### Amanita 21
Good Lord, Benders, what in Heaven’s name
does this prehistoric Man in Black claim?
You write of mushrooms, mystic rites—
what’s he to do with Amanita’s heights?
These ancient ones, ‘tripping balls’ as you say,
but what can their visions show us today?
Friedrich, please, take heed and see:
in their world, no Psyborg minds held the key.
No three-dimensional cage confined
the spirit of their fearless mind.
*
Hanuma saw the sky alight,
an aeroplane in demon flight.
Rakshasas feasting, swift and wide-eyed,
genii—strange of face—did ride
the ether with astonishing might,
their thousand forms a fearsome sight.
Not yet Amanita, this mythic trace,
but still within Veda’s sacred space.
Beyond Soma’s golden gleam,
other visions drift and dream.
*
### Kali and the Necklace of Severed Heads
In sylvan shades of scarlet flame,
the goddess Kali makes her claim.
With nectar cupped in eager grasp,
for shamans who in shadow clasp
her blessings fierce, her gaze aglow,
on battlefields where seekers go.
Yet Soma shuns her haunting face,
her mystery drowned in Shiva’s grace.
Wasson turned to Shiva with praise,
while Hancock wandered soma’s maze.
But Kali—crimson, raw, unspoken—
has far more sacred doors to open.
A warrior’s head in her fearsome hand,
a garland of memory’s cursed strand—
not some gory shrine to fear,
but a truth the bravest hold most dear.
She cuts the egos clinging tight,
the names we wore in former life.
Julius, Napoleon, queen and bard—
Kali strips their stories hard.
She severs roots of worldly fame,
burns the remnants of one’s name.
With sharpened blade, her fingers peel
the layers that enslave and seal.
And thus is born Nagesvara’s call—
to cast off masks, let ego fall.
The forest echoes with her cry:
“Forget who you were—back then—you die.”
*
### Vedic Version of the Berzerker Warrior from the Forest
*Artwork by Manik Man Chitrakar*
The mother from before the Vedic song,
her worship fierce, her roots grown strong.
Zimmer traced her steps in stone,
in myths from lands where earth gods moan.
Not built from Vedic fire and chant,
but from the wild—untamed, extant.
Her image born of deeper clay,
where blood and root and branch still sway.
Not of Brahman law or priestly smile—
Kali walked the extra mile.
From underworld’s unwritten tale,
she brought the storm, the sword, the veil.
Kinsley too with careful lore
unveils the goddess evermore.
Pre-Aryan flame, pre-scripted rite,
Kali came with darkest light.
A warrior goddess—death, rebirth,
a whisper of Amanita’s worth.
The mushroom’s voice within her roars,
through crimson lips to hidden spores.
A vessel old as cosmic tides,
in tearing skins, the self she pries.
So weave her into Soma’s crown;
she drank the draught then burned it down.
Unlike the drink of Rig Veda lines,
Kali wields the deeper signs.
*
For early man, in black was dressed,
each age’s sequel more grotesque.
Eighteen and more—Men in Black grew,
episodes our blindness knew.
It’s Kali now whose aid we need—
to break the lock, plant freedom’s seed.
To free us from our names and eyes,
to teach where heaven’s silence lies.
O Kali, cut this Psyborg head,
this skull with wires of dread.
Drown me in your truth-charged cup,
my candle’s flame now rises up.
Burn me clean with cosmic breath,
let my soul know form and death.
Release me from this rigid view—
Kali, break the self in two.
*
Kali, destroyer, mother, storm,
your dance annihilates the norm.
Feminine fire, strength unbound,
you shatter the world without a sound.
How strange our modern seers forgot
that you, of all, should guide the lot.
Writers tripping through the mist
left you off their sacred list.
Yet you are the mushroom’s flame,
not some plant of lesser name.
For ancients wise and myths unbroken
knew the difference in what was spoken.
Not every vine on sacred ground
wears the red cap and the crown.
So let us not fall prey to lies—
O Kali with the blood-born eyes.
Deliver us from truthless lore,
and open wide the fungal door.
*