The Dakini Strikes

Saturday afternoon – A darkened room. I lay naked on my low bed, on my back, hands crossed on my chest, ankles crossed. Then, she appeared, standing over me, astride me, she looked at my belly, my nakedness; a large naked woman, flushed red, black hair. Slowly she crouched down. I saw her red thighs, her black hair, her dark wound. Then, from nowhere, she drew a knife, a long blade, razor sharp. She thrust it deep into my belly pulling fast and clean up to my breast. A fatal wound from which blood, entrails, organs erupted, exploded. My soul too was projected along with the debris – in a burst of blood and rapture – in an explosion of ecstasy my soul shot up high into the air.

I entered a vast tent with tiers upon tiers of angels all around. They played golden clarions, bathed in golden light, pure golden sound. A sight and sound of intense delight and great bliss.

I had entered the throne room of God. Slowly I turned to face the dais, the high square throne lavishly pillowed with gold, decorated with silks and canopies of jeweled brocade.

But the Throne was empty!

A black vortex thundered and twisted the whole – tent, angels, throne and all – up into the Great Darkness and forced me down again to the earth. I was forced helplessly down through the tornado funnel onto earth. Down again into the dark wet streets of a decaying city, into the gutter, glistening in the lamp light – born again – a ranging, flea infested, mangy cur.

Brixton, London 1972