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02 January 2009 @ 03:36 am
The Jesus Wars (I)  
Here's some original poetry...

I'd explain what they mean and why I wrote them, but am too lazy right now to post the footnotes.

The Jesus Wars (I)

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1.

Friday the last, when sweet ole' Jesus died
crucified -- by them who lied --
by them protesting and pro-clai-ming their
love (rising loft and above) those, these
damn and smelly and uncircumcised Pharisees,

and on that Friday, two men
walked -- strutted -- in one was limpin'
his muscles atrophied to lipid
and the other,
short and compact, a barrel-chested, barrel-bullet-gunned
rage of passive fire -- covered
in complexes and cruxes.

2.

These two
fine, young gentlemen entered
(through the colonnade, yes they stepped in synchrony
the irony is swift, revenge resonates). Into
a quaint, latte-emanating cafe shop, stop,
the lady (at the counter, weeping) droop drop
-- drip, drip, drip, mop --

she paused.
And looked up curiously, eagerly. Her jealous
and pearl glazed eyes zealous,
as to see and discern -- halt, hail come the Demon Kings --
what to make of these two obtrusive intruders
"Speak," she says (and make it quick) she demands. They, lost for words,
at her ugliness (the sharp, skeletal jawline
and bone-rawed hands). And at
just what (think, speak what?)
when -- the hour turns a shade too gray --
they begin to shiver, quiver, and sway (to an unheard temp). Beat,
they gather up their wits and go.

3.

And tell and renounce (to those not worthy,
that denounce, buddy oh buddy)
their allegiances, their pains. To watch
as their sorrow gyrate up in revolutions
and rotations. Pollutions
of mind and psyche. They
cry the enemy. But do not ask
Friend or Foe? the lady, sybil nee marie nee bee-me,
burns the rims of her pupils fire-red. Fire, the
homily, the homely, the hoarsely whisper droughts
of southern arid lands.

"Lady, tell me lady, are you a heathen or Christian?"
"Neither, I am a Believer."
"Of what?" the first one asks. "Nothin'
that'll suit your liking, monsieur."

"Ares or Jesus? God or Jupiter?"
"Neither. I am a Believer." He picks up in fury, his face
turns livid, is vapid-churning, trying to race
up her mind and elicit

"An answer,
lady, just tell me that. Pick one or the other."
"Neither."
Footsteps from outside, the woman turns her attention
footfalls from within, the woman raises her eyes and meets them not
"Out," she commands.
And they (like all true-cowards) flee but one
the second catches her eye and there
from deep-casting, drenched wars and affairs, there
they agree. Listen, hush, think -- the lady tosses back her head
and the conversation stops. Flip-flop,
deadened.
Stop.

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The Jesus Wars (II)

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1.

Along beaten, treaded, leaden streets
a man comes, muttering gibberish and awaiting to meet
some lady who promised to wait—despite
the crimson (h)our growing late.
To escape (the post-everything-nothingness and delusions
of meaning) some passing fancy, something hate,
the man abruptly jerks
around—
And—

2.

in the moment before they cross, he
hails Marry and crosses the Cross. She
like a succubus writhing from Macedonia
gestures for him to come. Inveigles him to stay.
Coaxes and urges the worries (of this annals banal) world away. All, and he ask
“Are you?”
Yes. “Am I what?”
“That woman, from the shop.”
She smiles: perhaps. They enter
the threshold,
the chokehold
and upon the Tabletop, she gathers her Tarot cards
“Care for your fortune to be read?”
“Voodoo and mysticism, I am Christian—I am holy.”
She smiles: as am I, as are we.
“How about some bone-picking then? What say you?”
“I am—”
“Enough. Leave. You squander lifetimes away.”
In solemn beats, in sober cadence, the face is turned
(and innards and gizzards) inside out.
Wither-whether-wilt, oh damn the weather. The
thoughts, the meaning(less)ness, the heretical
wands and desires, blending together
merging—emerging, they are becoming. And
when she vise-grips his wrists
he lets her crush the softened bone-clay. (Chamotte from Old Chateau.) And
think: am I? am I?
Am not, am not-hing. Ring, the
church bells cling.

3.

Coward,
yellow
below
snip-snip
throat runs
dry
tongue falls
off.

4.

Jesus—Beggar of Nazareth!—is invoked
like a heathen nymph He
steps out from the wood and onto liquid fire.
Jesus—Beggar of Nazareth!—is salvation
to bring, heralding, spoiling
lives and minds (and the lies).
Jesus—Beggar of Nazareth!—is dying
dying, not stirring. And who dared to clip
the lion’s wings? And what dared to skin the sheep?

5.

“Let me tell you something of dead men,”
J. jests.
“They are dead.”
Glancing up from smoky ruffles and shuffling cards:
Think. Peer. Discern.
“My Fat Friend—you said, my Friend D.—is a romantic
so think ill of him not.
Think of him as the no-one.”
“And are you someone then?” the lady asks
and the world stands motionless. A lady serenades, spins, speaks.
“Perhaps.”
“Do you fear loathing too? Do you despise being despised?”
“No—yes—know. There is worse.”
“What.”
“Indifference.”
In-difference, the slain takes reparations. From the living
the dead rapes (and reaps) with no remorse.

6.

I will feed you honey and milk—the beggars can’t starve.
Lady looks up at J., expectantly
of some news, some sapience he has hidden—
piddled and fiddled—taken
from afar, from the Orient and even beyond. The Dead Land.
He brings her incense.
“Your time is up. I wish to converse with your friend.”
My dearest friend-not-friend.
J. leaves
heaving
exhausted and drugged, he inspects his veins
(and the vain-seeking fools
he idolized). But now, he has
a conscious, he gained. He waits to be killed.

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