JABIR MEETS EARTH'S UNDERLORDS
No, we really don't live on zeta reticuli
We wallow in human lives and in your deaths.
We really don't run saucers from alpha centauri
We are as near to you as your breaths.
When he lowered his shields
by taking psychedelic mushrooms
we came inside Jack Sarfatti
and gave him his skit about hitler.
We give you hunches, insights, dreams and stock tips.
We are Muse, demon lover;
we are Lord and Lady Luck.
We can make you king, tycoon, genius or president.
And we can really fuck you up.
To connect with us and do us homage
Nick Herbert smokes too much marijuana.
But we are responsible for most of his physics
and for every single line of his poetry.
Our daily meat is human passion
We feed on greed, religion, fear and fuck.
We help the predator kill his bloody breakfast
We help the prey escape thru bloody luck.
Thru his submission to the Golden Dawn
and thru the automatic writings of his wife
we fed splendid metaphors for Irish poetry
into the hungry mind of William Butler Yeats.
(Twas we not he what won Willy's Nobel Prize.)
Roman Catholics called us guardian angels
and evil demons tempting innocents to sin.
But every ruler, every genius owes us gratitude
And we originated all atrocities that's ever been.
We on a whim disguised some few of us as "Seth"
took over Jane Roberts' beautifully submissive larynx,
and with her and husband Rob's permission
dictated lots of best-selling manuscripts.
Is there a God? Ask Richard Dawkings.
(We ourselves don't really know.)
Is there a Satan? Ask the Pope.
You want personal contact with a billion alien beings?
Then join a holy roller church in Oakland.
Or smoke some killer dope.
(Write it down, Nick: This too is a door.)
You're sure you want to meet inhuman aliens?
You're brave enough to risk your ego's death?
Then strip off your bloody armor, man. Invite us in.
We're closer to you than your breath.
We've always been.