Darvish Khan Writes

The pretender plays not to love pure and natural,
but blunders his part with repetitive babble.

To require an audience is the most basic mistake:
the insecure demand a show to conceal what is fake.

Cogent rapport is well timed and sensitive-
gesture and mood are subtle and attentive.

The elegant in spirit are masters of nuance;
marathon speech is the dull praising the dunce.

The sweet waters laugh as they caress stone and earth;
the stars sing their way to man with heavenly mirth.

But from his mouth pours a flood of twisted verbiage,
or clear rhythmic speech spoken with melodic usage.

Darvish prays for the verse that praises the Master,
and begs the devil to avert the pretender’s disaster.

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[cincopa AUHAAb6RxbCt]the story of our nation is based on exceptional tragedy;
our blood soaked bravery proudly waves the flag of cupidity.

columbus came looking for gold, but returned with feathered slaves;
historic conceit, moreover, crowned him an exemplary knave.

in return for his home, the red man was traded small pox and booze;
the white businessman, sober and astute, was never one to lose.

the black african was brought in chains to generate capital;
to get rich by another man’s sweat is always most affable!

our sweet water and rich land- the elements raped in pillage,
are on chemical life support and sold as the purest sewage.

jamestown was our first corporation, the mother of us all:
the dividend is her tit that keeps us so blissfully enthralled.

darvish, america is the place to get rich by insane gain-
where god smashed his body and broke his bones in terrible pain.

note: “god smashed his body…”= a reference to avatar meher baba’s
car accident in prague, ok., in 1952.

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since the beginning, god’s own whim has always inspired us:
“who am i” has nurtured our voice from stone to singing dust.

our thirst has grown gradually to become our best friend;
it is on the glass of desire that all our hopes now depend.

love at first was scarcely an intermittent drop;
now each drink promises a bottle to be our lot.

it has come to this- we don’t know who we are unless drunk;
all but your laugh, smile, kiss and touch is trash- pure bunk!

we approach your grace with our empty glass held high;
we live with the one thought that by your mercy we die.

the dawn breeze brought the scent of strong shirazi wine;
i resolved at once to all other apertifs decline!

darvish can no longer be sure who or what he is-
he has no doubt the beloved is truth, beauty and bliss!

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In India Santa laughs and loudly farts- Jai Ho!
It’s time to harness the bullocks to the cart- Jai Ho!

The snow is falling but melting super fast- Jai Ho!
By arti it will be mud all soft and nasty- Jai Ho!

Get my long white robe and rent-a-beard- Jai Ho!
Without delay, my lovers, have no fear- Jai Ho!

We have our work to save a fourth of the world- Jai Ho!
We must collect from those with a fat billfold- Jai Ho!

Get the camera and get the begging bowl- Jai Ho!
It’s time to visit those lovely pure souls- Jai Ho!

Why mention good form and sensibility- Jai Ho!
A fund raising guru is all ability- Jai Ho!

Shiva top knot and all my mothers brave- Jai Ho!
Darvish loves to laugh with a wave- Jai Ho! Ho! Ho!

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The vigor of youth allures many to an early death;
much better to surrender all illusion with each breath.

Iskandar’s teacher was from the brilliant academy;
but desire goaded him on to ludicrous victory.

Such dominion over foreign lands is risky at best;
the defeated subject hates rulers of distant conquest.

This young nation worships the myth of class freedom,
having sought to keep half the world in financial serfdom.

Now corporate big fist pursues profit above all else:
the quarterly dividend has been supremely blessed!

Sometimes reckless youth longs to choke on puerile desire,
and on its own suffocating and tragic end conspire.

The foolish never believe that one day they will die;
Darvish must remember to always renounce me and my.

notes: brilliant academy= Plato’s academy, with Aristotle
as his successor, who tutored Alexander the Great (Iskandar).

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Nietzsche had it right when he declared god is dead:
The Christian legacy had long since been put to bed.

The fervor of Patrick paddling the Ocean for Christ,
Has now become a mega church prosperity heist!

Not even Francesco can shore up this decrepit faith;
Institutional spirit has become a writhing wraith!

All of our fetid ideas of god must be buried,
And our rotten religious sentiments cremated.

Zarathustra has returned with his beautiful fire;
The unholy truths will be placed in a funeral pyre.

“God has become man, so that man may become god”-
This new ancient truth will soon become ultra mod!

Darvish has never been so happy that god is dead:
The silent God-Man lives and talks in our hearts instead!

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The Magian Elder has long black curly hair;
His forehead shines with a light that removes all despair.

Zoroaster was the first Avatar since the “big freeze,”
even if to modern learning this is one big huge tease.

It was he in the beginning who called us to his feet;
We were grunting in our bear skins as the ice beat retreat.

The holy fire he brought taught man we live by god alone:
It is by such blazing presence that divine love is known.

Fast forward to our present flickering electronic fire-
the TV we worship now is a squawking satanic choir!

The ice is still melting, sky high chunks many at a time;
We watch the news for the latest about this modern crime.

O Darvish, the Magian Elder, with his long black curly hair
has come back once again as the compassionate Meher.

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