Nude and exorcised,
I boogied epileptic;
My triumphant gesticulation
Generated metaphysical flop –
The penal unit began to buckle.
Valhalla’s verge anticipated my return..
But Only After...
The chap in the cell next door claims to be the second coming of Christ.
He has a pest-ridden beard, infested with archangels and lice,
They traverse His perfect facial features, hirewire His golden hair extensions.
His kingfisher eye-wells plunge into the soul of the sentinels, hunting for sin:
He is beautiful.
He is frequently flanked by vortex whores:
They consume Him.
I once watched Him, mesmerised,
As he constructed a crown from unlit matches.
He has prepared this intricate circlet for a special occasion.
He preaches gospel and barks in tongues, keeping me awake at night.
He mounts sermons in the refectory and his stigmatised feet excite me.
The brother in the cell next door claims to be Next-Gen Jesus, the consequence.
He whispers through the grille, I’ll pray for you.
He quotes lines from “Revelation”, and repeatedly hints that I shall burn;
When I masturbate I can hear his chattering,
Despite the muck-spread insulation crust
Coating my cubicle walls.
Once ignited, His thatched roof blazed.
His shrouded face and the spirits therein
Melted like peeping toms, peek-sneaking into a yawning Ark.
His chalk drawn outline converted a cruciform mirror,
Reflecting concrete agony:
Copious Inserted Olive Branches.
A rack of Lamb.
The Messiah in the cell next door made my life a misery.
But this is not why I ritually tortured and killed Him
Over the course of a six day hostage situation,
Or the reason I used instruments and laboured at ending His life
In the worst manner ever Documented by connoisseurs –
Professional Doyens wept.
My motivation is perfectly clear:
I am under the delusive impression –
That I am His Father...
On the seventh day –