Another Jesus Pome

[mnaz]

Jesus is my blank.
Jesus wrote my bumpersticker.
Jesus came to save the world.
Wait, that was us.

God is my blank.
God made my bumpersticker.
God came to make the world.
Wait, that was us.

Jesus fed us.
Jesus, our bus.
Hands up in disgust.
Wait, that was us.

No rest for the man.
No man for the rest.
Creator created.
Creation ate.

[stilltrucking]

If you did not delete stuff that I liked, I would not reply to this poem

[mnaz]

Just a few passing thoughts. The pace is pretty quick now.

[e_dog]

Love this.

Jesus fed us.
Jesus, our bus.
Hands up in disgust.
Wait, that was us.

No rest for the man.
No man for the rest.
Creator created.
Creation ate.

[Totenkopf]

It's not half-bad, though I prefer this, from Percy Byatch:

Act I


SCENE, a Ravine of Icy Rocks in the Indian Caucasus. PROMETHEUS is discovered bound to the Precipice. PANTEA and IONE are seated at his feet. Time, Night. During the Scene morning slowly breaks.

PROMETHEUS
MONARCH of Gods and Dæmons, and all Spirits
But One, who throng those bright and rolling worlds
Which Thou and I alone of living things
Behold with sleepless eyes! regard this Earth
Made multitudinous with thy slaves, whom thou
Requitest for knee-worship, prayer, and praise,
And toil, and hecatombs of broken hearts,
With fear and self-contempt and barren hope;
Whilst me, who am thy foe, eyeless in hate,
Hast thou made reign and triumph, to thy scorn, 10
O'er mine own misery and thy vain revenge.
Three thousand years of sleep-unsheltered hours,
And moments aye divided by keen pangs
Till they seemed years, torture and solitude,
Scorn and despair--these are mine empire:
More glorious far than that which thou surveyest
From thine unenvied throne, O Mighty God!
Almighty, had I deigned to share the shame
Of thine ill tyranny, and hung not here
Nailed to this wall of eagle-baffling mountain, 20
Black, wintry, dead, unmeasured; without herb,
Insect, or beast, or shape or sound of life.
Ah me! alas, pain, pain ever, forever!

No change, no pause, no hope! Yet I endure.
I ask the Earth, have not the mountains felt?
I ask yon Heaven, the all-beholding Sun,
Has it not seen? The Sea, in storm or calm,
Heaven's ever-changing shadow, spread below,
Have its deaf waves not heard my agony?
Ah me! alas, pain, pain ever, forever! 30

The crawling glaciers pierce me with the spears
Of their moon-freezing crystals; the bright chains
Eat with their burning cold into my bones.
Heaven's wingèd hound, polluting from thy lips
His beak in poison not his own, tears up
My heart; and shapeless sights come wandering by,
The ghastly people of the realm of dream,
Mocking me; and the Earthquake-fiends are charged
To wrench the rivets from my quivering wounds
When the rocks split and close again behind; 40
While from their loud abysses howling throng
The genii of the storm, urging the rage
Of whirlwind, and afflict me with keen hail.
And yet to me welcome is day and night,
Whether one breaks the hoar-frost of the morn,
Or starry, dim, and slow, the other climbs
The leaden-colored east; for then they lead
The wingless, crawling hours, one among whom--
As some dark Priest hales the reluctant victim--
Shall drag thee, cruel King, to kiss the blood 50
From these pale feet, which then might trample thee
If they disdained not such a prostrate slave.
Disdain! Ah, no! I pity thee. What ruin
Will hunt thee undefended through the wide Heaven!
How will thy soul, cloven to its depth with terror,
Gape like a hell within! I speak in grief,
Not exultation, for I hate no more,
As then ere misery made me wise. The curse
Once breathed on thee I would recall. Ye Mountains,
Whose many-voicèd Echoes, through the mist 60
Of cataracts, flung the thunder of that spell!
Ye icy Springs, stagnant with wrinkling frost,
Which vibrated to hear me, and then crept
Shuddering through India! Thou serenest Air
Through which the Sun walks burning without beams!
And ye swift Whirlwinds, who on poisèd wings
Hung mute and moveless o'er yon hushed abyss,
As thunder, louder than your own, made rock
The orbèd world! If then my words had power,
Though I am changed so that aught evil wish 70
Is dead within; although no memory be
Of what is hate, let them not lose it now!
What was that curse? for ye all heard me speak.

Just opening Gambit from "Prometheus Unbound" (Shelley).

http://www.bartleby.com/139/shel116.html

[mnaz]

yes... Prometheus, the perfect creator/revolutionary, more perfect than Jesus because he overthrew the Father's tyranny... or so the theory goes...

What was that Hopi saying that still-t had on his signature for awhile?... "We are the ones we've been waiting for"... or something like that?

[Totenkopf]

Prometheus as Jee-zuss, yes, that's understandable to some extent: tho' Prom. seems a bit more allegorical, or what do the Lit. snoots say, a metonym. A symbol of oppressed humanity at large. Rabble rouser, and it's not difficult to understand why that comedy team of Marx-Engels were moved by the writing of Percy Byatch (and why say Ezra Pound, while admitting PBS's great talent, took issue with his politics).

Regardless of the politics, the verse itself, like, fairly rocks.

"

The crawling glaciers pierce me with the spears
Of their moon-freezing crystals; the bright chains
Eat with their burning cold into my bones.
Heaven's wingèd hound, polluting from thy lips
His beak in poison not his own, tears up
My heart; and shapeless sights come wandering by,
The ghastly people of the realm of dream,
Mocking me; and the Earthquake-fiends are charged
To wrench the rivets from my quivering wounds
When the rocks split and close again behind;
While from their loud abysses howling throng
The genii of the storm, urging the rage
Of whirlwind, and afflict me with keen hail.""

Whoa. Maybe slightly dramatic (or is that Miltonic?) , but c'est poesia. Heaven's wingèd hound---imagine that holy bird of prey like animated in some gothic-sci-fi blockbuster .........

[e_dog]

is that Piercey Briss Shall'e?

'Is Poesy's the comicbook for tha Literati.

[Axanderdeath]

Jesus is my blank.
Jesus wrote my bumpersticker.
Jesus came to save the world.
Wait, that was us.

God is my blank.
God made my bumpersticker.
God came to make the world.
Wait, that was us.

Jesus fed us.
Jesus, our bus.
Hands up in disgust.
Wait, that was us.

No rest for the man.
No man for the rest.
Creator created.
Creation ate.

I was on the side of the road
Some fuck was
Collecting berries on in the bushes
I thought it was that guy that
From 'into the wild' (recently made into a film directed by Shaun Penn)
He thought he was Jesus

I threw a rock at him
Called him a hippy
He told me he did
NOT NEED MY AGRESSION
Said
YOU CAN HAVE IT BACK
And
Punched me
Caught my jaw
And then a truck stopped/

A large black women got out
She had plentiful roles
She asked us
WHY YOU FIGHTING?

Her semi sat there
The glistening chrome, like stars like the sun
I became entranced

Fade to white

Coming to in an office
The phone ringing
"Turn on CNN"
Says a voice of a
Over excited friend
A person I know
I have known the guy a while
Not really a friend
He might be a bit geeky you know
But
You know
I can trust him
Sure I have to DM a game of
D n D for him and his sad
Friends every now and then
They all think they are cool

And I think that fat
Black
Truck driver was about to say something
In my dream
My subconscious
My mind is vaster then the universe
I DM my own
Jail
I am the master
I am Jesus
My strong thoughts can lead my feeble ones
The strongest ones are always good

What fat black truck drivers and beating up passive hummus eaters have to do with that I have no Idea.... and on CNN? It was
911
It was 911
911 health care cuts
911 wars
911 Jesus death bombing for freedom
911 711 freedom fries
911 manipulation
911 ignorance elation
911 frementation
911 sateration
911 creamation
911 crucifixions
911 masturbation
911 justifications

911 Jesus in a 711 on 911 trying to sell the proprietor a sheep to be cut in on by a black fat women truck driver transporting to misguided 20 nothings to nowhere or death…..


G.A.P.

[mnaz]

Nice, Geoff...

God is my missile.
Jesus is my credit card.

War god family god family war bizness.
Stand up sit down fight fight fight.
God is pointed at the Commies.
Intercontinental right hook.
Robotic rhetorical
allegorical,

like a Giuliani speech...
I 911 promise 911 that 911 if 911 I'm 911 elected,
911 911 911 911 911 911 911911911911911...
Osama Hussein-a-go-go-migraine.
Make acid rain not love.
Jesus stole my sandals.
He'll pay for that...

[Totenkopf]

Those who define literature purely in political terms might be better off not doing literature. Some person screaming "Bush is Satan" at talent nite is not doing anything real profound. Shelley, like, say, Shakespeare, does politics via a fairly sophisticated literary style, however quaint. It's not talent nite, not a hustle, not insta-verse. Or so it seems.

[Axanderdeath]

Those who define literature purely in political terms might be better off not doing literature. Some person screaming "Bush is Satan" at talent nite is not doing anything real profound. Shelley, like, say, Shakespeare, does politics via a fairly sophisticated literary style, however quaint. It's not talent nite, not a hustle, not insta-verse. Or so it seems.

i love you man

[mnaz]

Oh... busted again...

I thought I was the only one left around here... just a little pissin' at the moon, if you please. (Clearly, you don't). And Bush is not Satan, more like Antichriszt...

[Totenkopf]

Thx.

Really I'm just f-in around, and hate most poesty. But those who want to do the shit, and hang out with college lit. sorts, PBS remains sort of important. Beat kitties thought so, maybe. Even HS Thompson read Coleridge, ah've heard. The LitKicks gals like romantics, or used to. Maybe a real long ode to that one chick, J_________ h and you're in business.

Literature ripped most of us offf. Dostoyevsky died broke too.

[Axanderdeath]

Thx.

Really I'm just f-in around, and hate most poesty. But those who want to do the shit, and hang out with college lit. sorts, PBS remains sort of important. Beat kitties thought so, maybe. Even HS Thompson read Coleridge, ah've heard. The LitKicks gals like romantics, or used to. Maybe a real long ode to that one chick, J_________ h and you're in business.

Literature ripped most of us offf. Dostoyevsky died broke too.

i thought that comment was about my little brain fart there.

was it.

what the fuck do you do anyway?

do you keep people's body parts in your freezor?

eat a finger every now and then?

masture bate to passages in 'zus spoke zustrasa'?

do you wear womens clothing and walk around your lonely apartment talking to your self like you over bearing mother did, and then eat a bit of her freezer burned dry hip?

totenkopf your so dead and read soooo much boring shiit, and call poetry poesy. crazy....

anyway, was that directed to me or was it directed to the guy who started the thread.

totenkopf one more thing. whats this about litkicks bitches?