Bible

Beautiful language.
Apocryphal.
Scary shit.
Intention to scare.
Distorted story
of a man named Jesus
who lived some years ago,
I fell in love with
some years ago.
I am Magdalene.
Where are your stones?

Partaking of Flesh and Blood

"Open your mouth just right
Not so much, boy (to my right)
that mouth of yours is a gaping cavern
you are not to swallow an ostrich egg whole
smaller, daintier, softer,
with respect and faith and worship and praise
tongue flat and touching the rim of your lips
open your mouth
for you are to receive His flesh. "

Oh Boy! Is that it really?
“I don’t like the taste of blood”
a small, teary voice pipes up
and is shut up pronto by a stern glare
"Stop talking nonsense, boy", she says
"It is not really flesh
Have you forgotten all that I taught you
Now pray for forgiveness and say your prayers. "

I volunteer to lead the stupid boy
Through the path of light I walk every day
I, the smart one, with rock-like faith
on which I built my very small shrine.
Boy seems to get it, at last
I sigh and smile
My patient, little, grown up smile
And she smiles back at me
Approval jumps at me from her round face.

Then she picks up from where she left off
"Now do be careful, do not chew
For if you do, it shall spring blood
from your small white teeth, no less
your mouth shall be bloody
and sinner you shall be".

And for all my faith I was born this skeptic
I had to see, I had to know
On the big day I took a very small bite
And caught myself just in time
Froze on the spot, expecting a river of blood
To come gushing out from my mouth.

Then I took a harder bite
And harder still, till I chewed it right
It tasted of lie and treachery
All that I built, all that I saw
I swallowed, my pride and faith and belief.

Ageless

Ageless is your face unlined with wrinkles.
But my eyes have sunken, cheeks colourless.
Then, you’d rescued me from a mob with stones;
now, you seem tired. Do I cause much distress
to you, must you move on now? For, my bones
are now brittle with age, you’re still ageless.

Sunday

So, I rose every Sunday
Drowsy, wobbly, angry
Was never an early riser
And Sundays were the worst,
I was up with the Sun.
It was seen to it that I was.

Dreadful Sundays, dreadful days
A little rebellious mind
pummelled to submission
on every dreadful Sunday
Polka dots and pigtails, big brown eyes,
a dreadfully angry spirit.

They told me he lived there
I believed, for a while
Then their cleverly crafted lies
(absolutely unnecessary)
gnawed through my faith
gnawed through it with termite teeth.

Scuttled their own ship
they killed their own
with the toxin of their lies.
And then A Big Fat Atrocious Lie unbound me
and shoved me roughly
into a world of strangers.

Which faces are familiar?
I see a million of them
And for a while I searched
for eyes that would hold mine
a smile of recognition, kinship.
Now my eyes are closed, I search no more.

Those Sundays were dreadful
I rose too early to go where he lived (or so they said)
And stayed back too late
so they could speak their narcotic words
that would deaden my tongue,
so I may only listen and never speak.

And so I left.
He came with me.