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Page 14
His friends kicked up a noise, but one apostle -
St Thomas – sang as loud as any throstle:
"It's an imposture. Obvious. Elementary.
Anyway, how could he pass the fucking sentry?"
Jesus meanwhile, unseen in the Easter jostle,
Was making for their place at a colossal
Speed, and he used the keyhole for his entry.
He cried: "Poke in your finger, near this rib,
And you'll soon see whether I still exist
Or the whole tale is just a fucking fib."
St Thomas came and shoved his great ham fist
Into the hole. He then became as glib
A Christian as he'd been a rationalist.
Whitsun
You've seen the cook shove larding needles in
Pork, lamb, beef or some other meaty treat,
While seated on your trattoria seat,
Hungry as hell and anxious to begin.
Fat spits and bubbles underneath the skin,
The very sizzle's good enough to eat,
And while the flame and fat and fibre meet,
Saliva dribbles almost to your chin.
This is one way to cook a fine fat pigeon,
But not the dove of pentecostal peace.
Dressed as a grilled lamb-tongue, this fluttered down
And, to feed hungry bellies with religion,
It cooked the eleven apostles good and brown
Until they spat with holy grace or grease.
Spread the Word
When Jesus died, firm in the Christian creed,
St Peter's party picked up the Lord's load
And, staff in fist, they took the Cassia road
And went about the world to sow their seed.
Some sought – lazy, or fired to feed a need -
Baccano and La Storta; others strode
To Nepi, Monterosi, where they showed
The Christian way of death in word and deed.
Nay, more – to teach the good and ban and banish
The bad, they went to lands where pagans chatter
In Russian, German, English, French and Spanish.
Their message was so simple, strong, unkillable,
The fact they spoke Italian didn't matter.
No one misunderstood a single syllable.
The Last Days
When the long annals of the earth are done
And Christ's creation's melted into shit,
The Antichrist will crawl out of his pit
And preach the dirty word to everyone,
Cursed with a wall-eye that the blest will shun,
A giant body and a face unfit
Even to have tomatoes hurled at it,
A prodigy, son of a monk and nun.
The prophet Enoch will lambast the liar,
Elijah too – they'll spring out of a hatch
In St Paul's church, between the nave and choir.
Satan will slither up from hell to snatch
His share, snarling it out with the Messiah.
And earth will be a plucked up cabbage patch.
The Last Judgment
At the round earth's imagined corners let
Angels regale us with a brass quartet,
Capping that concord with a fourfold shout:
"Out, everybody, everybody out!"
Then skeletons will rattle all about
Forming in file, on all fours, tail to snout,
Putting on flesh and face until they get,
Upright, to where the Judgment Seat is set.
There the All High, maternal, systematic,
Will separate the black souls from the white:
That lot there for the cellar, this the attic.
The wing'd musicians now will chime or blare a
Brief final tune, then they'll put out the light:
Er-phwhoo.
And so to bed.
Owwwwwww.
Bona sera.
FB2 document info
Document ID: fbd-edabde-82ee-3e41-0996-33bb-26f2-833f30
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 17.01.2008
Created using: Fiction Book Designer software
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