In
the name of the father, and of the son,
and
of the holy spirit on the rocks, slightly
dirty,
a twist of virgin with a bun in the oven.
In
the name of the father, and of the son,
and
of the holy spirit in the sky, where I’m
gonna
go when I die, provided I have done
enough
contrite acting, having said one
more
Hail Mary than my number of sins.
In
the name of the father, and of the son,
and
of the holy ghost, the kind of apparition
that
won’t linger in the attic of your home
it
once inhabited, mistaking you for some
Judas
Iscariot from its past, having chosen
to
spend its afterlife making mysterious
scraping
sounds. In the name of the
father,
not
the mother, but definitely the son,
not
the daughter, nor Mary Magdalene,
who
god forbid might’ve made the son come
to
realize that taking a little break from
saving
mankind does wonders for the skin,
skin
which is curiously Anglo Saxon
in
most depictions despite its Arab origin.
Let
us not forget to end this crucifixion
tribute
with the left-to-right shoulder tap
of
the holy spirit, the crossbar, the horizon.
Amen.
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