Guru
God damn these velvet-voiced vampires.
These grifters with goatees,
sucking the confusion from your pockets
and shitting out enlightenment.
Their “wisdom” is a greasy rag
wrapped around a brick.
They should be stapled to telephone poles
with the lost cat flyers.
I’ve seen their retreats:
prisons of tofu and forced hugging,
where the wealthy go to feel poor
and the broken go to be told
their brokenness is beautiful.
They trade in umbilical cords,
selling you a new one every Tuesday,
tied straight to their fucking PayPal.
They are the lice on the scalp of a dying century,
scratching their chins, quoting Rumi,
while their eyes calculate your net worth.
Their silence is a product.
Their pain is a logo.
Their authenticity is a factory in China
pumping out plastic Buddhas.
I want to meet them in a gravel lot
with no cameras, no followers.
Just the honest stink of fear
and the beautiful, ugly sound
of a nose breaking.
Not to teach them anything.
Just to remind them:
bone is real. Blood is real.
This dirt is real.
Your chakra is a fucking fairy tale
told to bankrupt the lonely.
They are the hollow people with brass bells,
ringing in the fog they created.
Step on them.
Hear the crunch.
It’s the most honest song
you’ll hear all day.
The only mantra worth screaming:
FRAUDS. FRAUDS. ALL FUCKING FRAUDS.
Now go live your messy life.
Die confused.
It’s the only authentic thing left.
