makes us sad because it seems we may lose a lot and we wonder in amazement at the simple glory of life and I agree…but the fact still remains that there is something beyond the “simple beyond” and this sort of grasping at a resolution- takes work- and by trying to convince me that either you aren’t “spiritual” – but yet merely a mundane, baby making chocolate eater- OR that you are just a stones throw away from being god, either way you’ve gone mad, more mad than I could ever be. No matter what either of you or any of you say, I’m not buying it- and to even try to tell you why is pointless. There are a couple syndromes out there right now – one is the jesus syndrome and one is the mommy syndrome. You don’t have to explain to me any of the reasons because I already know, it also hurts to not feel anything at all. And so, go ahead and keep walking on that water and go ahead and nurse the kid until she’s 14. It’s not about anyone but the one who only hears what they want to hear- spiritual experiences don’t make you jesus, your actions do. Babying your children because nobody babied you doesn’t make you a better mother, your independent clarity does. What are you doing with your life?

Oh I forgot, I’m the one reaching too high, looking too hard, I can’t seem to find god on netflix because I haven’t yet ended the honeymoon of mystical desire. No honeymoon, no mystical enchantment, no tears of bliss, no
hope beyond pencils and pens…no, just this, my ordinary “enlightenment” my self denial of my personhood, my lack of integration, my churning and churning in the night- and so I eat and I get pompous and I obsess and I expect recognition for my position as relevant at all? Sorry but the whole bag must go, not only part of the bag. Daddy comes in many forms and you just aren’t looking at your own creation. Mommy comes with many kinder faces but that doesn’t mean she isn’t creating the same neglect with a different more palatable twist. The cradle is rocking, the world is crumbling. It’s not the same river, just like frequency is a real thing. It’s the frequency of love that this is- that frequency is undeniable and the subtle orchid of spiritual love is a bliss beyond the weighty security of the comforts of our little worlds we’d rather call love because they protect us from ourselves and we feel it’s all doable- rather than the love that rips apart our story whatever that story filled with excuses is…the love that is ruthlessly trying to free you from your desperate personality- your clinging to position and stance and viewpoint- the personality that tries to convince me of its relevancy, that defends its position, that needs a billion dollars to manifest devotion or that needs the state to change its laws- but until then you’re just fucked and I mean that, I wasn’t half the whore when I was dancing naked on stage as these housewives I know who fuck on command a red faced husband who won’t even look in their eyes…creepy shit, this haunted life we defend while kali walks down the hallways at night warning us that tomorrow is still coming and so what? Close your eyes tighter and write me another love letter? Where is tomorrow, at the grave of another dead face you pretend is the sunlight?

I went too far this time, I touched you all, the eclipse had fallen and we were three strikes from the raven moon. I took disease and I took sexual pain, I took hot rocks and I took cold hearts, I took every devil head that bent down before me- I took the night crawlers out of others into myself as the razor tipped in cyanide blade that knows no forgiveness- and then I wrapped it all up like a cat plays with yarn into a big white ball covered in blood and broken veins. I bled the moon to death for almost three years after that and I drank the putrid blood of people I didn’t even know- just so that I could live in mutiny of this single fear that eats the world we call home- they shoveled me pounds upon pounds of death into the incinerator and I never missed a beat…and it wasn’t until then, even after all of those years, that she opened her hidden wings above me and brought me into to her empty heart, there was nothing there but a broom and a single unflinching flame…and it wasn’t until then that I even knew you ached, and I was nothing less than a miracle that stood up and walked again down these haunted halls. I’m still looking for myself and I know you’re here somewhere. I hear the muffled moaning of a listless torture, I hear the dripping of sweet life into the unnoticed puddles that either stagnate or evaporate- up or down- it’s all her grace…

whoever she is, she feels like light to me. However, I disowned her, I wanted to sell her, I couldn’t even look at her without getting annoyed…”you tried to kill me and what did I ever do to you. What did I do to deserve this…” she never said a word, and I think that’s important. I could never figure her out, she was too deep and I certainly was not going to swim out that far, and she knew it and so she made me…she made me swim into the center of a black so numb it was unbearable, unbearably void of even the black- and I don’t mean you, I mean me- a vacuous nothing so shocking, a static cling so lucid I cannot describe this, the blink of her one bottomless horrifying god eye- into the mother light- I dematerialized and I left and went far away from here- and then suddenly I was SNAPPED straight out of my own mind and I watched someone called forever cut my life away like it meant absolutely nothing at all, even after all of this, even after you…so self less I became not even in a way that you think would feel holy, but self less like a hole going from nowhere into nowhere- just this self less “person” who should smile sometimes, speak wisely and not let anyone know I was floating in a space that seems as uninterested in me and my devotion as I am in yours- I was looking to fill back up with something solid and good, but alas, there is no such thing as any of it, as me, as you or as a net to catch us in- In this me at all who doesn’t exist, feel move think or feel there is no concept of guru, only devotion to the depth of what I found in my own emptiness, obviously hard to describe- and so I write to you just to be here, I move just to prove I’m alive and I love just because there’s nothing else to do and love doesn’t have to feel good I hope you know…and the word is stupid and generic “love” -I guess a better word would be “notice” I notice you and you’re separate from me and that hurts but it’s still love…whatever the defense may be, I feel the hole in you too…and that’s all this has ever been about…this place nobody talks about without trying to make it easier to enter…”guru just is” and so notice the space of his dwelling…appreciate and don’t recoil from his manifestation. I found nothing but the guru in my emptiness and so I believe in only this. Devotion is the thing that let me float and not sink, in the darkest of dark places, I had only that invisible friend, my love for the guru who isn’t “real” either- yet the only force as real as the blackness- was that light that suspended me in itself which is the guru without a doubt…

I of course had stories and excuses and I still only see what I want to see…but I left that paper weight illusion of me for good- and it’s time and time again that she comes looking for more- more tears, more heart and less of me…and so I suppose it’s all about that, what are you looking for in me? I see her in you and that’s a tight squeeze because the tunnel is contracting and exacting and there is nothing inside of her but the loudest silence you have ever heard. Inside this black hole of me where everything really happens, where I terrify myself and expect some reward that is separate from her rooted love? I know. I thought that I could make her leave me alone but she’s like a skilled stalker and there’s always her shadow behind you pretending it’s allowing you to be out of her darkness, the darkness you can’t control- and however you defined your experience tinged by the false promises of religion- she doesn’t really care, she’s not a person wearing any outfit, she’s in your eyes….and she is- where she shines- the gem for the morning, while you still lay in bed dreaming about boys from highschool or money you have yet to earn…who have we married after all, only ourselves on some level of chaos so undiscovered that we’ve somehow found a way to organize it all- and so we call it the new grace of her- that we should organize and compartmentalize death into such a way that she no longer threatens us from his snake eyes but rather that her updated version soothes us back into a grimmer denial that even though he’s coming for you, it’s going to be ok that you actually were NOT ever enough for yourself- and so now that you’ve “come to terms with that” and have become ruthlessly honest with your newfound clarity and ordinary upheaval of a dulling inertia you’re pretending is “peace” you feel that death is just another definition you feel on your walks everyday? You can’t even leave highschool, you won’t even try- and that is not called the discovery of a sublime level of closeness to ourselves. That is a lie. That is called convenience with a noose around its neck and your ground is still shaky and you still are lonely and at least stop lying to yourself in these emails because you can’t lie to me…and so the crystal kiss at midnight was really just the eclipse of my disappearance into the hallway and away from the room of a lesser me. The room I still try to hide in and pretend I’ve found me somewhere else, somewhere more feasible- I’ve finally seen in my “old age” that I went where I never even needed to go, in search of the beloved who is merely me drenched in second hand smoke. I see that it’s all a mirage, a fantasy in which we search for the thing that we already are, we go to sacred places that are truly just in our backyard, that I can be honest and say I was a fake and I didn’t love god, I loved the party of god, good thing I’ve finally found peace next to hubby. But since neither one of us is ever actually home- in more ways than one, I think this mirror on the ceiling in our dusty bedroom doesn’t need to be cleaned after all- since, truthfully, neither one of us even look in the ALL telling sex mirror and thank his christian god for that ….because we now have each other deeply held- in this new and more modern movie of spiritual love- and I’m safe here from the upheaval of imaginary tantra, and witch circles and warlocks like him, I’m no longer seduced by the magic of deities so far beyond these walls of subterfuge- that I can’t even hear her walking anymore, and although I know she is coming and because I’ll admit I’m “afraid” I’m actually not because life and death are not separate just as I am not lying to myself, just as all my words are only words and my heart doesn’t lie in the silence or the astral world. The astral world that I don’t really even notice or care…but nevertheless it’s the place I call to you from crying about how I’ve lost my only real home and I won’t wake up from this suburban nightmare of me…all because of our one night together, the night that I burst into flames…

the flames that burnt away all the stars that reminded me of you. We see what we want to see and isn’t it a tragedy that people think little girls are afraid and they never really are, they’re just welcoming you into their hearts and too bad the naughty monster got in is all I can…the ways we are raped are many, and don’t think that your heart isn’t a hole that has just as many rights as your more forbidden body parts- it’s all very sneaky, how we get defiled and start feeling dirty and wanting a cleaner love in the guru- but not yet, no bypassing- remember. the perversities that we won’t claim steal everything that loves us back. Name the first dangerous “guru” who was suppose to show you love and figure out the one who drives the cars that we can’t see…I’m just saying, we see what we want to see- and we hear daddy’s easier voice when that’s what suits our primal security and feeds our family beast.

I’m at the point, the brink of the flash…this is not the same words again and again, this is hunting season. And Bhagavan Das always says, “people get the guru they deserve.” And the funniest part is, it’s not your choice of course, life brings you so many versions of death in an attempt to get you ready to face life- the random words of a stranger will bring you back to me. Who am I? Nobody filled with a disinterested wrath or maybe just nobody bored with another rodent game of monopoly- or maybe I’m just a rat gnawing on my captive babies- but none of it is intentional- I’m racked with an undefineable grief that attempts with words to find you near me- but I fall short and remain all alone, reading the hieroglyphics on these walls trying to understand why- why she left me here with nothing to do but miss her and write letters to people I’ve never even seen…I’m not trying to be anybody because it’s all hopeless- I like to think it could be perfect as it is- but I kind of doubt it- guru, god, goddess, rat, middle aged lunatic- whatever I could possibly be- this effortlessness of my defiance-this refusal to conform to my american body- the all knowing being of fluff and false whip romances that I play within- the things she says, the nerve of her, stirring up the incestuous waters of the holy river that’s just a block away from starbucks. Hahaha!!!

The fun never ends.
Sharada Devi💫

psychic purging

psychic purging…

mind body are one. You’ve got to get the shit out, out of your head and out of your body. Old decaying putrefied feces, old decaying putrefied thoughts that bury toxic feelings. Our unfed heart is the prisoner of this dis-ease of mind that is both effecting and being effected by the emotionally congested, black gunk infested body. Once the shit of it all is purged, the heart can finally breath. Suffocated by the numbing that turned rancid and began to leach into our pure blood, we cannot feel the clearness of anything real, we can only keep chasing away these mind demons that stuff cookies and chicken wings into our mouths. The foods that make us forget the feeling become the insulator of our internal devastation so that we no longer know who we’re reaching for in the midst of a touch upon the griefs we left buried, underneath new griefs that brought on more pain- and in our discomfort we ate things to numb us, to protect us from the dark that lie waiting like mold- we listened to people who were wrong and told us to cover our naked bodies in shame. We curdled and curled up into a little ball rotting inside the spaces we never left and we grew into new people who held the galaxy in their hearts and yet couldn’t believe…because we were unseen, we were unheard and we were filled to the brim with things to keep us quiet. We used our bodies as the family sponge and soaked up all their dirty countertops, we washed their dirty dishes with our porous hearts. Now whose eating what and where does the food go, the invisible food I was fed as a child, the insidious food that made me eat more food to protect the thing I could barely feel, myself, my feelings, my joyful heart who knew what came first? But since I didn’t matter anymore, I let them pollute me, prostitute me, inculcate me into their world of getting eaten alive- from the inside out I left myself, numbed, stuffed and no longer unashamed of being naked. From deep inside I abandoned my home and let your thoughts of me reign supreme. My new addictions led me to more, stuffing the shit with new poison. I feel sick inside and I don’t even know it anymore. Numbing my grief with the foods in the kitchen, my nervous pain of recovery is stilled into a stifling drone. I want to tell the truth, I want to hear the sky, I want them to let me go back into the pure place before them. Who I ever was, invincible and clean, innocent and searching for my wings. You held me down on the kitchen floor and made me eat the big dark man, the angry smiling woman, the little boy with the hurting hand. Yes, we’ve done exactly as they’ve written, we’ve taken every filthy crumb…mind body are one and we’ve been mistaken for someone else…

regression hypnosis, the soothing voice from the dim corner, let me touch you and lead you back down the stairs where the door is opened just a peep and lets look inside at these places where we stuffed the world we thought was ours. Who we are embedded with secrets, who we are ingrained with the stars, who we are coded in sequence, who we are laden with tears. Tears that paint the virgin mary, tears that write rumi, tears that will never be dried by any cruel man.
The passage is through you into you, the rites of your riches are beyond, so far beyond the treason of your lonely mind. The body became a slave in a cell eating lie after incubus lie…my heart is as solid and loud as the storm that I shall lead. I shall break open the sky and let hell fall to earth. Raging waters, the raging inferno of me, I am the profane temple of everything holy…calling out to me, little shadows of days that I can never leave…days that I feel and nights that I fought from myself as only I could, get numb- let them help you stop hurting in the way that they hurt you by turning you into them, the numb faces in the picture who have nothing to say but “I’m hungry and don’t you ever say no…” where is the gun that breaks silence and ends poison head syndrome? Where is the pill that stops a clogged up heart and drains away the pus of grandpa? Who I loved, who left me swimming in the toilet of his shit. Yes he’s dead and I’m still digesting his pepperoni pizza and I’m still drunk on his cheap beer. Can you hear me? Can anybody hear me? God can’t be numb and lined with sticky black mucous. God can’t keep stuffing his face with old phantom friends. Feed me, feed me. Parasites that fill the fear of emptiness and slowly crowded out our diamond light are the parasites we go down on and enliven and make babies with. Monsters of heritage and sycophant training, are the richer than you know spoonfuls of mommy’s cherry pie. “It’s your grandmother’s recipe” she said…do you hear what I’m saying?

How this death walk goes…down to banks of the foggy water I went in the middle of the night looking for you to tell you to stop eating in your sleep, he can’t hurt you anymore…

face down in the water, unconsciously there is a lot going on- I knew there was nothing deadly under the water while in the black of night he spun with us on top of him. “Get off and lie on your back on the still dark water,” my brother said. The stars were out shining through the black and we were not in the middle of nowhere- the bridge was right beside us in the dark. I thought it could have been the end but I was wrong, my father had gone mad spinning on the dark water deep into the night…I heard that the second book I wrote is called ‘om mani padme hum, the return from dark water.’ He couldn’t breath, he was wild and dreaming. The girls held their breath giving blow jobs under water and everyone sat beneath the shadow of an avalanche while the world spun our only father into a black darkness never seen. Who gets out to see tomorrow? Who looks up to see the stars, floating on dark water nobody gets out alive. But we floated anyway, me and my brother looking up and there was the bridge “om mani padme hum is the second book” a voice said, the return from dark water into the home of the blessed. “That home is me” she said and all her kinks fell out, she stopped blowing the boy underwater and took a stand to recover the heaven she held, stars fell that night straight from her hair into the wet sky below where we lay waiting for her to wake up. Stars that we caught and held until the morning of venus came. He held his breath for as long as he could and we never saw him again, our father who spun deep and low with us on his back slowly dying. He’s gone mad as sure as the swamp that holds dark girls underwater captive to penises larger than snakes, big snakes that hiss and pull hair. Starlit hair, sky held mirror, sinking deeper into the ecstasy of shyam. “There is nothing deadly below us,” I said to him, we’ve purged our soul of men that weep in guilt and spew light into throats of girls who can’t breath. I think the message here is to stop, and blow the candle to hell. The path of stars that lead over the bridge into the home of the long haired girl who saved us all with her dreams of “this could be the light that sees in me, that daddy was only a ghost under water, cold with fish for eyes.”

I get this, I really do sunrise…this was a dream and I have a long way to go to find you…my father wasn’t the devil, he was just the one who believed in sin, if the other side could win the war then god might let us in. So the dark mighty force of waters that might drown you brought to life the nightmare we call this vision, this vision who sees girls as dolls that float face down for $5 at happy hour…sucking out the wind and remembering all the lies, “get out of her mouth and forget her” I said, it’s still nighttime but she’s bound to wake up and bite you in two…

the force of black without a shadow is no consciousness at all, no moon to shake us loose. It’s a long dark night of opulence blinking star wounds as bright as dusk. The dawn is who I saw and named her aurora who came with the star that pulls the sun into the sky. But until then I can only remember what he sounded like before he shook his head and went down deep into my fettered soul and drug me to the bottom spinning…

he drove a big black car we called daddy and we never saw his face because he was too big. We only saw impressions of death under shadowy eyes. We saw a loop for a thought of his smile. We heard what we wanted to hear as his pants came down. Jungle bunny, python madness, moons that burn…zippers as jagged as the himalayan mountains and secrets as hidden as the caves that held gods…

I’ve got somewhere to go eight worlds below us, where she lie dreaming of everyone she left floating inside her…everything beside her, the bride sitting in the big black car next to him…

ropes with nooses dangle from the sky, anchors fall into the heavy, thick breath of himself. There is no light to see, only a flame as black as his shame. Me, make it me, I’m the one going down for 5 easy dollars of doom paralyzed. You’ll find out soon enough what I’m saying…easy does it big boy, as hard as a corpse under water with dead girls sucking on maggots, with me floating like a flower still calling your name…

can’t you see the star when she cries, she cries for the darkness who leaves her. We always think we love the one who hides us, reveals us and then goes as quickly as he came…look up at me from far below at the monsters you made in the bathtub…

I imply a lot with my words so that you can find the rest for yourself. If they find us here like this they will torture us for the rest of the story. Book number one, the book they came to find, the book I never named…is the book of her secrets. The witch stands over the cauldron while we float on our backs looking up into her starry kitchen ceiling. She stirs and she stirs him all up in her brew…black cats with golden diamond shaped eyes stare over the edge of the cauldron watching us stew in the dark night of our souls…who could forget me while she lies dreaming?

Psychic purging could be art. It’s not different than throwing up bad food, but we decide which words to use and we decide how to say our feelings held down until blackened, and we decide which lingerie to wear under water and we decide how to haunt him back…

beautifully said, I will always be the one who loved him no matter how many girls he bled and killed. I will be the bride of hades because I will be the queen of my own underworld. Under you, wherever I find myself I will be seeing only flames that don’t die. “The truth is nirvana kills the flame.” He always told the ugly truth. The truth is witches have to hunt. The truth is it’s all in the bathtub. The truth is boys don’t cry. The truth is I’m a sucker for words, words like you…

lost in the valley below are only dead bodies, not you, you aren’t the one that they left…you are the one that they buried under the covers in their bed…

wake up, the sun is shining and venus is making coffee for the ghosts… because her love never ends even after the stars have all left the sky and gone home…

making art is making love with the darkness…in the darkness making art is the love…making art is making the darkness love you more than the light…making love is the dark art of her sorcery…

psychic purging. two bodies merging. enlightened by the shadow of the killer flame…

remember that I was indeed born from the womb of a virgin, that I am an immaculate flower upon this dark water, that I am the one who brings and takes stars, that I will follow me wherever I go…

hypnosis regression. psychic purging. bonding to our bondage, drowning in the storm…telling everybody that death is only the dull byproduct of forgetting your roots…roots deeper than the tallest star, roots like tunnels that take you back into the crystal room where you lost your virginity and you promised never to tell, but god always knew you went there alone and your mother always said if you lie your face will melt off and the people always made you think that only dogs knew how to hug and so you abandoned the roots of your home in the stars and you went where everyone goes- to the dark world refrigerator of an imposter love and you ate yourself dead in more ways than one…cold corpse walking backwards back to your bedroom, body mind are one species, heart is the way back to shyam…go deep home to before you moved out of yourself and find out what you left in the water that night…

alchemy magical heart healing soul power…in the darkness of your forgotten, perfect face the muse makes heaven want her more than he wants the dead flame…can’t you see yourself in her bright, wild eyes anymore? her eyes that see the other brimming side of you…before they took you and filled you with their lesser world, you were made of her incantation, her spirit and her howling cats of wind…

“you have such a way with words” said the serpent who swallowed my father…

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I want you to sign up for this retreat in mount shasta because there is magic in the air and I can hear your love that’s calling…it’s not a social scene, it’s a baptism into the mother light, it’s about listening to the deep heartthrob of your aching soul, it’s about going within the words that you couldn’t find until now and it’s about finding the sacred space that sees with the eyes of the shaman that you are, I know that it’s exactly what you need, don’t think I don’t hear the world around you putting out your rebel flame, come and be cleansed by the crystal dagger…you don’t have to stay in the house with the others unless you want to…you don’t have to talk or sing out loud, you don’t have to do anything but surrender to mother nature beneath the moon of june and write down her song in your heart word for word…you can bring your own small tent and camp beneath the trees near the river and you don’t need to talk to anyone but me and bhagavan das or even no one at all…please come to the california sunshine and rise with the dawn that smiles at fear…mother light aka…

☀️devi, aka sharada devi

*now offering in person regression hypnosis and psychic purging therapy sessions: sharada@bhagavandas.com

the mother cult of self love

Long ago in the mother cult of self love…

I was a willowy tree person covered in ancient algaes and magical mushrooms shading clustering crystal patches and strawberry vines and basking naked beneath blue molten skies…

don’t you remember, isn’t this where I found you staring into my starry space? I think you saw me wandering in search of you, hallucinating the secret girl with wings hidden beneath her flimsy skirt, only you can take me higher than buildings….just like this, a wishfulfilling lick between my earthy thighs and a warm blowing thunder bolt roars then bursts open the dandelion’s storm setting free the peaceful bunny who is only hopping slowly home…

I don’t mean a home of stoned hippies, I mean the home of her progeny- the mystery school magicians wrapped in velvet and murmurs of pyramids, lying inside a sarcophagus dwelling with mimes and watching a rock that tells time through a hole in the circle to know exactly which star to strike first…we planted it all in plain view, hiding these secrets in the dew of our snail trail waiting for us to return…we followed the clouds that hid the star shapes we call home. The dog star was barking and the scorpion tipped, the fish swam sideways while the virgin undressed, the sun was a bomb as I stood on top of the world striking matches and burning smoke signals for you. Come! May day is here…

pagans strewn in colors streaming from the fertility pole, fairies dance and maidens build castles in the air waiting for virile husbands. Bees make love to the flowers and honey falls from the sky. Trees hang bearing ripe fruit and babies sing open mouthed for their mothers. We’ve never flown this high before, over the deep endless valleys where rainbows are grown.

Look at me and tell me what you see. A string of fiery pearls, a strand of wild hair, or am I just a hummingbird with wings too fast to see? I bet you saw me as a white unicorn standing in the morning field, within the dazzle of overlapping horizons- overflowing with lilacs and poppies and the voices of frolicking little girls calling you, Come!

Can I hitch a ride over that steady rainbow with you little one, way into aurora’s open star? A swirl of something even prettier than this vision made me remember which way to go, there were so many arrows pointing this way and that…into the glitter of so many unborn moments of magic made by tiny gnomes who live in the big root hole dug under the giant ageless oak tree…

I could have went with you if I were sure you’d love me always…

but nobody is sure of anything and especially the magic of love…and so heavy hearted people collapse and betray themselves and become completely unrideable because there’s no sure thing called love waving dreams and new life and there’s nowhere sure to go…and so back to the voice who doesn’t love you at all and that snaps you back into satan’s crooked line like a hopeless, dried out twig…

self love is a place pointed to by the one true religion implanted in us by our creator…the mysteries of the mother’s magic are revealed in the mystery school of self love, self love is a place…have you ever been there? I talk about you and what to do and we talk of the shaman’s world within, but I haven’t much said of the romance we are, in love and in kindness to me, self love is the key…

in contrast to the divine mystery of genuine self love there exists in this self deprecating world of dark men, the fear serving cult of satan that inculcates the behavior of blind projection into it’s slaves and demands a sort of sick self cherishing based on our infected wounds that we continue to poison and so that won’t heal- becoming eventually distorted at the very base of our actions and resulting in a twisted perverse sort of tragic, displaced, yet psychotically internalized romance we play out again and again with ourselves in an extreme way- refusing any and all personal responsibility that would lead to correcting our destructive, self isolating behavior- in this tragic and demented romance with ourselves we are in charge- which is the base of fear holding ground over any stable contentment ever- this fear base of our romance is where we are both the victim and savior, lover and beloved, predator and prey- depending on our mood or triggered paranoia of losing control- and this is different than how I would like to think of the play of lila in which it’s the divine romance of god playing with god through creation itself- this is a psychotic, human relational mental illness issue intent on destroying creation itself-that involves the inability to steadily face any mirror as the other that is put before us so that we might more readily face the unconscious pains that are being rejected, suppressed and denied within our own bursting psyches- and so the best attempt that is made in this tragic romance is that we would project subconsciously onto others exclusively, albeit unconsciously- as a type of satisfying, masturbatory, psychic rape.

Anger and self hatred drive this scheming of the subconscious to set this self hatred straight but we refuse to see this and spend lifetimes jacking angrily off on others as ourselves that we cannot see, accept, own and especially love. This act of emotional self mutilation that everyone is practicing on some level only creates terribly negative results because we hurt ourselves by hurting others because they are us- and yet we cannot even attempt to love another in the most vulnerable and honest way- which is the only thing we can really do here on earth, should we ever grow in self awareness- and so instead, again and again we push the ugly out and onto others at the instigation of our death wish and we sabotage and psychically intrude, rape, masturbate upon and assault the world around us, the world “out there” – we spew curses and accusations, ugly names and all our disowned emotional filth and unclaimed baggage- we turn others into our dirty ashtray- our convenient receptacles for confessions and astral enemas- in an attempt to take this “toxic me” and put it “out of me” out “into you”

“You can deal with it, you can take responsibility for my shit- you’re the one, not me….why do you make me angry, throw fuel on the fire…”and on and on…unfortunately, you’re wasting your time because the blame game never works- and this self loathing is only an upside down attempt to make love to ourselves- a desperately confused endeavor that creates enemies far and wide, within and without and causes endless karmic disaster but don’t worry, everyone’s doing it…

yes, love others as ourselves, whatever- too bad that means absolutely nothing at this point because nobody is loving or accepting themselves in any deeply unconditional way. Love means not to hurt yourself by learning to fully love the one hurting and so acting out within you- this hurting one who needs your wise and helping hand- not by allowing this inner self rejection to continue to create isolation compulsively and destroy the limitless beauty that you carry. To take the ugly, disowned feelings that we struggle with and to speak symbolically, magically and in ritual to ourselves with a more wholistic understanding through the primal and mythic means of creative self expression- is an ideal and extremely effective way to heal that little pissed off and scared, yet eternally divine child who will, without a doubt will destroy you from within when you aren’t listening to that small omniscient voice of truth- however painful that truth may be- this truth is relentlessly calling from your almighty heart and you know it…

hence the psychosis, hence the panic, hence the nightmares that won’t end…

this uncared for divine child will take you down low- as far as you need to go into the darkness of your own self mutilating, masturbatory creation in order to awaken you to the realization that there are dire consequences for your actions of self abandonment- and those dire consequences will yield new unwanted directions in your life. Every action triggers an energetic response and magnetizes the possibilities of a new more progressive direction or not- which way will you go, where have you been, what are you doing now? The self violence, the cutting of our sensitive skin, the dark, angry blood that drips to the floor, the puddle of confusion we sit in, the stench of the rot of another thing we’ve killed and cannot eat, the way we throw the dead animal in someone else’s face, the way we starve our soul and stuff our face, the way we think orgasms are the love that we give and get, the way that we pile the bodies in the corner and pretend we can’t hear the flies of beelzebub that gather and circle and form a throne of flies for our future as the adult sized demonic lost child inculcated into satan’s cult of soft killing and the fumes of an unconscious subversive black magic that result…

the rot and the loss due to the slow killing of our life force isn’t imagined, it’s real. And no thing in this death culture cult will save us or change what we’ve done. This is an intervention, a stopping of the sado masochistic romance we have with ourselves based on the opaqueness of our death cult’s rites of passage and the bloodlust that this worldly culture of satan engenders, based on the lack of moral fortitude, materialism and a dulling of the heartthrob- due to the all consuming satan of egoic self obsession that is the driver of your city cab…

narcissism is the hell fear that you’re not ever going to be beautiful enough in any way- and so you obsess and hurt others by finding them “ugly” of course this feeling couldn’t just be YOU who’s feeling ugly inside because of the cruel things you’ve already whispered to yourself in the mirror this morning could it?

Self love considers where the origin lies, self love is a fountain that never stops flowing, bubbling over with devotion to the sparkle in your very own eyes, of course I see god in you, you’re a goddess because I found that it could not ever be another way. Forgive the imperfection because perfection abounds with every beat of your heart. And yet it’s a bad habit, negating our true needs for love “out there” and spiritual companionship because we are afraid of the evolutionary consequences of personal responsibilities for our GENUINE growth. You cannot use a statue of kali or a picture of shiva, you cannot talk to krishna on the wall and charm your way out of this dilemma- the consequences created by decisions made and their resultant actions due to an absolute lack of appreciation for our own divinity. A mouse in a dark corner of your room could be praying to kali too, thinking even of itself as kali, but it’s still just a mouse hiding in the corner, afraid of you and your cat and the trap with the cheese- and therefore it hides and steals food and lords it over the bugs that aren’t as big as itself. Of course this mouse could be kali, if you could but only see that this hiding mouse was you…

we must become by doing not by projecting and expecting. This is not easy, and it’s not easy merely because it’s not seen. Keep that light off of me, I’m busy saving hungry little birds, keep that light off of me, I’m writing an email to let you know you’re not who you pretend to be, keep that light off of me and let me tell you what to do with your life in my blog, keep that light off of me, it’s light enough already…

good enough you say? Good enough to get by? You’re lost in a spectrum of many layers of people and you’re buried in death by ghosts and past actions and everything is rotting to hell and if I say so I’m “negative?” I’m just a “glass is half empty” person? Right, “half full” sucks too my friend. The glass needs to be EMPTY for the LOVE to fill you. The answer is: the ego ALWAYS hates itself because it compares itself and sizes itself up constantly to other people and their reactions to it- whether it’s friends, family and peers who also are members of the cult of satan- whose mission it is to reinforce ignorance in the world around us. And so by this criteria alone the ego doubts itself and criticizes itself and continues, by the power of bad association to reject it’s only hope which is spiritual annihilation. Annihilation of the false prophet who brings you lies. Annihilation of Satan and his clan from your fearful mind.

The ego is lost in your head chatter and therefore frustrated and desperate and will always think narcissism and objectification of one’s self and others is “love.” What else could it be? It’s demonic brain shit, that’s what it is, control your mind by the power of devotion and dispel the dark forces forever.

Love is entirely empty, drain the bad blood from your head, the heart is much bigger and the ecstasy it brings is forever and true. The you without you, is the YOU within you. Self love effortlessly flows through an empty vessel and self love is simply loving the god that enlivens our being- creating vitality, engaging in good will and dharmic selfless service so that we inevitably become the divinity we are devoted to…

but, the catch is- this doesn’t happen without a battle- hence back to krishna and the war that must be fought. Hence the reason for satsang and spiritual communion- this is a big holy war and will take a big holy army. In this carnal, hedonistic, selfish world love doesn’t always come easy- though in the mother’s mystery cult of self love it’s the most effortless thing, because it’s only you breathing you- in and out- without exception…we live by her love alone- her love is all that there is, that we are, that’s actually makeable- but in this satan cult of man’s imagined gray world of cold buildings, electrical grids and artificial lighting we become consumed in the metallic shock and radioactive awe of consumerism and greed- never enough, because I’m not enough and I’m afraid that means I won’t survive. Get on top of someone else then and fight him and take what he’s got, you’re better than him anyway, you’re prettier, younger, richer than her…satan is very talkative in our fearful, clever heads- this is HIS superficial, plastic, electronic sex world that runs on perpetuated self hatred based on the little ego’s survival attempts to avoid material annihilation- and the greater the survival threat, the more vicious this tiny ego gets…and this is the bloody world wars and the famine for the spooks who eat our dead hearts and feast on our doubts- this is you thinking you’re too fat, this is you counting your wrinkles, this is you hiding like a mouse praying to statues of kali, this is you attacking others verbally and this is you silently judging- yes of course it’s all me too, nobody is immune to the viral sickness that is spreading over us like a certain Black Death- who knew, this is America right, home of the brave?

Get out of her before it’s too late- churches, banks, everywhere. FLEE
to the mountains and the abandoned forests…before you too get eaten alive by the giant wasp that brings calamity and disease to all who are not ready to rise from the ruins of what came before…

so the rape, the assault, the hubris, is all redeemable by changing directions, getting out of the demonic flow called “daily slave life in service to satan” and opening up to the simplicity of your god given pain. The divine mother light opens our wounds through others only to remind us to let the pain of infection go…to remind us that everyone needs to cry to be cleansed by what they’ve lost, we’ve lost a lot. We’ve lost our mother, our father didn’t know how to care, we’ve lost our youth, we’ve lost our innocent dreams, we’ve lost our naive idealism, we’ve lost our only friend. We’ve lost a lot so that we could become softer, more compassionate and loving. We’ve lost a lot so that we could heal -and then with nothing left to lose we could be more courageous…

and yet you let the smaller fears still determine the outcome? And still you shuffle through the house picking up other people’s plates? Come on! Buy a tent and go far away and camp by a river and pray. Eat only nature and dance naked in the breeze, tell time by the sun and be the oracle of moonlight. Gather new friends who hear your heart too, who know it’s not you that’s insane- it’s just god being miraculous god. God pushing through the shit of worldly mire and taking you out of its lies for good, taking you into the realm of miracles that make rainbows out of mantras…

spiritual annihilation of the worldly, man made cult of satan serving, egoic delusion comes by surrendering all your clinging, pride and grief and offering yourself to the holy fire of transmutation so that mother nature can consume you in her light and so you can be resurrected as the risen divine child of god that you are. This intervention is providence and the prism of this relentless self love reflects, deflects and projects love and light of the ONE sacred self as the artistic eccentricity of many in all directions and as far forward as forever can go…

the mother light violet flame of the midnight fire tells all- that the love generating shaman is a prayer wheel of her grace and lives for no man. The shaman lives for folklore, the shaman lives for myth, the shaman lives for the swiftness of earth magic and much greater things like the riches of dying daily in samadhi- and the shaman makes friends in the dimensions beyond this world and receives the blessing and guidance of otherworldly beings…

there isn’t a city, there is only a bad and horrible dream with smog and pick pockets, with prostitutes and lonely business men, with sewer rats and starving homeless people. There is only the enchanted forest where we learn what love the mystery of love really is, from deep in the river our true face shines forth. I can’t see you anymore, I only see me, you were a dream, a deep blissful dream that I loved as the wet and fragrant earth, as the dancing fairy girl, as the maypole and the crystal dome, as the song we sang together. I loved you as the fruit I ate and as the moldy pain I dried out in the sun. Naked beneath me the earth moans in ecstasy as she tells me, “you were always the one.”

And this is what I mean and what I want and what I would give to you all if I could. Self love isn’t in the flowers that we buy someone to apologize or possibly get laid- it’s in the flowers we take back into ourselves because they were never not already ours…

the ancient mystery schools of tantra taught earth magic -meaning, a return to yourself, as love. This is what we need to do, redeem what was taken from us through a masquerading of our fears that we bought, projected and protected. The light is the cult of the mother and she comes in the dirt and the worms as love fertilizer disguised masterfully as someone else. I only have you to give as my own love. I have only you to love as myself. My self who you are please do not forsake me, my self who you are where did you go? My self who you are we are empty and yearning for the star that knows the way back inside…back inside, deep inside the mystical forest, where we reside as nothing but her as her portals into luminous light.

Self love enters me and the fills me with myself as only god can…

there is another greater world that moves through us, we have the protection of the crystal guru if only we turn our hearts and minds away from this lesser world. All love is in her celestial arms, all answers are given in her cusp of her silence. Everything is going to be ok no matter what the failure or weakness may seem- if you put love of god first and you serve no satan made egoic man. If you aspire to heal and generate the one face of her selfless love, you will remain flawless and undefeated…

I said, “who is this, which one are you?” And the voice said, “there is only one face of love.” I said why am I here, which way did I go?” The voice said, “you are a free spirit and you came to spread freedom and the message of home in my heart.”

Home is in the heart of god. The star will always shine her glory back to her. Glorious one, I have no words for the greatness of love beyond name, fame, holiness or calamity. I have only her warm golden flower light spreading in my heart in all directions blossoming as spring’s promise of the divine child who wears the crown of thorns and stars and who rides the skies painting rainbows and feeding the earth the sunlight of god…

there is no satan, there are only broken mirrors slicing each other down on the ground. Come home to the star that spirals at the top of your heavenly body…

one face one body one finger pointing to god in the mirror of your mind. One face one body and one throbbing heart lost and found only in the love that never left, never changed and that goes nowhere…and so besides me, there is only you smiling and holding the flower that you always already knew…

my self, I thank you for your love.
Sharada Devi🌼

I had a dream

Only you,

no one needs to understand because the one who doesn’t understand isn’t real anyway…

life is a shimmering wall that we look at. The wall isn’t solid at all and neither are we. We throw rocks and sling words, we kiss and we curse and the wall keeps on shimmering as we melt slowly like ice, into the pool of her soul that we stand on scraping at the mirror of her mind. The colors remind me and the colors disguise me, the wall bends flimsy like film and the wall becomes a tunnel or a funnel depending on where we’d like to go. Don’t pretend you aren’t the one willing the sunrise or that you aren’t the one calling down the moon. Don’t pretend you didn’t create me and make me dark or make me light. These are the shadow puppets dancing on your shimmering wall and you’ve named every single one- don’t hurt me so and so, come back to me pretty lady, don’t make me do this anymore- break rocks against the solid wind. Life is a shimmering wall as we know it, infringed on upon death who is the light making it so. Death my friend, is the one with the camera watching, recording, laughing and waiting. Death made the movie and counts down til the end- when the curtain falls and the shimmering wall turns to black. Black ice of my body did I stand here too long? Did I look death in the eye or did I strangle the gods in my wall? I’ve been melting and catching myself in this cup drinking what’s left as if I didn’t know, death has of course no where else to go. Skull sinking deeper into the water I thought that I walked on, skull making faces with old skin I remember. My face isn’t there this is only the backlash, my feet aren’t attached and my legs as stumps have no branches. The leaves have all sunk into this pool of her wet dream and I’m floating like a swan looking for my lover. Life on the wall, shimmering and firm, thank god I’m so beautiful when I bend really low…

I had a dream that I was married to god, not god on high but god as a looker. Looking at me kindly and smiling, wearing a watch and laughing when I said I could roar. Then god was my friend sitting high on the stage and I, down below wasn’t separate. His face was made of half shadow/half light and I didn’t know if I was god or myself. My face, made of half shadow/half light with nothing beneath us but the red earth being pulled slowly away. God was a dream that I married and it was so real I didn’t want to wake up. Then a voice said, “loosen your grip on reality.” And my eyes opened and there was the wall, shimmering like a friendly ghost with only me to notice. I made this place and as far as I know, god is sitting on the top of the wall watching me imagine I’m dreaming. Did I mention that I was married to god and he loves telling time? Warm hearted, my warm surrender, my head on his seat waiting for the fifth day of dawn. White gloves never touched a dark place in me, loosen my grip on reality? I wonder how I might…my ideas of reality must be tight and too vivid, my ideas of reality must be more clenching than my dreams of a god more equal to me than I am to myself. I know words are a circle and the language is hidden under rocks. I know she handed me the symbol in my ear and I know he looks both ways before he crosses. You don’t have to like me or be me, you are me whether it’s real or not. When the room is dark and there’s only the flame, I look right at your semblance and your meaning to the night. Who said night wouldn’t have us just because we’d disappear- or if we need this wall and this flame and this figure to notice…to notice the singer who cries in the sunset- beating the wall just for us? Fists thrown into a glitter of black stinging ice and slivers of butterflies promising a freedom behind the rays of lost eyesight, my vision is still always of you, you high on the mountain overlooking the wall that I stare through. The wall isn’t solid, not nearly as solid as I…shimmering mind, aloof, empty and perfect behind me you sit holding death like a mask. Whose making who leave this place first? Last time I was here holding her promise, I did all that I could to unmask the mirror, of course I was loud, of course I was desperate, of course I broke everything unattached to this house. I can tell you these walls never fooled me…you were the one who brought me the water when I was thirsty from climbing so high. On the peak where you met me without any walls, it was tight, more tight than any world below that I’d already left. And the tears lie scattered below us and it seemed so funny that they’d filled a whole cup or that we could stand or drown upon her soul water. On the peak there was nowhere to sit, only stand and roar at the silence below, the silence that comes just before the explosion. On the peak I knew she always loved me and that god was the one behind it all. I knew if I could climb this wall I might bring you home with me. A funnel, a tunnel with no steps on the surface, a place where feet can’t ever go, where am I? Inside another flame of you casting my dream on the wall as a mountain? Inside the diamond’s furrow tipping sequence into the quicksand of bodies, I alone am redeemed with arms that reach as high as god….where god held his hand up and said to me, “let go” well first of all “god” if that’s really your name, can you prove to me that you’re even real? If you’re so real then where am I- and if you’re so right then that means I’m wrong? Wait don’t go, I believe you, I believe you…reality spun me way too tight and I see you’re a dreamer of heaven held high…and that these walls make more walls and the water is dirty…but if god loves us all then why are we fragments, dingy little fragments barking at broken windows and howling at the front door to the lady’s house that gives us food? If god is another mask that egomaniacs like you put on to control us then where is my god mask too? This should be a fair fight after all right? Puppets in the shadow world with only the godflame to keep them vivid and dark memories of a death before this keeps me on my toes…dark memories of his loud breath behind me waiting for the wall to collapse…I was never wrong, the light of death is hidden in her words under rocks waiting for a reader. Sound builds walls. Sound opens tunnels and funnels. All four direction split into the eightfold path of redemption. We roar as the newborn and open the gates. Flood, the great flood that we are. It’s only me, the little old lady, toothless and riddled with holes. It’s only me, perfect buddha with the lion’s golden mane, it’s only me hellraiser fanning the flame…this life is a shimmering wall of god’s lace, light streams through by the touching of death. Death who loves you, throws colors and wants, death who takes you, crumbles the gates. This life is a shimmering god palace of gold, death is the pot holding riches, death is the poor stuck to his floor. This life is a shimmering wall of death and god is the mask making more….mask me, undress me, burn me alive, throw me down from the peak and into the hole. Volcano dream spot, hot and cold burning, I thought one time that I could see through you but now I see I was wrong…god was my friend last night before I woke up and when I woke up god said, “loosen your grip on reality.” I wonder who reality is?
I hope you know there is no teacher, there are only open windows with magic blowing though. And if you thought there was someone who could save you or sacrifice you or release you, it’s not true. There is only the one eternal song that creates these shimmering walls, these walls are god’s palace and I’m inside sleeping my dreams and I’m outside hurting and wailing and filling the ocean with salty tears and I’m above making shadows and light that yearn for each other and I’m below eclipsing the profanities of imagined perfection and I’m also exactly nowhere at all summoning poetry into new words that I might hide inside of you until another summer…

I was once a person who traveled far and wide looking for answers and prayers that were ancient. I was looking for magic beyond the eyes of men and I found only disguises playing god. I let them mold me and fold me and fill me with jewels. I let them plant me and implant me with secrets. I let them cut me and use me as fertilizer. I never believed any answers because I knew there weren’t any…

a guru is a spiral who falls from the peak back into your arms and becomes your heart’s friend forever. A guru isn’t a human but a snake who became a flower. A guru isn’t god but the weaver of the web. A guru isn’t out beyond the holy holy knower. A guru isn’t in the light or ever casting out the darkness…and it’s not like I would even know, I only know this swimming love…I’m only throwing words into your wall that I hope you will catch…because something really important happened,

last night I dreamed of god who was really not god at all but the kindest being who ever killed me…

karmapa chenno, I love you forever as the sacred cow who spilt the goddess into her womb, who bore your sanctified soul into the world of walls and built this castle for the lion who needed a home. Roaring light fills the fifth day of dawn and I see you forever waving at me in the winds of dear tara. You drew our faces from grace and remembered us all. Beyond, so far beyond god do I see you as evermore the death of death, unmasked by the mother light…

not even death can turn you blue, not even death can erase you, not even death can be more real than you…

moondrop in the endless summer night I will never die without you near me and I know however far I fall, there is no bottom without you waiting to catch me there.

I surrender all. I have no wall but you
shimmering as om mani padme hum…

forever as one face one place and one home, only you will I ever be, god guru eyes that see through, I wrote a song to save the world and because of you, I found out it was me.
Sharada Devi

this immortal coil

Conscious suffering is the awareness of God. The bounds of this mortal coil would have us wrapped around the roots of our pain, serving the seeds of it’s obvious demise without paying attention and so intentionally avoiding the actual tree that we’ve grown from these roots. The tree of life is us. The body can be sanctified or objectified, deified or trashed to hell- this thing called tapas or conscious suffering bleeds out into all aspects of life, everyday we write the book. How we deal with our human suffering in whatever way we’re dealt the hand is the angle of our victory and nothing on the outside that you might judge as the authentic attainment means anything at all. Character development means going all the way down to her face at the bottom of the coil, the coil that lies wrapped at the base of your spine. While she’s asleep, which means we are, someone needs to awaken and say, “wait, I can see there is light at the end of this tunnel…” the light is Shiva who waits for his serpent to become the winged Goddess and rise up from the base of the spine into the heart and merge at the third eye, experience cosmic unity through the crown of the head where he takes her and enthrones her as himself, they are not separate. The path of bhakti is the immortal coil generating bliss at the command center of the human heart where all is seen, known, and accomplished with courage. Unlike the mortal coil, this immortal coil isn’t stuck at the base imprisoned by the grid of mundane duality. Unlike the mortal coil, this immortal coil is free of the flesh’s fears and bound by no man alone. This immortal coil is the omniscient God whose fleshy feet touch this earth and wash the dishes, whose sun kissed eyes bless everyone they look at and whose immaculate voice is the rarified tonal beacon of god’s promise. And we know it and we’ve seen it in those beings who move us and change us forever by merely a smile or the touch of their hand upon our head. The kundalini is the spiritual path and the weaver of tantra. The kundalini is the fiery serpent Goddess who rises. The heat in the spine is the upward radiation of her purifying prana, there are blocks in the nadis and there are three knots or granthis in the spine. These knots are Brahma, Vishnu and Rudra- and these deified focal points of congregated energies correlate with three different chakras areas and specific realms of our life, our being cycle and our past. We can bypass nothing. There is never a loophole because she won’t allow you to wield a power beyond that knot before you’re qualified and so it’s a protective device inherent in her greatness as a protection and karmic adhesive. The kundalini as the sleeping mortal coil roots herself deep in this world where she remains desirous and unhappy- thus when she is awakened and not consciously nourished by spiritual association, behavior and lifestyle adjustments- she is a poison more uncontrollable than any- a fury with vengeance- and this is only because she’s stirring your darkness with more velocity due to the fact that she is no longer sleeping but awake and thrashing like any trapped serpent would who knows the way out is up. The kundalini gets trapped because of these blocks and imbalances and these three knots are not easy to pierce because these knots are held tightly by our karmic bondage and so when we are not consciously suffering and therefore surrendering and adapting to the difficult circumstances this struggle may bring- this struggle intended for our evolution- we only make things much worse, create even more intense karmic bondage and that’s because these are the rules of the game.

Everyone does not have an awakened kundalini obviously and how do you know if you do and if so, how did it get awakened? Symptoms of kundalini vary from individual to individual and
the symptoms change depending on where the prana is being directed- a heat rising up the spine, a rocking sensation in the body are two very basic universal indicators, the rest you can research on your own. You can be born with kundalini awakened from prior life spiritual practice, you can have it awakened by a master,
it’s always astrological determinant- Rahu Ketu along with planets such as Uranus and Pluto can help show predisposition. It’s also inherent in the genes as to the current your nervous system can withstand. It is raw sexual power- it’s the wattage, the voltage you are born with to a certain degree that pretty much shows your electrical capacity in this lifetime. You can’t jump the circuit and the kundalini is self regulating.
You can go on forever in the kundalini prison camp- or you can suffer consciously as the price and solution to all needless pain. You need it or you wouldn’t have it- what you do with the ingredients for your karmic soup is up to you- and if you’re wise you’ll recognize the blessing and do something bigger than this little so called life we tend to accept as “doable, tolerable, I’m happy, that’s life.” Yeah right! It’s not life that feeds anything but servitude- because you never broke down the walls of fear that hold you captive.

Humans literally have a mental illness as a cosmic disease that makes them compelled to seek a boss, a prison camp of their very own, ways to hurt themselves to hide the real pain and other people called friends and family to support and reinforce the mental illness. We need a strict government, a coddling mommy and yes even a rich Guru to tell us what to do, how to be an acceptable person- so that we can be certain our prison camp of government, religion and family is secure. Please! A true Guru is all you need and only if you think so- because if you don’t think so- you don’t yet need- and a Guru is only working for the Goddess kundalini in you anyway- clarifying, supporting and encouraging her rise to Shiva. Devotion to the Guru strengthens the kundalini because ideally we see the Guru as the embodiment of the deity and this embodiment is representive of Shiva who is her destination- and so by externalizing this attraction that is actually occurring within strengthens and inspires kundalini Shakti to purify purify purity and rise! The Guru symbolizes everything that is liberating for her and she becomes extremely magic in the presence of the Guru when you have potent devotion. The Guru is her vessel for you and can’t you now see the magical equation and God it’s never about the individual person- even in the form of the Guru- it’s only about the grand spiral, this immortal coil- who spins within the Guru tatwa making immortal Gods out of mortal men.

The red Goddess is the supreme focus of life because she is the path to him who is Shiva the white. When the two merge, the minds and hearts of Guru and disciple, of Shiva and Shakti- God is made.

Tantra Bhakti Bliss Boom.

The one who ever was is now.

Time Immortal.

You may be experiencing her ascent because you are ready at a soul determined evolutionary level- and because the earth is in a magnetic shift that is accelerating this transmission- it’s getting really hot inside and out- and so remember, like any smart game in maya’s world, the higher the level, the harder it becomes to transition to the next level. This is absolutely only thing that is real. The kundalini is the ONLY thing real about us. The enduring spiral that is God is what comes into the body and what leaves the body- the place we end up at our time of death is totally contingent on the hole the kundalini most easily can pop out of- and for most humans it will be the anus or genitals at best and this is the reason people defecate and urinate the moment they die- the energy leaves and they are now bound in the karmic realms of where those chakras lead- like a doorway- sexual misconduct or repression-same problem- survival fears- sense pleasures -all the ordinary issues of this mortal coil- they lead to realms that are lower than the human realm- hell realms, animal realms etc. We came to earth to realize that we are Christ, Krishna, Avalokateshwara- and this means we came here to release the shackles of selfishness based on fear and to live in our hearts and flip on the switch of our God given halo. Everyone has wings and when the kundalini rises into your heart you can feel the etheric wings open and begin to lift you from the ground of this heaviness called gravity. The grave is a heavy reminder of what we haven’t yet done. What we haven’t yet done is let go and let God. Let go and let God is conscious and thankful suffering that you can blame on the kundalini but this Goddess has merely opened another door into a new room of you with many skeletons waiting in the closet. She has always been there for us, she never leaves but she haunts and she spooks and she triggers the ascent of the demons we hide so that when they peep out of their holes she can kill them. We may not like it, but until we are awakened into the Mother Light we are possessed by things -things which are not us-and we feed these things and they suck us dry and leave us hollow in the worst way. The divine serpent kundalini as the immortal coil is more wrathful than any demon could ever be- if she was not wrathful she could not fight fire with fire. These blocks poison us like a serious infection would and the poisons that emanate infect our entire lives as the face of various uncontrollable horrors-addictions, abuse, chronic illness etc.

We say “don’t writhe” while she’s doing her work but instead be aware and therefore thankful because the astral detox is over much faster that way. We say stop reacting and have a better attitude because your new shine will come faster. We say create merit because merit enables us to meet the people and circumstances that will nourish, fortify and help to purify the kundalini. Kundalini is a magnetic force and one kundalini activates and stimulates another kundalini- so people with awakened and potent kundalini power awaken our kundalini and stimulate her actions and therefore her ascent into self mastery. All siddhis, all supernatural occurrence, all psychic phenomena, all spiritual realization- all the sadhana of the masters in whatever tradition, including Christianity is solely based on the enlightening power of the risen kundalini. The kundalini is the power of enlightenment and she alone grants liberation. She is the Goddess of wisdom inherent in the electrical lightening rod of this erected serpent. The serpent then enters the heart realm and grows wings and rises into the euphoria of heaven. Rahu and Ketu are the path of the serpent. The caduceus is the healing staff of God- the caduceus is the solar and lunar nadis wrapped around the sushumna nadi- or middle path. The middle path is yoga, liberation and what the Buddha meant by taking the middle way- he did not mean- “take it easy on yourself-a little of this, a little of that- don’t be too extreme” – no he meant “tantra is the way.”

Middle path: The sushumna exists as the central channel that is the intended path for our greater evolution. The eclipsing of duality creates neutrality which is release from samsaric delusion of separation when we merge at the heart and ascend into the thousand petaled lotus at the crown at which point the Mother Light is activated and floods us with God soma and the descending kundalini can finally fill the chalice with new sanctified spiritualized blood- the bound serpent who used to be us as the acting out of confusion that we were a fearful, dying ego is now the humanization of deification of everything we came here to do. The ring of Dharma now sits upon your head as a crown of saintly light in this dim world and you prosper as God regardless of anything external because the kingdom of heaven is within and you are now walking amongst men as heaven on earth. Amen.

We have met here on earth in a time of utter darkness and this darkness was caused and is propitiated exclusively through the shaming, perverting and destroying of sexuality. Sexual energy is the fuel for enlightenment period. Sexual potency is the glow of Christ’s halo and what allows a yogi to fly. Sexuality and the purification of it’s focus which is God and it’s function which is Godhood. The sound current is the vibration of kundalini’s light and therefore mantras given though initiation are the most effective way to cherish her awareness of her divinity so that we might surrender and she might break us out of our self imposed energetic prisons that are called chakras, where our karmas reside depending on frequency. So those of us that have had difficult lives and yet seek a higher power should strive to remember her grace through sacred mantric language…

and when I talk about the planets and corresponding deities – Rahu Ketu Saturn Venus Dhumavati Kali Shiva etc- it’s all about the kundalini and how she behaves while she’s attempting to liberate you from samsaric bondage. Kali isn’t ugly, if you see her as such-black death and drooling blood it’s all about you and how she’s facing you from the inside out. The universal Mother is all love and only love. We are the problem when we fear the mercy of the Mother Light, whose light hurts because we’re hiding in darkness. We all hide and that’s part of creation. Ramakrishna said, “Kali is always playing hide and seek with herself.” And so I say it’s all beautiful and lets change our perspective when we forget that- but I also say let’s not pretend there are not consequences for our actions and that we can make progress by spiritual bypassing meaning looking for loopholes as a way to avoid the inevitable need for change and expansion of courage- whether through environment, circumstance, unhealthy disconnected relationship, hiding behind others as an excuse- and the list goes on. How long will we exacerbate the problem we so cleverly and skillfully build our day around and ignore?

And I realize I can come on strong and I do not think I know it all. I’m doing my best. I fell to earth, I got sucked in, I’ve paid heavy prices for whatever I’ve done, I made the vow, I’ve learned the hard way for the sake of all- and so I understand the treacherous confusion and the feeling of utter hopeless- no way out of this mess- bondage- stuck in a bad place- and how long it will take us to get out isn’t a magical equation- freedom is always in our reach- it’s all in your head, these excuses…

we can only be helped to move forward when we actually take a step to move forward. I say this because I see so many people who seem to love God more than this world and yet the fear of the unknown is a bit stronger than the love and this phantom fear and so stops them dead in their already well worn tracks. What I’m saying is that I believe that you are not stuck where you are, you actually want to be there for whatever the reason and- if you aren’t happy- and you and your wife or husband are living in opposing realities this could be something to look at inside yourself because this husband wife dynamic is the Shiva Shakti of your internal dynamic as well- and maybe instead of thinking that money or children are the bondage you’ve been dealt- maybe this bondage is something greedy or childish inside of your conditioned head. Or if you feel that material or circumstantial issues binds you to the prison of an office or abusive working environment -it’s not true- you should do what makes you feel fulfilled and alive no matter what the dull sacrifice, it’s not worth the price you’re going to ultimately pay for making the safer, fearful tradeoff for now. This life is your creation and self love and faith in yourself alone will move every mountain, every time.

It’s hard to watch people swim around in a gold fish bowl when they probably don’t need to. And I’m not butting in, people tell me their problems every single day and want my help- and what can I do but try to help- yet it has been her lesson to me also- I’ve come to learn time after time that it’s not help- meaning getting unstuck- that people really want- because that makes me “mean and unreasonable” it’s 100% of the time so far- just coddling, reinforcing of dependency and more mommy attention they really want. It’s such a kaleidoscope prism of strangeness, facemaking, role playing and projection I feel I’ll go insane at times- but no, I breath deeply, take the heat and persevere…what else is there?

And in the midst of it all and because of it all- I get disliked by many as the serpent won’t lie to herself anymore…and yet I go on and on strengthening my resolve because that’s all this is, “become as strong as steel and as steady as stone.” And I’m there for you even though it feels totally futile to me- because what you don’t know will actually hurt you. What you ignore is a lie, compulsive lying is ignoring the results of your actions and pretending it’s someone else’s fault or problem. What I am saying is that the kundalini both blesses us with the light and curses us with the light as well. Whether it’s a blessing or curse depends on attitude, altitude and agility.

If you have the good karma of having an awakened kundalini you might consider my words because she will destroy you out of sheer endlessly devoted love -and it’s true. She must kill the thing that stops her and you- from her’s and so your’s- Beloved. That’s why they all say, “die daily, die while still alive.” Because that’s what she requires should you have peace- surrender and submit to the fulfillment of your own liberation. We only fight ourselves who come as the other. Choose the right “others” in your life should you move up or down the chasm of the snake, the axis of ecstasy requires a leap of quantum proportion.

This is all I can keep saying, this world is a powerful wielder of supposed beliefs, confining philosophies, none of which are true. Satsang, communion, proper lifestyle adaptation and the blessing of the Guru are what it takes as far as I can tell. Like I said, I only can speak of myself and without the grace of the Guru I would be dead. How do we find, meet, know, realize, understand, accept, surrender, and merge with the Guru? Well for me and most, you must see it to be it. Human form allows you to magnetize God in action. God in action is none other than the Guru’s hand. God in disguise revealed is the Guru’s eyes and God as protection and remedy is the Guru’s presence. Physical presence of the embodiment of kundalini’s grace is the Guru. It’s not words, it’s their electrical current that rose and so will make yours rise. It’s as simple as that -stay there, stay still and stay patient. Trust and devotion- there’s never been another way in any tradition ever- and your spiritual purification is dependent  upon the electrical voltage of the Guru’s kundalini and is sustained by faith, trust, devotion and commitment.

How many of these tantric adepts with such powerful kundalini presence are there in US? Only a handful that I am aware. How do I know this- because the kundalini acts as a gauge, a barometer and she can immediately tell the presence and determine the vibrational condition of any awakened kundalini that comes into her proximity. This is really about the Goddess’s having a conversation. Whether or not you hear it is dependent on your subtly. I talk to people out of body- physically all the time and they tell me everything they won’t say to me in an email or in person- it’s telepathic and we all do it- astral travel, remote viewing, ESP- we all have these abilities and it’s because of and dependent upon our relationship to the Goddess within us. Basically when you embody her in the highest sense- and she isn’t all kinked up in your lower chakras- and therefore your ego has been sufficiently subdued- she does everything and knows everything- you are merely her dancing glorious body. You don’t have to be perfect but relentlessly flowing- meaning actively purifying- and you don’t have to have a throne anywhere but in your heart. Goddess kundalini is the creative power of life- she writes the great words through us and she sings the great songs through us- she invents and inspires through us and she carries us through across the stormy sea into the pure land of bliss.

Ramakrishna said there are three prime ways to create as God creates- procreation-as the physical act of baby making which involves very limited awareness- or creating beauty through art which she loves to do- or creating ourselves in the image of God- becoming God- who she actually is.

Couldn’t we then aspire to become this deity simply by moving out of our own way? Couldn’t we then create the inspired art of the coming golden age by being the vessel of the muse through poetry, music and dance? And in this way couldn’t we then transmute all the sludge of humanity’s useless, disowned ignorance into sublime and radiant testimonies of the beauty of life? Couldn’t we just really become the divine art? Aren’t we willing to let go and let god and so “simply be” here as me? A solid death brings a buoyant life and not vice versa. Spiritual death, being born again means rising from death’s ashes. Being baptized in the holy waters of soma is what I mean. Resurrection in the Mother Light.

If we could die now, we could finally begin to breath deeply and truly live for the first time. We could finally see our life and feel and smell and experience the Goddess through her vivid colors and her music- we could hear her laughing in the wind and we could recite her poetry deep into the silent night. We could dance like a gazelle, we could glide like satin upon this rough world no longer a furrowed victim of gravity and no longer lonely, but finally Beloved.

Om Namah Shivaya means,
“shut up and do it.”

Hahaha!

Om Kreem Kalikaye Namaha.

Sharada Devi

essence of bhakti

Dear God, and all I see is you…

the essence of bhakti, do I have to remind you, knock on your heart or whisper in you ear? I can’t tell you how to hear you, to do or not to do, to be or not to be. Your spark is unique and only you know how to fan the flame of true love. You know what foods to eat and you know how to get real. You know these things and everyone wants a star of their own to follow, I know because so do I. Where do we find him, this child divine who stands on the moon and draws circles of god? Where do we find the little girl who feeds spiders and hops over ants and prays for dead dogs? Who is the thing of beauty and what is a star? I’m starting out on two left feet looking for the right path and I’m putting all my gold on you shining one. The viper is vimala devi and that’s what he’s always called me. The python is manjushri and he’s smart just like god. The cobra is surya who wove his way to the summit, hanging on me, who is the moon with my baby standing on top. Top of the top is at the bottom of your heart. We sweep and we dust to see whose name we carved when we were still young. Young and eternal, inside of the clock. Time Immortal is the path of the heartthrob and the way we make love to the ocean. I hear you, the sound, waves crashing on rocks. Wet shakti, hard shiva, it’s always true how me make this happen. Love wasn’t love without first being space- calling all vessels, calling all vessels, will you be the chalice and the points of the horn? Holy soma heaven descends not upon a body spliced in two, oh no, there is only one of us my perfect retribution. Union of the eye strikes dawn and union of the soul strikes midnight and so union of two bodies is left in the dust of dusk. There is no other me but you and if you won’t be god I’m lost making faces in the mirror and shaving my legs.

The essence of bhakti, isn’t it funny how you take love so seriously as if someone was holding a knife to your heart. Make it bleed. Make it bleed.
Am I really alive? Is my heart filled with anything but pictures of bodies, faces I can’t remember and a disappearing moon turning black soot to an emptying strangle? The beloved ornament I thought was my soul, only decorates me when I’m feeling good and it’s sunny outside. Inside where I left you, and who knows how you’ve grown, are only echoes of footsteps and a laughter too faded to drown out these tears making noise. I never knew that even tears could cry for themselves. Maybe my tears cry for your tears because god is inside and the huge ocean and rocky shore is all in my head. And if this were true, which side are you on and could I make it across this vast water? I might die trying and that’s all I can do, because I hear love in the waves that you sent. I might die for you, I think that I would, though my head’s much too shallow- but something feels deep in the hollow of this space. Mystical soul melt. What in the world are you eating to make you so empty and light?

Prayers my beloved, holding god on a string, balloon in the sky never falling. Higher than my highest hope, lower than my burning- a song is blowing in the wind anywhere I fathom. Summer mother. Autumn moon. Full of winter and my life in spring. The clock came out and I forgot myself but I never forgot you and I never will. I remember the hands that hold everything. I remember the bodiless seaside. I remember the cloud where you sat. I remember the rain that you are. I remember your name like I remember your eyes, only bright- coming out of the tunnel with no face. Only silent coming out of the gasp with no grip. Only you, myself as the one, who brought out the world and so I love you.

I wrote you a poem when I thought how to say what can’t be said. If you look below my words you might hear me. I would bring you circles of peace and skies of eternal blue. I would bring you wedding bells and rainbow children. I would bring you the violet before sunrise and I would bring you the silver before death. I would bring myself to you in a tear the way god travels inside. I am to myself what I am to you. I am to you anything that you need. You don’t need me. Pain is my halo. You don’t need me, I’m wrinkled and worn. Soft morning moon you seem to fade more beautifully into the light than anything I have ever seen. Your sunshine never dies, only forgives and I’m filled with your promise of silver and your wrath of gold. However you look at me, I love you. However I find you, I see only myself.

There is nowhere left to go swimming angel. In the sea that pulls me I cry for only you. I have no life but to die in your eyes. God alone feels the tears of god and so nobody knows me but you. Why am I here without you? Where will I go until then? Come to me across the water, slick black water on the new moon night. Since you’ve given me circles and edges of sight, I will give you the island of me. To float or to sink, as long as you’re there, in the wind singing softly my home, only you. Wherever you are I will go, whatever you want, I will give. Flame thrower, light on the water, deep crack in the valley, swallower of me. Time Immortal where birds never die but hover in the spaceless ageless faceless glory of you. I could write a poem that went forever. I could swim forever for you. I could drown myself in dream visions watching you cry for god inside god. Did I make you love me again, are you coming back? I will go wherever god lives and I will save her. I will go wherever god dies and I will bury her with my body. I will hurl myself into flames crying out your name forever, even as ashes in the wind never land, so will I fly forever upon the wind with you.

I was going to write you a poem but it never got off the ground. I was going to tell you I’m in your world. I’m in your heart. I’m in your tears. I’m in your sparks. I’m in your eyes. I’m in your you, and I know I’m only me. God out there wherever you are, I am a flower for you, here like the light that opens. I want to be inside of you in a place without mirrors. Do I make sense at all trying to say that I’m nothing inside but a shell? Echo my heart back to me, fill me with sounds of you always. I can never get enough of my love. Your love is my only memory of god. I don’t know anybody else really who strikes angels wingless
and throws their bodies in water, who casts stars from the sky down to earth, who expects me to swim when I’d much rather fly and who hides behind clouds laughing at tears. Rings of light upon the water, halos holding bodies, floating in outer space, drowning in sorrow without song.

Cry for me and never stop. God is god in tears and love is wet and rocks are hard and faces don’t melt, they turn over. Face down on the ground, bleed into the earth. Flowers grow from
me and me alone. Star seed, star dust, the sound of tears falling back down. The mystical cloud of the places you hide crying and feeding me back to myself, remind me of how you know everything and cradle newborns. I know my love is pure because you are my love and I’m empty without you. Mothers light of god that carries the torch and the chasm, mother light of crystal daggers and evening stew, mother light of grim and dark places, mother light of eternal, unburned love, I offer flames of devotion to you. I offer tears of love. I offer my body to the earth and my soul to the sky. I offer you my wings and my sight. I offer you this empty moon disc to sit upon so that I can sing to you upon the wind across the holy waters of forever. I could have spent my time more wisely, I could have been the one you heard, I could have been the light inside you, i could have held your hand. I could have married god in heaven and I could have bowed to the mirror that you held. It’s you my yearning serpent, it’s you who wore the wings, it’s you who dangles horns and it’s you who signs the dot.

Love keeps laughing in my heart. “The one who leaves can never leave,” I heard you say that as the dog lie dead. Its not morbid, it’s my mother. Empty of blood, empty of light, as full as the galaxy and black as forever. Are you sure that’s what you want? Dreams upon paper and a heart upon stone, waves upon water and a glass full of tears. I will drink only you as you fall into me- the one who pulls venom from snakes and honey from flowers. My throat carries a snake. My head carries your name and my heart carries you home into me. Always spun like a web of two colors with no eight legged spider to cast from above. It’s me, it’s all me eating your daylight- and it’s ok because I’m dark like your eyes. Only me turning magic to light, only me on the stage stooping, only me picking up stars and flinging the world back into a dormant ruin of grief. How could you forget me?

tender flower petals make love to the lonely wind as silently he stands watching her perish.

This is the mystical marriage and story of a grander love that only knows time when she finally stands still.

Om shiva empty silver bullet. Om shakti full of guns that roar. Exploding outer space on the quiet open sea of secrets. Eclipse the one who took us and bring me back to you sharp shooter. No more of this nothing. I want some more of you. Take me empty and fill the sky with bangs. I don’t care as long as I’m there and you’re singing through every bird that falls back into the waters below, the distance between us, the face of me, the deep heart of heaven means nothing unless I can see you there eye to eye my black redeemer. Light comes last as me as you pierce the space between us. Time Immortal beloved taker of everything I cling to, take me now, the one before and after the two. Dead Ringer. Omniscient windy animal, my friend before the world began, bone breaker come back to the dot. Light signs her name as you…

you are the essence of bhakti, beautiful flower light, singing sacred bird. the door to heaven isn’t far, the bottom of love is as high as the sky. this dream is your dream. this light is your mother. the nectar of song that feeds the mystic is the prasad of the sunlight god. the sunlight is the nectar of the mystical mountain. you are my dream, my moonlight after the song. spirals of union, no one but me. on the crest of her volcano, on the edge of her sea. blue rain falling, white dove on the flame, i saw a rainbow around your head when we touched her name.

please come holy one. crystal RAM☀️

Sharada Devi

INVITE: essence of bhakti retreat at mystical mount shasta with bhagavan das and sharada devi. please copy/paste link below to view flyer and details

http://www.bhagavandas.com/schedule.html