Issue 17, April 1998
Perry Thompson - Poem

A saint dreamed she died and her soul 
sailed invisible up to heaven where
it was nailed by thieves to an old oak. 

And Robin Christ, that thief of thieves, 
who begged for water and got piss instead,
leaned on the altar of her suffering,
giggled into her ear said -- 
this theater of magic which is my body!  
this bay of vinegar which is my blood!
take them and remember the horrors
I teased from under thy thumbnail 
when I was a voodoo doll on the juju tree 
and thou were queen of New Orleans!

And next,  Romeo Christ, that whoremonger and slave,
who longed for true love and got the cock instead,
swaggered up to Saint Cassie
where she squirmed against the bark 
and winked and spoke into her mouth -- 
swallow this.
She did.  
Her throat rose like a sparrow to the tallest 
limb where it sang a song of love and dread.

And then the Old Jackal Christ, that traitor and coward,
who wanted out and got sliced thru the ribs instead,
limped to her side and said -- 
where is the part of thee I desire?
Is it thy face or neck, between thy
legs or thy hands or ass or thighs?
Is it deep in thy body where 
the Ripper searched with blade?

From Her cruel tree gentle Saint 
Cassie sang this song to the Three --  
you write songs about my 
cunt but not about me.
I'm twenty-six dimensions 
folded into four, 
a fraction of a second after 
creation, wheels within wheels,
a dream within a dream. 
I'm the one that got away.

And They beat Their chest and cried together singing -- 
thou art the square root of minus one,
thou art quantum and curved,
the shadow universe 
dreaming us into existence!
Thou art one fine bitch!
And thou art lost to me!

They gave her half of what she wanted.

From her velvet bonds on the satin tree
she smiled on the hapless One-In-Three.

An old saviour without cash is pathetique!