Utopian Jesus

I am gone
Take me to the flat screen
Where covers suck and blow
Blow each other away.
Where all is in stop action
Buzzing like mind before shotgun
Stick it up your shorts,
Tuff guy.
Hair to conceal
Playing ostrich
No winners
Only aliens
Lost in the void
I’m afraid
Of the father because


Though now only naked cold
homeless and boneless
Like a skinned chicken
Spewing blood
On the chopping block
(the head masked in red mud
staring at its flailing
manic body—thinking it so
strange that it thinks
itself half— trying to turn
[but lacking neck] a bundle of nerves
at the clock


There are those of us who thrive upon
Perversions of every kind
Who fearless dive
Into diversion and surface only to see
The face in the tidal wave
Slapping itself down
Who rise up
Float, and, bloated,
Think to drown

There are those of us who hail
A cab and only catching our wayward
Breath and looking out through
Dual panes of vitreous transference at the
Pains, now saying “outside”
Now plea “then” and “once,”
Whispering “so long” and “good riddance,” and
Only then stop to devise a
Whereto and a wherefore

This naughty, naughty world, so full of
And wicked,
Prepared for the flame
Waiting to melt away

May we make God laugh
Until he bursts invertedly
That we might thence into
The Black Hole Heart,
The Bottomless Pit of the Stomach,
The Nascent Navel
Perchance to be pumped or vomited forth
Anew and lapped by His faithful


copyright2003 by Dustin Hansen