Death of Yoga

The death of yoga
Is cessation of concepts
So leave me the eff alone
While I navigate this pit beneath
The castles of nouveau richesse
Built of hope and fear, late and soon,
Storehouses for dull awareness that
There is no yoga in yogaville
No sages or ignorami
Only we, a single eye
Glancing sidelong and sardonic
Grafted to a pyramid's tip
Alloy wheels and bucket seats
Jutting below our pelvis
We recite a poet's homily
About duty, kin and justified murder
When god shows his blue face
Of pantheistic Superdeath
Heel scratching ear quizzically
Let's talk union and multiplicity
Progressivism and final concerns,
Plumb the depths of gourmet humble pie,
Stare antinomies back in the corner,
And rue the good demise
Of stiff upper lip and rectitudes.
We wind down slowly,
Splayed on cold sticky mats
And serve the old reaper
His due.