The Smile Passed On

The smile passed on
By Mahakasyapa;
We can do no more
But sit and sweat;
The whiteness of the ritual;
Flower and idiocy;
One direct infectious grin;
There it is.
I am not generally in favour
Of post marital intercourse
(Jesus what a word!).
I do not believe that women
Are as fragile and sensitive
As they are made out to be.
I am not particularly concerned
That the species should be reproduced.
There is no teleology in nature.
Nature does not want me
To do anything at all.
I often do suspect
That love is a dirty trick
Serving the ends of a
Power crazed demiurge.
Ex multis unum fit.
One is nothing;
There is no difference.
Someone postulates a ground of regress,
Thus begetting ignorance again.
For a horror of annihilation
The rune of death
Turns into a symbol
Of love and peace.
Most extraordinary
And rather evading the issue.
As Abraham and Sarah,
Issac and Rebecca,
Fruitfully fucked
For hundreds of years,
Everywhere the runaway
Policeman divinity
Smiles to observe
The observation of his law,
And every now and again
Someone smiles,
Like Mahakasyapa,
Seriously imperilling
The power of the order.
I think there is an American
Inferiority complex
At not having been colonised for so long.
Someone should have said that
Love is a female trick
Proving the indeterminacy of man;
But nobody did;
I do not want to say it myself.
How can I be gentle
With those who are not my friends
When I cannot even be gentle to my friends?
Not that I think it is not true,
Nor yet that I think it is not false;
I only do not want to say-
'How may I live by parody alone?'
(Easy, that's easy, just change direction
Like a weathervane, or a charging tiger
Struck by a bullet).
With regard to man, I dispute not
That he has some form of reality, but
Like 'yes' and 'no' it is only one
Wiggle, one minor fishook
On which to get caught.
There is plenty of food in the sea.
I will be more wayout than you.
I will ride you into gibberish if
Necessary; I will ride you as a unicorn
Into a city of crazy exhibitionists;
And one day we will be in glass
Cases in the most elaborate
Museum in the world, loved as
Flowers that bloomed and wilted,
Loved as a species of wild flower,
Stamen and petal, seedbox and stem.
The only hells for original people
Are those they create for themselves
Whenever my friends come to visit
Me in hell I have to move on to
Somewhere ten times more fiendish.
The eternal principle of All Hell,
However, remains as incommunicable
As the sound of Artemis farting,
The smell of Hercules masturbating,
The taste of Olympian expectoration,
The holiness of the holy stone,
Which sharpened the holy axe,
Which felled the holy tree,
Which provided the holy timber,
Which made the holy box of matches,
Which lit the holy candles
In the holiest of holy places.
The touch of a cunt at Christmastide
My love is an inflated rubber ball.
Wrigglebottom and harlequin
Together sing a narcissistic song
Of self adulation.
'Initiate harlequin sitting at stool,
The high high wisdom of the king's court fool-
Ing around with an old man's tool-
Box full of smellies and wobbly jellies
And pregnant bellies,
Tattooed all
With the sign of an inflated rubber ball'.
There we have it, a nasty joke;
An unacceptable piece of self reference.
This play has gone on for too long,
But my song is of epic proportions.
I do not need to die for
I shall always understand.
'Meet my chick', says man.
'What's her line?' asks other.
'Fishing line', says man,
'She's an egg worker,
Cosmic egg and fishing line'.
Looking at love from the
Orthodox point of view,
I cannot understand how a man
Can idealise a girl. Further,
I cannot understand how any girl
Could fall in love with any man but me.
Everything pretends except He who is
Become perfect. Even the stone
Desires to become a doorstep, as
Aristotle saith. Each man is an incomplete
Manifestation of myself. Each woman
Is an allegorical symbol for my
Own eternal object.
Crack it all up again, break it all down.
Shimmery Sally, microphone in hand,
President queen of that diapason dictatorship,
Set in the middle of the Indian ocean,
Island of nightshade, hemp, the whip,
And a billion shivery stars,
Screams defiance at her crawling beggars,
And love to her rich, her luxurious,
The biggest slobs in the world.
There are nine towers about my city,
Nine outposts, grey castle domes.
Relics of a harder, more confident history.
Five are to be demolished for the
Construction of motorways, subways,
Flyovers, bypasses and so on.
My friend, my black familiar, my electric
Cat, is in danger of death, having recently
Taken to shitting indoors.
I wander around Westminster Abbey
In fascist mood. American tourists,
Rich, fat old bags, and young
American faced, healthy looking
Girls in trousers, arouse the annoyance
Of one who can relish the prospect
Of hard solid labour for all of the others,
While he can spin forth a culture
From out of the shadows of his own idle mind.
I imagine myself as a generalissimo,
Surveying the healthy young people of
Britain today, as potential cannon fodder
Or perhaps I should say hydrogen bomb
Fodder. A row of bare legs, all intact.
Arms, eyes, ears, reproductive organs,
All unspoiled, like so many sheets of
Blank paper, or so many cardboard
Cartons, designed for any one of a
Hundred thousand purposes.
I must erase my subsequent
Elucidation. Death conquers all.
In the end nothing remains but the
Stony grin of Megalith the Sacred one.
Evil, like goodness, is only of interest
If it covers itself behind ambiguous
Branches, leaves, petrol signs, television
Ariels, and suchlike camouflage,
Ancient and modern, and when its
Own evil essence is as much a pretence
As the hypocritical Opposite it
Uses for disguise. A handful of
Drivel, hurled in the face of
Christ as he passes, the work of the
Anarchist Iyi, may be completely,
And utterly well meant, thrown with
None but the very noblest intent
In a spirit of disinterested enquiry, and
Hardly deserving of the millstone around the
Testicles punishment, which was
Carried out in the manner
Authorised by law.
If I am really a white string bag,
Ever containing more bulky and
Unpleasant objects, then let me burst,
That I might turn into something else,
Like a spider's web or a game of ping pong.
Someone should have said that
The Copernican revolution was an
Early sign that the earth is going to
Fail in its cosmic purpose of
Becoming like unto the sun
And that it already is hallmarked
With the symbol of D. D. D. , standing
For death, destruction and dilemma.
I do not want to say such things myself.
Not that I think it is not true,
Nor yet that I think it is not false.
In my new language there is going to be
A new mood, designed for the direct
Conveyance of my meaning in
Instances such as this. Is there any
Greater disgrace for a poet than to
Extend his meaning beyond anything
That he ever could possibly say?
But perhaps man could be raised to
A more dangerous level of expression
By the institution of a new mood, and
Perhaps even our lunatics might come
Into their own again.
But we would be like psychedelic
Spiders, spinning three dimensional
Webs which fail to catch flies;
Albeit that any spider clever enough
To turn psychedelic is likely enough
To be well enough protected by
Those who build their own snares
In more than three dimensions anyway.
So? Well? What do I say?
Nothing, why nothing, but nothing at all.
Or else that the first politician
Was one of the earliest offspring
Of Satan himself. Although the
Theology here is unsatisfactory
To the point of ineptitude,
Although Satanas is not in effect
What he is usually imagined to be,
I allow it to stand, only modifying
With one inexcusable lie.
Politics is the twenty third
Manifestation of the eternal principle
Of All Hell.
Some days ago I was ordered to
Undertake a study of chemistry and
Geology, and now my room is the
Repository of the most advanced
Technological equipment in the
History of the world.
I can do nothing to prevent the two
Burglars who come in the night to
Steal our secret away. But walking
In the garden, following this mishap,
I see what I know, Edison's tower,
(Or is it Edison's column?) built
As a ladder to the moon, in every
Style that had ever developed anywhere
In the regions covered by the old Roman
Empire at its greatest extent.
There is no need for a catalogue.
Love and strife.
What of the man who strives for love?
Or the man who loves strife?
Everyone gets somewhere in the end,
Even if it is no more than an incinerator
At Elmers End crematorium. There is no
Need to fear. I shall spread love
Honour and ecstasy that perhaps
Love honour and ecstasy may
Once more take pity on me.
That was a new mood announcement.
I did not mean it.
Next time please, baby see,
Use my chillum but don't use me.
'Once', said Simon of Cyrene, 'I was
Crucified, and he just stood there and
Laughed, and Gautama and Mahomet
And Zarathustra and Moseh
All hung there with me; and there it
Was I learned where nothing meets
The other'. The people have short memories.
They do not remember their avatars.
All the follies and the cursed
Little religions of millennia of men
(And women) parade themselves before me.
I want to learn them all.
Once I had a Condition, as I would
Say if I wanted to put it into its
Place, or if I wanted to revere it
I might say that once I had the
Unconditioned.
But I would not call it God;
And it was not that most abhorrent,
That most abominable, political
Despot that seeks to find its way
Among the upper reaches of all of
Our minds. I want to experiment
With the cosmic forces of those
Who will not understand me.
I am vile, I am horrible, I am
Disgusting. A million of my
Own arms reach out inside me
To tear me to pieces in my
Self-afflicted detestation.
I am worminess seething with maggots.
I am refuse, garbage, rubbish,
Trash, shit, repulsive,
Revolting, nauseating, repellent.
What is repentance? A self loathing
So intense that Hell does not get a chance to
Stick its nose in (edgeways),
One conceivable line of escape.
Fuck, shit, I am conceited,
I am abominable, I am excremental.
Just keep away from me until
My needs are fulfilled. You look up
To the Saint, but he's a bigger berk
Than you are (even), self deluded, proud
Enough, lacking all the virtues
That made him what he is. The Grace
Of God is the arrogance of fools.
As between a saint and a mighty
Lord, the mighty lord never has
Reason to bother. Every religion
Founded upon sexual repression,
Involves a foulness, the foulness of
The soul. What soul? R. Soul.
The foulness, the besmirched anus, is
The end of the repression. The anus
Is the forcing house of worlds.
There is one explanation of all my
Sexual and excretory references;
Unsolicited, sly and unnecessary,
For those who do not wash their minds.
Not that I will ever confess
To making any headway. Horrible words
Are the words you want to use
When I want to destroy you.
The ghosts of my ancestors come to
Visit me, tall, fine and upright,
Possessed of all the worldly wisdom
That we know, and ask me to write a
Letter of apology. 'Stuff!', I had said,
'Stuff it!'
I am a mule, stuck on a mountain
Pathway. I shall, I hope, not move.
I see nothing but unlimited sensual
Indulgence, under the hill and over the sea.
I suggest an amalgam of the Bodhisattva
Ideal and that of the eternal recurrence
Of all things. Instead of passing into
Nirvana, I shall further the
Comedy, still to drive it through all its
Destined revolutions, until all is completed
And evolution is confuted.
What is possible is necessary. What
Is necessary is possible. I shall wind
Out Hell until I break the spring.
Sufficient unto the day is the judgement
Thereof, whatever that is normally supposed
To mean. Dante was a sexual pervert
Of cosmogonical proportions. But
We men are all parts of movements,
Even if only of the Danse Macabre,
That theme.
Dante was not merely a deviant, he was
Debauched. Journals of William
Arthur Nicholas King, disciplined
Flights of erotic fantasia, extending
To readers the pleasures received.
My truest wills have noses of their
Own. I sniff out gold in the dung heap,
Without debasing it in the process,
And aware of the nature of my action.
There's arrogance for you. There's a
Statement smug and sterile. A substance
Commonly regarded as of very little value.
We all know what that can do.
I am part of my own movement. It satisfies
Itself without losing all discrimination.
What criterion is satisfaction?
Only that of being able to rest awhile
Before putting Faust in chains and saying,
'You are coming with me, coming to
Flowering cactus land, coming to
The baths of ancient Rome, coming to be
Titillated upon the couch of the Queen
Of eternity; Ishtar and Aphrodite,
Isis and Mary, Freya and Kali'.
Someone should have said that
S. S. H. S. T., all artists are only playing,
Even when they talk about their work.
When we have an artist talking about
Himself talking about himself talking
About himself dot dot dot talking
About himself talking about his work,
then he will mean what he says.
But who can work through an infinite
Series? Zeno of Elea can
Help you out of that one.
Toss yourself off mate! All
Pretentious bastards. We want good
Earthy people, who can satirise all
These liars, all these slanderworthy
Friends of ours.
Each pore of my body emits a ray,
Sensitising each new possibility
For each new day. Every opportunity
Missed, is relished, categorised
And kissed, as those flies which perished
Beneath my hand, in Persia and
Afghanistan. Gazing at a beautiful
Beautiful face, can liberate
Liberate the imagination. I am as near
As I could wish, it is not so much an
Out of as a freed from the body
Experience. As I romp and
Play inside your very own soul and
Your mind, I smile back, amazed at my
Insolence, amazed at my powers, my
Unnameable abilities. Mordecai, why why why
Must you ever hold me in contempt?
-No reason- I reply, as Mordecai.
Suddenly I discover what eternity is.
The discovery gratifies my
Faust instinct, but is, in a way,
Disappointing. Eternity is a word
Constituting a cure for the temporally
Trapped. Many close analogues
Reveal themselves before me, things
In themselves, eternal moments, essences,
Self justification, sufficiency,
Samsara, Nirvana.
Even the thing in itself exudes from some
Centre or other, a pretty little ornament
Of coloured lights. Heaven or
Hell poker. Heaven or Hell dice.
The ultimate in psychedelic transdeath
Kicks. Talking about Hell again,
Hell is not really a place for the proud.
Hell is the residence of total failure.
That is not a comforting thing to say.
That is like talking about that point
In the game when you know that the dice
Are certainly loaded against you. Can
Any pleasure be more unhealthy? Any
Savour so corrupt, so vile, so
Valueless, so stupid? Or perhaps
That is wrong. I am hidden, I am
Concealed. I am the chief of a fifth
Column army. Love of unchanging
Incorporeal silent ethereality.
'We are proud to be called barbarians.
We are proud to be called intellectual teddy boys.
We are proud to be called decadents,
Proud to be called true Christians,
Proud to be called Satanists
To be called nihilists,
Fascists, racists, revolutionaries, atheists,
Mystics, perverts, anarchists, lunatics, even
Counter-revolutionaries, perhaps that is
The best tag of all'. The sage Obscurantus
Said, 'There is no enlightenment. Every
Learning is a forgetting, every advance
Is a retrogression'.
'By jingo sir, by jingo!' The aging
Colonel stands up in his bathtub and
Salutes as the strains of the national
Anthem issue forth from his transistor
Radio. Exulting in Lady Britannia, his
Monarch and his mother, or should I
Say country, his eyelids burn as he
Performs the most sacred act of prostration
Ever recorded in the annals of the
Imperium Britannicum. Twenty three
Magic. Peni Tento non Penitenti.
More of him later. As to your list of
Pejorative appellations, which do
Little more than puff you out with
Colossal conceit, what do you think
Of '(lower) middle class snob', of 'mental
Weakling', of 'useless nincompoop'
Of 'first class turd'? Well, I never
Thought of them, they should do very
Well, we have to take the rough with
The smooth, the closed with the open,
If you get my disgusting allusion,
Which I very much doubt, but which
Hardly matters at all.
The schoolmaster with his cane,
Eyes aglow and forehead grim,
Inflicts a psychedelic pain,
Until some sweetheart says to him,
'Cast aside this ire insane.
Kiss my arse, caress my quim'.
The pedagogue lays down his stick,
Undoes his flies, brings out his prick,
Inserts- and dies. Escape! Escape!
Get up, get out, out among the rooftops
Climb the red carpeted stairs of wealth
Taste and luxury, towards one final
Important or not so important decision.
Which numbered door to take, which the
Route leading to liberty? Shall we peep
Through a keyhole? Or wait for the others?
But here is a motorcade driving through
A door, and yet we are so far up, higher than
Anything but a mountain range, and so much
Larger than the world.
Drift through a river of coprophilia
And bestiality, out into an ocean
Of agnosticism and pococurantism.
Beyond that, move under our own power,
Into hatred and revulsion and a thousand
Forms of self contempt. Beyond that
Out into something whose dwelling is
The raucous howls of werewolves, the
Laughs of hyenas and the rattle of a
Flying rattlesnake. What stupid stupid
Stupidity! we can't stay here for long.
Love of unchanging… . . Oh my! Oh God!
That which has happened! Why the
Anarchism and the terrorism must
Have to take over, why the pattern appears
To remain the same, so still, so boring,
When this time all it sympathises is
Something like pornography gone haywire.
Dante knew not that Beatrice was _
_ __. Why, no one knows
What yet may be overcome, what may
Be crunched up and swallowed, as the
Unexpected eggshell in the bottom of
The coffee cup. The eternal principle
Of all disapproval, however, remains
As necessary as any form of
Discrimination, as any occasional
Judgement made according to some or
Other canon of excellent taste. And
No one sees as yet how far inward
I can see, nor yet that I see myself;
But truth is a stupid word, and I must
Be despicable when I reduce myself to as
Little as possible. All these silly
Cows are driving me up the wall. No
Longer do I want to wander around
Like an overintoxicated halfwit,
Playing drums, however well, but with
No kind of coordination. What must I
Do to acquire merit? Well,
That depends on your own particular
System of arbitrary distinctions. But it
Is a good thing to be meritorious,
Whatever that might happen to be.
Read the Pilgrim's Progress, tidy up
An intellectual, cultural, emotional,
And neurasthenic atmosphere.
The great arse wiper of the western
World, the neck of the goose that
Still occasionally lays a golden egg.
Inside or outside it makes no
Difference-or maybe it does to the
Ultimate coward, destined to die with
His ethico-political order. 'I love
Galley slaves', said the high girl.
'I love them drowning in a sinking ship.
I love them trying to tear the chains from
Their arms, or their arms from the chains.
Suffering? I love suffering,
It's so - ecstatic!'
'What do you believe? 'the wise man said,
'What do you really, really, believe?
For that', he said, as he waggled his head,
'Is what will happen to you'. He left it
At that and went away. He is a
Liar, a fascist and a sadist. I do not
Believe a word he says. In fact I feel
As if I am Mithras, and as if I have
Just slaughtered the Bull. Was
The bull ever slain, or is it all a mistake?
Never mind, smile and move
On to I know what I want but I
Just don't know how to go about getting it.
At least that is a mortal hangup,
Nothing to do with any of those timeless
Zones of ours. So as a mortal, I may
Say, 'Do not take me on trust, I apparently
Have never yet been in a position of
Total checkmate, however much
I may try to empathise with
Those who have'. The four grey walls
Of the death cell signify far more
Than considerations of secular and
Temporal expediency. 'Some people',
Says Thransippus, 'have interpreted me
As the Columbus of the Spiritual
Sphere, seeking the deep deep passage,
Through Death, Destruction and Dilemma
Through to Ahura Mazda Himself.
This is not, in fact, what I am trying
To achieve at all'. Every line is an
Hundredfold deep, every word gives
Rise to a thousand glyphs of elucidation.
At least do not try to prevent me from
Masturbating, sludge that you are,
Dreary, squirgy, sludge that you must be.
I will leap as a flying fish right out
Of the water; nothing remains but
Death and the glory of deeds.
I degrade myself talking about the Bad,
Trying to understand the Druj, the Lie,
The Cause, the hotchpotch of
Undiscriminating devotedness.
All the best schoolboys love schoolboy
Filth. 'Why must you ruin an otherwise
Excellent work of art with the
Laughter of innocent children?'
Well, all the best schoolboys are amateur
Latrinographers.
'When I was your age I had killed
Eight people. What have you done?
You bum'.
I am a pekingese dog being dragged
On a lead along Kensington High Street.
I am a quack and proud of the fack.
I am an irregularly shaped pearl
I am an onion eater. Make love to my
Crazy ways, my jesters hat and my
Bauble stick. Think of a boot
Forever. All the best schoolboys
Are sado-masochistic little monsters.
Dear psychiatrist, I'm a friend of
Whomzewatz. I want to seduce her.
I wondered if you could give me any tips.
I can give you asparagus tips.
I can give you five guinea tips. As we
All know, a strong propensity for
Punning is a sign of dementia. But
That is not why I am here. It is also a
Sign of a Shakespearian sense of
Humour. Just look at that green
Faceted Hindu goddess, from a
Deva heaven. As she writhes and
Wriggles in the candlelight, she
Sparkles and glistens like stars in a
Ganja intoxicated Indian sky.
She pains like an uprooted hair, she
Thrills like the music of Indian
Pipes in the air, dances like that
Wondrous light self luminous
Without a source, that we sense
All around us. There's a place to spend
A while, there's a love we
Can't defile. Evil man and evil child
Once the greatest love defiled.
I am a ghoulie, I am a ghostie, I am a
Beastie. Womp womp womp womp
Womp womp womp. Thou child,
Thou infant Horus, I am he, thy
Devotee. A rhymester and a punster
Were shipwrecked at sea, the one drank
Coffee, the other drank tea, the one read
Art books, the other played golf.
Both were admirers of Frederick Rolfe.
Dear psychiatrist, you gave no tip.
You were no help.
I think I'll go whip
A woman, a whelp,
And, God help me,
A walnut tree.
I am not generally in favour
Of opera singers.
I am not particularly concerned
That the species should be reproduced;
But here is one that performs in front of me.
Dressed as an eighteenth century
Romantic hero, singing almost as if
His incorporeal lungs would burst
Into a million shivery stars:
'A woman a whelp and a walnut tree
'The more you whip them the better they be'.
Don't you play games with me, young
Whippersnapper, it's long past your
Death time. O for that clear clear
Light, far away from the ghastly smell
Of rancid Hell!
Tears drip down upon my shoulder
As I long for my sleep in my
Comfortable bed. And I am not
Thinking of my garden bed, you
Morbid, gloating, dispossessed soul.
'You're just more open in every way'.
There were a number of things that I
Thought you were going to say, signs of
The shock that perhaps you understood
Completely my little matter, which of
Course I intend you should fully comprehend.
All the defences are down. They're no
Use any more, Burn down the barricades!
As I am so decadent, my invulnerability
In this respect is more or less
Complete. Connoisseur of situations.
Hollow tube to bring down fire from
Heaven. Laugh like an epicurean.
OOh what a comedown! I don't think so
At all. So what, fly, tiny winged
Creature, coward, weakling? Your
Reinforcement must be of ten inch
Thick glass contact lenses, which
Hits the nail on the head for a change.
Laying on of hands. Ooh what a comedown!
I don't think so at all. So what, fly,
Mental weakling, born of anaemic
Vampire stock? Who's away? What a day!
Take out your lenses and lie on the bed
Like a twelve inch sheilah-na-gig.
Slow, silent frenzy. I dip my toe into a
Freezing pool. Something here is in my
Hands - a pencil in one, probably, - perhaps
An armpit in the other. Now may I close
My chopped up gates, after what,
What an exhibition!
Evil and good are so much dead wood.
For those who are ceasing to
Function, I have a game, to be played
With cards or dice. I am open, I am
Revealed. I am in Southwark
Cathedral. I feel like kneeling down
And worshipping the altar screen.
I fear that I may have been behaving like
Super-Calvin; nothing remains but
Super-Heaven, Super-Hell, and the throw
Of Super-dice.

J.S.M. 1969

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