I took Jesus out the back
for the beating I’d been saving,
told him that coffee and wanking
were not the gifts I’d asked for
as I cracked another rib of
someone else’s saviour.
I stood and I sweated
looked down on his blood matted
hair, till he rose again
kicked me in my unnecessary nuts,
turned my cheek towards him,
butted me with unholy force.
We sat together in mute fury
for perhaps a day or two
He spoke first, lisping
with four teeth gone,
something about a road trip
in May to East Damascus,
and how he wished people
would play less sudoku .
You’re the boss, I said,
don’t let the numbers add up,
to which he almost smiled
and wrote it in the book.
He writes me periodically
tells me of surf up adventures,
how the family business
gets tougher by the millennia.
We never really bonded
perhaps he’s just lonely too.
