he smiled with fondness to recall that fated
night when he and hebrews thirteen ate
together for the final time and there
was judas on a chair pontificating.

and all the marys weeping at the cross
and all the lost before their awful Los
were all his holy shattered self alike.
the stone they rolled already thick with moss,

the mossy jungle, all its crawling mites
marauding, birds on census flights at night,
their microparasitic stowaways,
in every living birth he realights

unfailingly. all microscopic nations
and all those of insects and crustaceans
patiently were borne on purpose on
the back on which he bore all of creation.

the boche, debauched with lust for blood and power,
total anschaffung in view, devoured
their potential. up their empire rose-
in sour monumental smoky towers.

and there he was again, the sour clouds,
the generation bent beneath them cowed
and sober, those already planning to
rebuild, the breath on which they made their vows.

he is eternal will that does not tire.
the will that pulls the plants towards the sky
rebuilding life from atomized remains
with nothing left behind unreinspired.

he's been through countless consummation sighs
and passed between innumerable thighs.
the cord that binds all to our ancestry
and sounds the neverending baby's cry.

he is the salivating idolators
who bet their assured now against their later.
he is the priest, he is the idol, and
the seed made useless by the masturbators.

their far-flung farce can fill their arse, he'll take
the scenic route that winds about the place
eternally or death will not be long.
life's too short for putting up for stake.

a chaopolitan who needs no rest
he deftly leaps from breast to breast to breast.
dying's easy, he can do it sleeping,
bob's your uncle, consummatum est