These stories, that have been available on
Blogspot for 10 years for free, will now only be available on Amazon at the
address above. They are contained in “Vagabon Freak”, the 1st volume
of a trilogy titled “The 7 Lives of the Punk Poofy Cats”. I have been the
archetypal starving artist in his garret, painting, drawing and writing,
writing, writing as if I were some waif crying out in the wilderness. Now I
need you, dear reader, to hear my cries and go to Amazon and buy a copy of my
book and keep me alive. There you will find my complete tale, from beginning to
end, in one place, for you to hold in your hot little hands. When you read it
straight through, I assure you, it will blow your mind.
Below are introductory paragraphs and some
pictures that I still retain to illustrate this story, hopefully to give you a
come-on to get my book. Thanks for giving me a go, TZ.
Sample:
Arthur’s concrete cave was far enough upriver from the
Ashram to be out of sight of the nosy old Swamis, bored with their sadhana and
entertained by gossip, especially the waywardness of the Aussie wannabe yogi.
He would sit out on its concrete veranda, shaded from the ferocious sun under a
thatch awning, and sing sacred love songs while clinking Old Compassion’s hand
cymbals frenetically.
He adored the Sadhu’s meditative life and when a diamond-backed
snake slithered around him he delighted in it as the cave’s penultimate mod con
and genii loci. Carrying on like the King of the Kooks he soon attracted a
motley crew of western freaks with whom he held rollicking soirees, smoking
chillums, beating bongos and playing guitars to the wee hours of the night as
if it were some exotic nightclub he might have named “Sadhu Nick’s”.
The smoking of hashish was certainly anathema to his
yogic disciplines, drug addiction a path he was inexorably led to after a life
of disaffection, topping up the peace of his meditations, quelling his
disquieted neurosis, soothing his nerves. It didn’t help that beautiful young
men continued to swim daily in front of his cave like angels from paradise,
perfect athletic bodies, innocently erotic in their play, virtually naked as
their cotton loin-cloths turned sheer in the splashing water. He felt as if his
iron-bound nerves were unraveling from his eyeballs down.
In the midst of all this tantric jungle melodrama Swami
Chidananda, head honcho of the Ashram, decided his errant nephew would benefit
from the illustrious company of the austere young Aussie, suggesting the two of
them hang out together, naïve old fellow that he was. Mukesh was about
twenty-three and a mess, his body all chopped up with running sores and his
face caved in from several years as a heroin addict.
He had created horrendous troubles for his Swami uncle by
stealing anything not nailed down at the monastery, breaking into the hospital
pharmacy and robbing the drug cabinet several times, dropping near-dead from
overdose at many of the spiritual functions, till his uncle was at his wit’s
end trying to figure out how to help the lad get over it. Somehow Arthur’s
worldly-wise, rock and roll nature would show the way to an upright,
intelligent life for the unruly young fellow or so the abbot hoped.
For a few weeks the sorry chap followed Arthur
everywhere, like a plague of flies, shattering his calm facade, for Mukesh was
a demanding brat, badgering, whining and harping on about his sorry existence.
He soon confessed that all his woes began at the age of sixteen when he was
seduced by a British Swami residing at the Ashram, a guy who had renounced the
world, dressed in saffron robes, dedicated himself to prayer and meditation,
and then avidly fucked the arse off Mukesh every chance he got, the poor boy
discovering he was gay in the process and turning to drugs to handle the abuse.
It didn’t take long before Mukesh demanded that Arthur
have sex with him; he pleaded, cajoled, nagged to be sodomized, to have his
cock sucked, to suck Arthur’s cock, whatever, anything, begging for it, on and
on, day and night. Still trying to ward off his own sexual demons Arthur was
having none of it, the ashram atmosphere was not appropriate and the guy was
too screwed up, unattractive and uncool with purulent track-marks all over his
body and cold sores around his mouth.
(If your curiosity is piqued please go to the WEB
address above and buy the book to read further.)
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| In Search of the Golden Fleece. |
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| Kashmir. |
