Meatpacker Blues - original poetry

The thing to realise is that it's just
another hierarchical religion:
disaffected with our own, we look east,
through the rose-tinted dawn, for something
different. Of the beggars in Guangzhou,
the upper-middle class Buddhists, well-fed,
robed and groomed, are the worst: they hold one's wrist
in an attempt to disquiet one's heart;
it must improve their take, this black art:
money, power, wealth. And tai qi quan,
shadow boxing: my first Chinese teacher
told me, Here imagine you are holding
someone's ears. Then pull their head down onto
your rising knee. Balletic, violent.
My first and last Chinese tai qi teacher.
As Dolly sang, she of the wondrous breasts,
Shaolin, shaolin, shaolin, shaolin ... did you
have to go and break my heart? What's spiritual
about committing one's life to kicking
someone's lights out? For we have hirelings ...
who would if they could ... ever prolong corporeal war.
And the message from the mountain is:
It's a sophisticated ego-trip.
And the rest is ... let me tell you son,
there's fucking nothing there ... silence.