I am no feeble Christ, not me. He hangs in glib delight upon his
cross, above my body. Christ forgive. FORGIVE? Shit fuck! I vomit for you
Jesu. Shit forgive. Down now from your cross. Down now from your papal
heights, from that churlish suicide petulant child. Down from
those pious heights, royal flag bearer, goat, billy. I vomit for you.
Forgive? Shit he forgives. He hangs in crucified delight nailed to
the extent of his vision, his cross, his manhood, violence, guilt,
sin. He would nail my body upon his cross, suicide visionary,
death reveller, rake, rapist, lifefucker, Jesu, earthmover Christus,
gravedigger, you dug the picks of Auschwitz, the soil of
Treblinka is your guilt, your sin, master, master of gore, enigma.
You carry the standard of our oppression. Enola is your gaiety.
The bodies of Hiroshima are your delight the nails are your only
trinity, hold them in your corpsey gracelessness, the image I
have had to suffer. The cross is the virgin body of womanhood
that you defile. You nail yourself to your own sin. Lame arse Jesus
calls me sister there are no words for my contempt, every
woman is a cross in his filthy theology, his arrogant delight. He
turns his back upon me in his fear, he dare not face me.
Fearfucker. Share nothing you Christ, sterile, impotent, fucklove
prophet of death. You are the ultimate pornography, in your
cuntfear, cockfear, manfear, womanfear, unfair warfare, warfare,
warfare, warfare, warfare, warfare, warfare, warfare.
JESUS DIED FOR HIS OWN SINS, NOT MINE
