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Wednesday, December 24, 2003
Breast Cancer.
I am perfunctory,
and most fair.
Christmas feasts Jesus's hair,
rogaine needed, need to grow where it's bare.
Cancer growing, mindless snare.
Mutation, snowy angel dust lair.
Christmas looks, and breathes,
smiling quite contrary to his mind,
and is in a bathroom, drinking wine.
Jesus is out in the party,
scoring all the chicks, getting ready to die,
and smoking pot as he lies in a bed with a certain woman,
a certain hare, an easter bunny named There.
He smiles like he doesn't care,
and feels mighty strong to sacrifice his life,
and bleed for all the humans, all the wastes.
One last night stand, one last night thought,
and his birth on his mind, seeing all the people that will worship him,
all the people he'll bind.
So he tastes There fine, sucking her breasts,
and smelling of her lust.
And falls asleep feeling tomorrow's eye bust.
Crucified on the cross, Christmas is born,
and catholics are conceived as monsters sneeze.
Merry Christmas, the pagans see.
Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night,
may Jesus be in you like a knife.
May you bleed profusely, may you penetrate deep inside.
May you open your presents of greed
sniffing your high leaves.
May you give to one--and may they smile,
a fake little maladjusted deride.
A laugh cut in two fines.
It is a merry day.
It is a merry day.
Jesus was here.
Jesus once was.
Jesus once had a birth,
from a virgin.
It is a merry day.
And for that I sadden inside.
I am perfunctory,
and most fair.
Christmas feasts Jesus's hair,
rogaine needed, need to grow where it's bare.
Cancer growing, mindless snare.
Mutation, snowy angel dust lair.
It's a breast cancer.
Naked flare.
Lovely families kiss your children while they're there.
Because death will be here, the breast cancer bare.
It'll eat you whole, and Jesus will be there.
Dead as them all.
Dead as leaves.
Dead as There.
Eaten, regurgled, snowy dreams.
Is there Jesus--is there He?
Is there God--is there He?
No. Yes.
Bleed.
Ho--ho--ho
Merry Christmas.
Go.
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