The Poetry and Prose of John Omniadeo

The Poetry and Prose of John Omniadeo

Thursday, April 28, 2011

Path of No Desire

Mostly I desire indulgence
And respond with quick repression           
But repression lacks effulgence
And I feel a deep depression
So I ease repression’s clasp
Give desire some slight expression
In a jiffy I will grasp
Onto some absurd obsession

No obsession is complete
Without somebody to obsess with
I’m too proud to whine and bleat
so it’s mostly me I mess with
till I, righteously and smugly,
find a crowd to be a pest with
their desires are fucking ugly
and it’s them I am obsessed with

Once they feel their rightful shame
I will feel superior
I know it’s not me to blame
If they are inferior
Of course it’s clear for all to see
From my blank interior
My soul’s the soul of purity
Evil’s all exterior

I gave up all my desires
Though the rest of you may rue it
I don’t like those painful fires
All that sick frustration, screw it!
I sit up here where it’s higher
And make fools like you go through it
But next time I feel desire
You might want to make me do it

(A—timely?—reprint from my writings on Ken McLeod's UM Ning)

Love to All,

John O.

Sunday, April 24, 2011

The Devil's Easter (or: Hell's Version of the Bible)

First off God let out a Shout
Let there be Light! His Light went out
Adam woke and slept alone
Eve was there in Adam’s Bone
No Real Woman—Understand:
God ripped Eve from Sleeping Man
Dreaming of the Perfect Place
In a Pretty Female Space
With a Snake upon a Tree
And an Apple meant to be
Medicine for Adam’s Wound
Eve ate, Adam ate, They swooned
Looked up Ashamed; They understood:
Evil is Evil—Good is Good
They were Naked and Afraid
Hiding in a Fig Leaf’s Shade
Cowering from MR. BIG
(Yay, Come Lord Jesus—Fry the Fig!)
Humbled Adam knew his Bride
Eve gave Birth to Fratricide
Cain offed Abel, Abel’s Blood
Cried to Heaven, soon the Flood
Drowned All but a Righteous Few
A Drunk, Three Sons, A Beastly Crew
Two were Pious, One, a Cad
Copped a Peek at Naked Dad
Soon Old Abram honed His Blade
A Wife of Abraham was Made
And through the Little Bleeding Slit
Born to Bear the Brunt of It
Ten Elder Sons of Israel
Sold Their Brother into Hell
Sold Themselves into His Pay
Joseph was Embalmed one day
A Nothing Shut Up in the Dark
Lifted Up and called the Ark
Hallelujah! HE WHO IS
Drained of All the Blood and Jizz
Shed The Blood of Abraham)
Moses gave the Ark a Law
Killing All Who felt no Awe
Joshuah was a Genocide
When the Ark was on His Side
But Solomon, in Wisdom’s Room
Built the Ark Itself a Tomb
A Veil between the Tomb and Life
Wisdom finds the Tomb a Wife
So the Virgin and the Whore
Dance before the King once more
Still the Temple hadn’t heard
Speaking of the Perfect Word
John, the Man of Good Repute
Is sired by a Doubting Mute
But when the Harlot heard His Chatter
John’s Head—Perfect—on Her Platter
Joseph was a Good Man, He
Can’t sire the Child Eternity
To take the Harlot’s Seventh Sin
How could He have ever been
A Good Man? He Who bore It’s Brunt
Issued from a Woman’s Cunt
That never felt a Good Man’s Touch
But the Father’s Prick was such
As She might LOVE; the Waters came
And washed away All Sense of Shame
And Jesus rose—She oiled Her Hands
Anointed Him, He now commands
Good AND Evil at His Sides
So the Devil’s House Divides
Against Itself and Satan falls
(A Rise for those with any Balls!)
Watch how Scripture comes to pass
God must get Himself Some Ass
Ride it in the Public View
Do a Shocking Thing or Two
LOVE rears up It’s Ugly Head
One Hundred and Fourty-Four Thousand Dead
And All are Rescued but the Few
Lord Jesus asks, “Are You Good too?
Would You save Your Soul and earn
Your Peace? Or would you gladly burn
With Passion on a Cross to spend
Your Spirit? Do You dare to rend
The Veil between the Tomb and Life?
Dare to pierce Your Father’s Wife?
Hate Your Parents for My Sake?
Wed the Dove unto the Snake?
Burn away the World of Lies?
Do You want Salvation’s Prize?
GO TO HELL! Don’t rise above
Three Maries are the Ones I LOVE
One a Mother, One a Curse
One a Harlot and a Nurse
And All are One—I AM a Whoreson
Bastard of My Father’s Foursome
Jesus Christ, I AM the King
Sin and Death, I LOVE Their Sting
Crushed as Seed and Baked as Bread

"Cain offed Abel, Abel’s Blood
Cried to Heaven, then the Flood
Blood and Water I make Wine
Come and have a Drink sometime!
Juice of Abram’s Shriveled Tissue
And My Mother’s Monthly Issue
And My Father’s Daily Seed
Jesus I AM Christ indeed
Now let’s fry a Little Fish
That means YOU get in the Dish
There’s a Meal to make us Full
Served up on a Human Skull
It’s a Good Meal if You think
You can drink the Cup I drink"

War on Earth and Mercy Wild
God and Satan Reconciled


(from Mercy Burn, or The Mr. Bones Doggone Versations
a Mystery Play by John Omniadeo
Don't look for it in your local bookstore.)

Love to All,

- John O.

Saturday, April 9, 2011

John O.’s Pointing Out Instructions (Whereby Paranoia becomes the Path)

Don’t trust Them and don’t trust You
Don’t trust Skies of Grey or Blue
Don’t trust Life and don’t trust Death
Don’t trust Following Your Breath

Don’t trust Buddha; don’t trust God
Don’t trust Your Lousy or Hot Bod
Don’t trust Pride and don’t trust Shame
Don’t trust the Cock and Pussy Game

Don’t trust Gay and don’t trust Straight
Don’t trust Love and don’t trust Hate
Nor Attachment nor Aversion
Nor Indifference (That’s the Worst One)

Don’t trust Body; don’t trust Mind
Don’t trust Leave-It-All-Behind
Don’t trust Thin and don’t trust Fat
Don’t trust Neither-This-Nor-That

Don’t trust Painful Memory
Don’t trust “I need Therapy”
Don’t trust You don’t—Perhaps You do
Don’t trust They All are helping You

Don’t trust Scientists or Reason
Don’t trust Wise Philosophies an’
Don’t trust Vajrayana, Zen
Don’t trust Barbie—don’t trust Ken

Don’t trust Sober; don’t trust Drugs
Don’t trust Family and Hugs
Don’t trust Dollars, Pesos, Francs
Don’t trust John O.’s Asshole Pranks

Don’t trust Rinzai; don’t trust Soto
Don’t trust Dorothy or Toto
Don’t trust Those Behind the Curtain
Don’t trust Teachers—They’re All Hurtin

“So, What can I trust?” You ask
Answering’s a Hopeless Task
But John O.'s a Hopeless Dude
Here’s His Answer, Rhymed and Crude:

Find Some Way to Concentration
Maybe try Some Meditation
You’ve Six Senses—Learn to Mind ‘em
Now turn Mind to Look Behind ‘em

What You find still can't be Trusted
If You name It—Whoah! You’re Busted!
You might think that It is You
That’s a Thought You can’t trust too

What You can’t find, don’t trust either
Just relax and take a Breather
Let It move You, let It weave You
Let It groove You, let It breathe You

Let It mind You, let It live You
Let It find You and forgive You
In Dharamsala or El Paso
Don’t forget: You’re still an Asshole!

Don’t think It’s not He or She
Don’t think It’s Both or Either, please,
Don’t try not to think You’ve found It
But, Jeez, don’t form a Cult around It

Don’t say, “It’s Good!” Don’t say, “It’s Bad!”
Don’t let It make You Happy, Sad
Or In-Between, but let It thrill You
Let It hurt You—let It kill You

I bow down to All Paranoids. I bow to You, Dear Reader.

Love to All,

John O.