Christ Is Fed Up
Christ is fed up
if He could
The Genesis of Inadequacy
And Adam took the fruit from Eve,
asking, “What the heck is this?”
To which Eve replied, “It’s that fruit
we weren’t supposed to eat.
I ate it anyways.”
Then Eve looked upon her nakedness
and felt embarrassed. “Do you think
my boobs are too small?” she asked.
“Suddenly my boobs feel like they’re
way too small.”
Adam took a bite of the forbidden fruit,
looked Eve over a few times, and said,
“Yeah, they’re way too fucking small.”
“Wouldn’t you kill
for a thing like this?”
“Of course not,”
I said, concealing my knife.
Bottles of butterfly honey and teddy-bear drippings
peeked out from the bottom of the bin,
with the dried remnants of wedding night bliss,
true love, birdsong and angel nectar
piled carelessly on top.
“No need for that garbage,” the poet said.
“I need something depressing,
the World likes depression,
the World likes to wallow in sadness and pain.”
So into a pot went asylum screams,
whippings and beatings,
a bitter cold shard from a rapist at large.
In he poured entrails and cannibal ashes,
fly paper scrapings and parasite juice.
He carefully measured the tortured words
of the Suicide Poets, dumping them
into the bubbling ink blackness.
The poet dipped in a ladle and took a taste.
“Needs more Nazis,” the poet proclaimed,
adding the contents of a swastika jar.
When done, the poem reeked of
the dark meal writhed
on the paper white plate.
“Wonderful," the World said.
"Is there a second course?”
copyright © 2006
Kaye is currently living in a box somewhere in Springfield , Virginia
, where he likes to pretend he's amusing.
His works have appeared in ken*again, Poor Mojo's Almanac(k), Real Eight View,
The Hiss Quarterly, The Lampshade, The Pedestal, and the latest Sweet Fancy
Moses. He's also the editor-in-chief of Defenestration,
a literary magazine dedicated to humor. Contact him at firstname.lastname@example.org .