christ's wandering vagina

christ's wandering vagina

is now on his right lower under-rib,

it breathes waterish blood, bloody water,

christ is ashamed of his vagina

and his head hangs down, why me? why me?

the thorns have sprung the seizures of his skull

and gaps let in uncontrollable light,

depends on the artist, but, as you know, full well,

every ancient god was both she and he

and neither he or she, was a she or a he,

this was the bivalent nature of divinities;

and they moved, like friendly smoke, everywhere;

christ's wandering vagina,

travels around his belly area,

depending on grunewald, or breughel, or bosch,

to place it (and they often painted after dinner)

in fact, you can tell how many goatskins of wine

they emptied by the uncertainty of the vaginal

target. Christ's knees are those of an old sherpa,

who must kneel-walk the packs of the explorers,

christ's eyes, you can't see; he's so ashamed

of his vagina, wandering here and there,

all over his tummy. Somewhere there,

in this crash of god streams, smashed symbols,

you will find why we are not religious;

next time you demand crucifixes on school walls,

and shout, "The cross reminds us of our shame"

think of poor christ's shame, and his agony

at watching a vagina wander round his tummy.

... Denis Kevans

From GLW issue 236