Tag Archives: Matt Panfil

Where Souls Are Sold

by Matt Panfil

 

Deep within the still-beating heart of my bloodless city

black suited bankers kneel before a throne of gold: their God—

pay sacrifice in blood that’s olive green and slippery black

the blood of products!-

products they produce in endless rows that

smoothly roll off black conveyor belts,

greasy with the slime of slickened dollar bills.

 

The worn hands of men and women tremble,

fresh from Chinese cancer villages,

their babies dead and shriveled,

tainted infant formula, toxic children’s toys—

 

while, half a world away, those who can afford it

apply synthesized oils to their naked flesh,

consume processed packaged goods,

guzzle bottled water laced with petrochemicals,

nibble shiny poison-polished oranges,

chew chicken fresh from ammonia baths.

 

It’s in this place where souls are sold

and —black with mold—

whole libraries burned in a bonfire,

blazing since the revolution,

consuming ancient wisdom,

blackened to a crisp.

 

Now,

lost shamans dip into the potent snuff,

the earthy stuff that deconstructs existence,

or, reality consensus,

 

prophets loose like mad men search for words along the plastic shore,

crushed pills like grains of sand beneath their naked feet,

while in demand instead

are talking heads which smile pleasantly, eyes lost,

and tell us everything they think we need.

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Misery is Real

by Matt Panfil

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Kali Yuga Blues*

by Matt Panfil

 

Kali Yuga blues burn brightest in the midnight hour,

teeming dark with mortal woe and terror,

rumors seeding troubled minds, haunted

by nightmare epileptic visions, flashing undaunted.

 

We’ve all been weaned on TV’s neon nipple,

 

poisoning the blood in highway veins,

seeping electric coded knowledge,

 

nourishing cerebrums soaked in overwhelming

gobs of information,

processing the stream of psychic data.

Overloaded,

we are overloaded,

immersed in toxic stimulation.

 

Minds are all but burnt out husks of tissue,

flashing dully in the skullhouse,

driving men to boredom, blind to

glory.

 

Oh beautiful forgotten world!

Science and the law of man

does such disgrace to mystery and magic,

blind eyes turned callously

from beauty,

permeating all.

 

*Kali Yuga (“the age of the male demon Kali,” or “age of vice,”) is the last of the four stages that the world goes through as part of the cycle of yugas described in the Indian scriptures. Hindus believe that human civilization degenerates spiritually during the Kali Yuga,which is referred to as the Dark Age because in it people are as far removed as possible from God. Most interpreters of Hindu scriptures believe that earth is currently in Kali Yuga.

* * *

 

Matt Panfil is a poet and experimental filmmaker from Indianapolis, IN. He considers poetry and film to be powerful forces of communication, through which he seeks to visually transport his audience to what Aldous Huxley dubbed “the mind’s antipodes”: subconscious realms of bliss and emotional states of pure awareness. He loves poetry’s unique magic, believing in its strange transporting power due to “lingual transformation of rhythm and syntax, or otherworldly diction through which primordial sensory data can be transmitted to the viewer.” The communicative goal of his poem videos, which combine music, language and imagery, is to over-stimulate the viewer, thereby inducing a psychedelic experience,  a sensory overload resulting in a newborn relationship between subject and observer.

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