Monday, December 26, 2011

talking dakini disease delirium blues

(for Barry Edgar Pilcher)

Dakini disease, burns like triangular subcontinent of molten lead contracted into the size of a grapefruit
Lodged ecstatically within the rib-cage – a shining ball of mercury evaporating into the compressed steam
Of its own dimension - like fission or too many atmospheres’ pressure on lungs and vagrant heart tissue.
Wrapped with fierce snugness in smouldering wings of compact sparkling sensation pure polyphony
Shatters raw edge of rarefied air - sucking irresistibly at stratosphere of attenuated cirrus and alto stratus
Screaming within lungs, following hard nailed glacier trail pony with breath compressed in frozen furnace:
Carnivorous ærobic barometer: knuckles glaring taught white noise snow line fluttering toward critical mass;
Never quite becoming thousand mile crater: dakini disease shimmers like the delicacy of temporary perfection.

Very brink of wonderment—context of no context—milliseconds before crash landing: moth on a respirator;
Lemming in an iron lung. Chögyam finds himself irrepressibly wide eyed in irredeemable sentient spectrum
Of unquestionable consequences: transparent in velocity of circumstances: day and night somersault assaults;
Flickering magnesium windows imploding two dimensional visions comprising completely of vanishing points,
Which explode into delirious dimensions of joy that give birth to infinity with every milligram of opulent time.
Dakini disease hums like liquid crystal display reflected in the eye of raven - clicking like diamond riding heels
Near Belsize Park—backdrop of disconnected considerations—fluttering against effortless autumnal evening
Hampstead Heath post box rendezvous replete with self immolating visions that decorate undiluted expanse
Of internal skies: unabridged, unadulterated, unabating, unconfined, concert of consequential consummation.

Chögyam pulls the ripcord yells with lascivious incendiary glee: “Choosing to leap is like choosing to live!
Choosing to live, is like choosing to love! Choosing to love, might be like mistaking the detonator in the heart
For festive fairy story invention – of for precisely placed percussion caps in the cylinder of a .36 Colt Navy.
Dakini disease glows darkly like wondrous terrible heaviness and the directionless language of basalt bassoons.
Entire miraculous weight of waterlogged planet sits squarely on every glittering molecule of time – crooning:
Like something & nothing; Like eternal waiting list procedures that cannot be cross referenced with saltpetre;
Like imminent immanence – or the possibility of unlimited certainty and uncertainty performing backward flips
In spectacular jet stream of contradictory rationalisations and correspondent perfection of imputed permutations.

Chögyam says: “I’ll dance with you. Would you like to dance? Would you like to systematise conceptuality
Like catherine-wheel of severed arteries - steel edge ice-skate namthogs pirouetting with exquisite verve
Across rolling plains of raw nerve accessories pulsating at the speed of sound like echoes of subliminal thunder
While Dakinis sing: “Form and emptiness, form and emptiness, form and emptiness, form and emptiness.”
In the meanwhile however, Chögyam weaves soothing temporal tapestries of lovely lace-work linguistics,
Required to avoid relative positions – but he’d rather sing love songs that create provocative consequences.
Love songs devoid of any trace of relative practicality: Chögyam has no intention whatsoever of being sensible,
He’ll simply ride the energy of perfect passion until his inherent lack of definition becomes gloriously apparent
In any variety of ridiculousness-phenomena that calls itself to his attention as he meanders incognito in transit.

Chögyam would rather write boundless possibility poetry—pelluscent prose—rapturously searing semantics
Whose meaning is indistinguishable from the glow of unconditioned passion – case of single malt Laphroaig.
Chögyam would rather drink peaty earth, tingling smoke, delicious pleasure and pain in non-dual brandy glass.
And there stands Barry Edgar Pilcher – utterly unwilling to travel from ‘Howl’ to ‘Kvetsch’ in three decades:
Indefatigable in his blank refusal to chant silly-billy down-beat ‘Buddhist’ rhetoric to self-imposed catchy tunes.
Chögyam would rather ride frozen winter freights train from Chicago to Ozarks in memory of Jessie James.
Chögyam would rather blow harp and hurling burning scorpions of imaginary gun-fire at dark rushing sky.
Zest of wisdom-eccentric refugees, under night’s inchoate canopy of shivering onyx, saturated malachite, and -
Livid chromium twelve bar, twelve string Dobro glissando - aching with the elation of every new morning.

Sunrise time-lapse blizzard of pure air. Whale-rock gull cry sea-spray crescendo of interminable ‘Yes!’
Unequipped with wearying lead-lined baggage of sober exactitude, stale sanity, and domesticated sobriety.
Chögyam would rather dial direct monologue speedway romantic nonsense with transatlantic great bliss!
Chögyam would rather explode the confines of ordinary reality with; vajra romance and voluptuous verbiage
Which drenches every pore and follicle with delicious meaning – inebriated with definitions of delight.
He’d rather sing with drunken delirium to every down-town side-walk shop-window display dakini
Who decorates dharmata with unbridled fluency of blazing stroboscopic never-forever whatever:
All the way! All the way! How is it possible not to fall in love with wisdom-display! The dakinis sing:
“Don’t sit under the Bodhi tree with anyone else but me, anyone else but me, anyone else but me.”

Chögyam would rather make tender yet unbearable analogies reflecting each atom of alluring association;
Reeling with strong laughter of Dakinis - he’d rather open his arms to night sky and feel the rising gale
Blowing through the tissue of sense-making. Chögyam might really—really—really, like to say:
“Are you sure you won’t dance with me even for a fractional second, that lasts a hundred thousand years?”
Chögyam says: “Let’s face the music and dance. It just might just possibly be ever—ever—ever so nice.”
And the Dakinis deliciously sing: “He’s been gone for such a long ti-ime, Hey la, hey la, my boyfriend’s back.”
The beauty of each particle of what is happening shines like the unknowable melting point of meteorite iron,
In the railway compartment of moment by moment dreaming. Uncertainty factor undermines function
Of delete key, and selects empty template of: vajra naiveté; vajra cynicism; and vajra confectionary confession.

Vajra random access memory; vajra selective access memory. Mystery macro selects same name continuously
Into vanishing point of possible eternity: vajra contemplation of repetitive detail; vajra pin-point encyclopædia;
Vajra consideration of impracticality; vajra exploration of pristine sentimentality; vajra wistfulness and vagary;
Vajra diagnosis of impossible dream; vajra sensory deprivation chamber where saline solution seems to tickle;
Vajra serendipity soliloquies under panoply of jet where powder-monkeys and printer’s devils talk peacock;
Vajra Viagra Niagara tautology conference devoid of undisciplined unicycle eunuchs and their autobiographies;
Vajra chiffon soufflé sample approximations; vajra stampede of sumptuous sequences; vajra cotillion coquetry;
Vajra transit lounge in the sky, where Chögyam has no specific comment, apart from discretely mentioning:
“This is where I seem to have taken up residence for the next ravenous interlude of immaculate moments.”


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About Doc Togden (Ngakpa Chögyam)

As the caption on the author-designed cover of Doc Togden's (Ngakpa Chögyam) upcoming collection of poetry ravings of a mild mannered maniac reads:

Tantra is Art - and a tantrika explores the sense-fields through the Arts. This work paints with the cadences of language - because the poet is both a painter and musician. He marvels at existence whilst lampooning the prevalent sociopathy of spirituality. As semantic Jazz - linguistic density jives with space, taking readers into realms where linear logic is only one possible vector amongst many. Comedy and tragedy dance, provoking a cascade of surreal impressions that change with each reading. Rock & Roll lyrics sung by dakinis erupt in counterpoint to the paradoxical hymns of a 'vicar or vajrayana' - a trans-Atlantic Englishman who raves, tongue-in-cheek, on the nature of reality. This is the first volume to be published in the contemporary genre of 'Critical Mass Poetics' as defined by the author and his students.

On the phenomenon of having two names, he writes:

"I appeared on FaceBook as Doc Togden because I wanted a fresh start in terms of the Arts. I have often found a dual prejudice to exist. If one presents as a musician / artist one is not taken seriously by Buddhists. If one presents as a Buddhist one is not taken seriously by musicians / artists. This is obviously a generalisation – and as such, probably meaningless for anyone apart from myself. It is true however, that Captain Beefheart had to give up his Rock musician persona to be taken seriously as a painter. A few Tibetan Lamas—such a Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche—have managed to evade the censorious radar of common opinion – but the same largesse of view would not seem available to the inconsequential eccentric yogi and yogini. Doc Togden is as much my name as Ngakpa Chögyam because the name on my passport—and other legal documents—is Dr Chögyam Togden. The Tibetan designation ‘ngakpa’ is hard to pronounce for most people and so, as I have a doctorate in Vajrayana Psychology I use that in everyday association outside my rôle as Lama. The title doctor releases me from having to designate myself by gender and appeals to my sense of humour vis-à-vis my fondness for Doc Holliday and a variety of musicians who have ‘Doc’ as their first name. I have five FaceBook friends called Doc and they are all musicians.

The time has now arrived to merge Doc Togden and Ngakpa Chögyam – and to allow them to be as they have always been. Hopefully those who may have looked askance at either will feel reconciled to the fact that they can talk with me as an artist and Buddhist teacher without feeling wary on the one hand or fearful of potential religious polemic on the other. I have no desire to convert anyone to Buddhism – but I do have a desire to offer aspects of Buddhism to the world of Art and Art to those who practise Buddhism. I believe there to be a common language – an essential language that speaks of the timeless efflorescence of the elements. The Arts arise from vision—from the empty space of primal creativity—and that space is the space everyone can access. Buddhists say that everyone is essentially a Buddha. I take from that that everyone is essentially an Artist. Now . . . did Ngakpa Chögyam say that, or did Doc Togden say that? Who ever said it, he’d also like to say that there is essentially no difference."

On Facebook, Doc Togden (Ngakpa Chögyam) describes himself as a "Teacher / Artist: painter; poet; author; life-style choreographer, and musician (vocalist, harp, rhythm bass, and 12 string / resophonic guitars)."

In reference to the roles of "Teacher" and "life-style choreographer", the informed reader will notice the uncanny resemblance of Doc Togden (Ngakpa Chögyam) to Ngak'chang Rinpoche, whom together with Khandro Déchen are the lineage holders of the Aro gTér. The Aro gTér is a stream of Vajrayana Buddhism in which ordination is congruous with romance, marriage, and family life that focuses on the teaching and practice of the Inner Tantras from the point of view of Dzogchen, an essential non-dual teaching.

As a writer, Doc Togden's (Ngakpa Chögyam) most recent books include an odd boy and wisdom eccentrics.