Darvish Khan Writes

The rules for targeted killing are as follows:
Piss off Big Fist, and swing from the gallows!

Do not mess with the National Security State
Or Guantanamo will be your rotting fate.

Do not try to hide from vigilante drones-
The Imperial Presidency can track your phone.

Do not think the black leader of the Free World will
Criticize the Apartheid Regime of Israel.

Do not, please do not mention judicial review,
Nor the hegemony of the Zionist Jew.

The National Security State is big moolah,
And above all else worships fear and trauma!

Darvish wonders if there is a bigger asshole
Than the Nation which shits on its very Soul?

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Rama draws back his bow and lets go his arrow;
O were it my Soul liberated from life’s sorrow!

I long to incur that blessing full of such wrath
That my valiant death kisses his feet with mirth.

Ravana was a bastard after my own black heart;
He cut a deal with Mercy that was wholly art:

The Demon-King stole Rama’s beloved Sita
To die by his hand with the gift of Amrita!

O lucky Rakshasa to have deserved the grace
To be killed by the King of the Ikshvaku race!

Tonight the Lord returns with radiant Sita
To the immense happiness of all Ayodhya.

The candle in Darvish’s heart weeps these tears
Of joy that Rama has vanquished Sita’s fears.

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Slow the spirit to burst into ardent flame:
We hem and haw about dying to our shame.

We parade our rare and precious  ego
Like it were a must-see, brilliant show!

Sodden and sodden is our dull ardor-
Our courage finds refuge in witless torpor.

When O when will this cadaver awake,
And sing and dance for the beloved’s sake?

God help us all to believe in the heart’s pain,
Help us repeat his Name again and again.

Sweet breeze, carry this groan within my breast
To his pure feet where by grace it may rest:

Lord and Friend, light a fire to all my want
Until Darvish’s shame is completely burnt.

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The Yes-Men have arrived with rare gusto:
O how the proud and pure vomit Jai Ho!

These bhaktas deny the beloved God-man
And celebrate a weird devotional scam!

O how the tap of Brahma, Vishnu and Mahesh,
Inspires the devout with perfumed rubbish!

O brother, why break your blesséd silence
To babble and babble such bloody nonsense?

Remember this: the dynasty will continue
Miserably, and to the delight of the few.

It’s time to dress up in sartorial bliss,
And chat and chat about all that’s remiss.

Darvish’s ghazals have never been so popular:
His fat divan does not sell for even a dollar!

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Long the night waiting for the Sun to rise;
the heart longs to behold your flashing eyes.

Meher is the name that consoles the heart:
remembrance is our great avant-garde art!

Age after age we yearn to kiss your feet;
only in surrenderance are we complete.

You are the only One, the one true Friend:
there is no one else on whom we depend.

We lost our eyes in this heart of darkness-
but the pain of our singing is full of bliss.

The dawn will come when the rays of the Sun
will reveal to our sight the Ancient One.

Lord and Master, may your radiant face
shed on Darvish’s heart your lambent grace.

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The Prophet smiles at all the warring tribes,
Even though ridiculed by their many jibes.

Christ laughs at the crown of thorns on his head:
Because of Mercy, he has only grace to shed.

Majnun cried and cried for his lost Layla,
And became Perfect in mad love’s Leela.

Francesco, the greatest saint in history
Became the Word through holy poetry.

The Eternal Living Ancient One is now
The One in our hearts to whom we bow.

All the Prophets and Masters of the past
Defer to the present Avatar, back at last.

This-time Savior is full of such robust humor,
That Darvish finds his old Forms stale rumor.

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In the old days, ponies were painted with color,
And we met the quarry with vigorous valor.

Now, we chase fast food burger in enameled car,
And bravely parade our prowess with tattooed scar.

In the old days, we lived in a tribal circle,
And sang bright song rhythmic and musical.

Today, we lisp a pathetic soliloquy
And desperately long for community.

Our heroic voice of individualism
Is captive like Clint in emotional prison.

One day, solar sons and daughters will arise,
And the hearts and minds of cowards surprise.

Darvish longs for painted pony and warrior
To regale the White Horse Avatar as savior.

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