Bamboo rustles if sticky yogi voices silent for so long, fierce eye-mandalas grazing through physical truth, squinting at spiritual absurdities, laughing and winking at the collosal patheticness of man’s desire to forge a life of nothing through wrenching tantric orgasms. They strive to mold nothingness out of the clay of somethingness, and worship a void of singular, consuming energy. Symbolically robed in sun, that cascades to envelope the sacrifice in light-- enlightenment, in lightenment-- a sloppy exchange of atoms to unify one with another, a literal inferno of union; they chant misty mantras to an incense infested zephyr, the sickly perfume of immortality in life, eternal spirit in death. Drinking tea of the liquidated mind soft soup of abstract impossibilities, they exhale, cycilic breath, an earth mocking roundel, and meditate on the ubiquitous gerrunds of man’s invention (feather light). And with a lost mind, a tipsy march of ant formation, we allude to the phallic embodiment of those who strive for sun but forget to honor the moon.
