Psychemanica

Boot Camp

“Glory be to me, glory be to me!” Shouted loud, Jamiluddin Jalal.
“He’s a prophet, he’s a prophet!” Announced his sidekick, Qasim.
“Salaanlaikum, baji!” Said Moeen, in his usual squeaky voice.
“Baji?” Said Qasim. “What baji?”
“Glory be to me, glory be to me!” Shouted loud, Jamiluddin Jalal.
“Yes” Said Qasim. “Glory be to him, glory be to him!”
“Bhai, why is baji screaming?” Asked Moeen.
“Talk sense, talk low and give respect. He is a prophet, you fool,” said Qasim.
“Oh. Then have you seen my baji?” Asked Moeen.
“Oh, you shut up, you small bastard man!” said Qasim.
“Bastard man, small, small bastard man!” Shouted Jamiluddin Jalal.
“See!” Said Qasim. “Now you have made the prophet angry.”
“Angry, very angry, Bosnia, Iraq, Sudan, Afghanistan, Mesopotamia!” Shouted loud Jamiluddin Jalal.
“Baji, what is Mesopotamia?” Asked Moeen.
Qasim slapped hard a shocked Moeen: “Bhanchodh! What baji, baji you lagai rakhi hai? No baji, you small, small bastard man, he is prophet man!”
“Glory be to me, glory be to me!” Shouted loud, Jamiluddin Jalali.
Entered Roshina Gupta.
“Moeen jee, found your baji, aye?”
“No, Roshina jee, this is not my baji. This is prophet man.” Said Moeen, looking sad.
“Yes” Said Qasim. “And glory be to him. Now kneel in front of him both of you all foolish peoples republicans of Bhutan!”
“Kneel!” Roshina was shocked. “I only kneel in front of Lord Krishna.
“And I in front of Lord Allah baji, or even Christ baji! And I have more respect for Roshina’s Krishna baji, than your prophet man!” Said Moeen, half weeping.
Qasim slapped him hard again: “How dares you two of a kind on path of aag and fires of hell burning! Glory be to him! Glory, glory I say, you hear you two of a kind on path of stupid confused liberalistic religiosity!”
Roshina: “Religion is a personal thing.”
Qasim: “Yes. Very personal.”
And while Qasim was about to land another slap on one of Moeen’s skinny cheeks, Roshina held his hand and swung a swift kick towards his testicles.
Qasim howled in pain: “Hamramzadi! Krishna bitch! Damn you, I say damn you both of you two and all your new kinds of faggot new world order consumerist pimps and prostitutes loser of traditions of glory, glory I say glory be to him!”
“To me, to me, shouted loud, Jamiluddin Jalal, “Glory be to me!”
“He needs to cool down. He needs a Coke and a smile.” Said Roshina.
“Yes, yes, Coke and a Cola!” Shouted Jamiluddin Jalal.
“No, no, great prophet, Mecca Cola, Mecca Cola! Said Qasim.
“Yes, yes and Zamzam Cola, as well,” said an excited Moeen.
“Naaaaa,” said Roshina. “Rama Cola is better!
“Oh, any Cola, bhanchodh, any Cola!” Shouted Jamiluddin Jalal. “I am thirsty, thirsty!”
Qasim was shocked: “Why do you curse, oh great prophet man? How can you use the awful ‘b’ abuse?” He started to weep.
“See,” smiled Moeen. “Told you he was my baji. Slaanlaikum baji.”





The Façade

PT: 1
Façade. One people under the gun. Who was to save them? Why was this such a problem? When can you come home for dinner?
The messiah lounged long along the bong log singing his song wrong. Everything and everyone was wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. So he promised things right. Right? Right. That was the height of delusion. Brought back sights, revived lives started fights to end wars in which only whores bled.
Satan batted his lovely red eyelids, consuming the fires of the free world and chilling them with logic. The slave nations were too busy picking noses and making sticky chinky balls and praying to the Lord for a nose job. Satan knew that. So did the messiah. So did I. So do what? So what? So?
So as the song goes: “La, la, la…” so did the messiah: “La, la, la….”
Was this all the bugger could do? Fucking la, la, la? Naaaa. Couldn’t be. Can’t see. So what about reviving lives and sights? I see. We saw him do just that. La, la, la and then viola! We saw. The blind came about and around, out of their charcoal chambers. But what do they do then? Swear an eye for an eye but forget about the tooth. Just swallowed stuff. Meat, grass, plastic and paper. And glass too.
Satan knew that. Not that he really existed. But then nor did the Lord. The messiah knew that. So it must be the drugs, he thought. Must be the drugs, he fought. Must be the drugs, he bought. Must be, must be.



PT: 2
Life seemed so much to be and hard to breath and feel and bleed in a textural void. Something to avoid, but no, the one people kept plunging in and out, in and out, like zombie crowds of hooligans reacting to warm, flat beer buzzes. Some fat butts, many thin skins, thick heads, collective stupidity, roaring, rumbling tummies, beer bellies, dead crops, rotting corpse, locust attacks, high birth rates, low mortality rates, Viagra, flash, pomp, death, poverty, disease, psychosis, depression, smiles, cries, frowns, song, dance, shit, overflowing gutters, gutted bodies, atomic bombs, shaped vibrators, heroes, zeros, cell phones, computers, video games, shame, pride…
The messiah had had enough of what he’d had. Concrete surreal scenarios, zing zang, yin yang, wham-bam Bamby lamb chop cruelty.
Must be the drugs. Must be. Must.
Get cleaned. Smoke not, joke not, and jog. What good’s a messiah who is clean? What good is a messiah who is sane? Who is sane? Is sane. Sane? Sanity. What is sanity?
So? So he hid. Hid in a cave. Outside burned a bush. The sky cried. He shivered. He cried. There. That was there and he was too. There was an angel, and he played a tune: “Conceive. Concede. Conceit.”
Must be the drugs.
But the tune continued: “Must be the Jews.”
And then all was clear. One people. Under the gun. No God, oh, Lord. He’d lost it.


PT: 3
His loss was our gain. Or was it? Just a game. What’s in a name? What good is fame? But he’d lost it all the same.
Worship of the mad. Was he mad? Boy, was he mad. Very, very. Went red in the face and other place and places and mazes, and fates were decided and bodies cured or so it seemed.
Commandments, but before that the sun and the moon and the cow and after the commandments and after thick, weed-free nirvana vegetation, compassion nailed on a cross, stale stench of God, oh, Lord, what God? Until, until, until the brave cave incident intruded to intro an outro about beheadings and behandings and bannings and beardings and bombings and blamings and endings and bendings and landings of aliens as jinns and pirs and fakirs and quwals and naats and God, oh, Lord. Caucasian shades of crusades, baits for modern Zionist market fulfillment and derailment of the balance of weed-free nirvana vegetation.



PT: 4
The messiah had got it. The loss. He got the loss to gain madness enough to see through you. But Lord God Allah Krishna Jesus & Mary had a big limb for a lamb that she carried to hide it from Abraham’s sharp legacy and shadow and vision and tribal pride and whatnot, whatever, however, whomever, how awful, now full with anger for the Lord towards his creatures on all fours in twos and mobs of twenty each.
But this messiah, our man in and at the centre of their universe and for whom his bell rang loud around her torn bosoms, but the messiah, he was not to die so heroically nor make conventional victory history.
He was not expected to. In twos and in groups of mobs of twenty-twenty-vision thing, he was no anti-Christ, no Cyclops, no returning king, no jamming angel, no, sir, no, no, no, not that he cared a bit of a lot of things and nor did he want any winks for wings, nor wrinkles to show off his sadness about things and things and that sort of a thing.
It was a pain. A pain in the ass. To be a messiah. To be. Just to be. Be. But how can he be when he can’t be so historically conventional?
And what made him to be what he became to be? Headaches instead of heartaches, heartburn instead of nail wounds, Vanilla Coke instead of poisoned wine.
What has he got to loose? Whatever he had gained was that loss. A loss lost at a heavy cost. Conforming to convention, requiring pretension and allusion to formulaic history and expectation. That pissed him off. Really it did. It did. Did. D. D for dog. D for dung. D for D. Daddy. Deadly. Dildo. Dang-a-lang-a-ling. Ding-ding. Darn. Da-da-da-daaaaa, da-da-da-daaaaaaaaa. Like Beethoven’s Fifth. Like Beethoven’s Fifth and his mad, bad Ninth. Yes, just like that. Wonderful, wonderful way to exhibit pit bull anger. D for E. A for D. Dead straight. Straight away. Dead.


PT: 5
The messiah’s anti-heroic death was all what conventional history was hoping for and farting against. Footnote. Just a footnote. Ridiculed. Tumbled into Baha’i oblivion, Catholic guilt, Sufi heresy, agnostic silence, Dadaist absurdity, general loneliness and subcontinental forgetfulness.
But what of his people? Not those under the gun. Not those holding the gun, or dicks or dildos for that matter. Those outside conventional history. Those inside their heads and mine. Those rascals. So loud on the inside, so strange and quiet on the out. I screamed inside. I played cool on the out. “I am the messiah,” said I. “I am.” “I.” My, my, what delusion. Since when was I reborn? Since he died. But what then when I die?



PT: 6
History played itself as a repeat. A rerun. Worn out. It’s a pain in the ass. A pain to be deluded. A pain to be deluded and crazy and knowing it. On the inside. Outside ruled sanity. What is sanity? Off to the cave. Onto the cross. Into the burning bush. Under the Banyan tree. Must be the drugs. Must be. Must. Must? Just modern life. Modern stuff. Credit cards, WMDs, weight watching and flat screens. Piss off to all. I’m going native. I’m going savage. I’m going. I’m gone. I’m. I. I for insane. I for Infidel. I for I.I Chundrigar Road. I say, sir. Want some tea? I want tea you to know what hell breaks my bottom, no? Go keelub daddy, mommy, eat burger and what my health is shown to cool baby punky funk kinda thingie and heaven can sound so stupid you fool shut up oye you bad man can hen have LUX Style Award haramzaday? Shan, Reema hum artiste log wah bhai wah Mullah bhanchodh, capitalist sermayadar gandu, feudal bustard oh you bastard man-hen can have hen naked in Empress Market have hijab over them Hashmi bibi so right right-wing hen handsome hand me the copy to live the life of cocking….
Piss off to all. I’m going native. I’m going savage. I’m going. I’m gone. I’m. I.
Façade. One people under the gun. Who was to save them? Why was this such a problem? When can you come home for dinner? The messiah lounged long along the bong log singing his song wrong. La. La. La …