The Celebrity God of Poverty/ The Patron Saint of Victimhood

People always talkin’ about

always tellin’ me

I need to get some Jesus

in my life

 

Well if I had to get some Jesus…

I’d want the Jesus Seth Green jokes about on his television show

that kills the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus

for revenge for murdering the spirit of holidays

and crashes in

Rambo style

through the windows of corporate business meetings

of multiconglomerate super powers and sprays them all with 9mm bullets.

So their wife and kids can cry on Christmas

all eight fucking nights of Hanukkah

and that bullshit Kwanzaa.

 

I want the kind of Jesus who didn’t die on the cross for the sins of those sinning on as epic a scale as The Fall

indeed it’s worse…

We the people have no Army of Angels

indeed we have no army at all…

 

I want a Jesus that came down off the cross and pimp slapped the roman across his fat fucking face.

 

I mean I want a Jesus of Justice!

Why then the wicked could get punished.

I want a Jesus that wakes you up early every morning

silently

so as not to disturb

your prey

and stalk the mighty Corrupt

through the wilds of the concrete jungle.

 

There was once a lord of retribution

and it is his name I call upon to once more to raise his fiery brand.

 

Instead we got some shitkickers son

forever dying

lying the rest of us,

for all of us,

no matter how black your soul

nailed to a cross

as a reminder

as an example

as a message

of what happens

when the poor speak up,

speak out their minds

even of love, of kindness

and respect

all things we could all, seemingly, agree upon.

 

But no-

we will have no god of Justice

we have only a victim

who like the village fool

locked in the stocks

for all to see

always

for all to know the rule of land, and men

always

for all to make a mockery of his suffering

but it’s our own suffering we mock,

for it is us my kinsmen, not some prophet long dead,

it is us, the many, the poor, the underclassed, the underpaid

that now hangs from each and every cross of silver and gold

around each fat neck, above each decadent pulpit,

bleeding out and nailed down for a god that never was,

for another god that will never be our own.

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