scarecrow pages
6.26.2009
Jesus Saved . . .
I peeked every second day, through the banisters on the stairs at my daddy’s, at you, earnestly leaning on a rock in Gethsemane, patent light poured down in sprinkles on your face somewhere above you, the grip on the wood stripped my knuckles white. I left you a cup of tea with three sugars, allowing you time to gather your strength for me later.
Your eyes where the murkiest greeny colour, like the sea on an ill-tempered day, my fingertips took small strolls across the wiry channels the thorns made on your forehead, all the time you had a serene look sitting there, like my hands on your face mattered. I read from The First Testament, you laughed with a donkey’s bray, slapping my ass red raw. I’d have a bruise later and would ponder, while eating Mammy’s soggy fish sticks, over your caress, your flimsy, whimsical ways. Long spindly fingers seeking divination in my shitty asshole, and I was led to believe you where the masochist.
On Sunday we became part of a film on telly, a group of fairground performers dancing around a circle in a tent and we where invited to join in holding hands with them, we all began to sing an old-fashioned song, ‘ola, it’s time to talk of Anderton…’ After this Mammy sat on the toilet with the door open and hollered down the hall ‘that song is a call for nuclear disarment’ you watched her piss sayin’ nothin’.
Jesus and I sat in Bingo with Mammy, we watched her with her eyes on the card, her tongue sticking out of her gob like an utterly demented puppy. Jesus put my hand under his robe; his pubes tickled the palm of my hand, my face burned with shame. His wounds sang when he was aroused, heads done a 180 in the bingo hall.
In the bedroom I said to Jesus:
‘Let Jesus FUCK ME” Let Jesus fuck me! LET YOU FUCK ME!’ he only smiled, got very vocal about a concern for Linda Blair. When I asked if the rumours where true that Roman soldiers raped virgins in Bethlehem with live chickens he shook his head from side to side smiling and opened his robes, His cock stood as confidently as a charming man, his cum was the brightest white of fresh oysters and when I swallowed I had long strange trips where I would roam across the ceiling while he wore my Pet Shop Boys CD out, playing the same song It’s a Sin on loop.
You never wore the sandals mammy picked up in Penny’s, you walked around the yard barefoot and afterwards sank back in the chair and I would have to wash off the dirt and dogshit with a nailbrush.
I remarked once ‘I feel like Mary Magdalene.’
My mammy’s head sprang up from her crossword and exclaimed:
‘You look like her to!’ she chuckled.
Jesus looked at mammy asking ‘Do you know who Mary Magdalene is?’
Mammy’s veiny face dragged on her Silk Cut and thought of how best to answer Jesus ‘course I do, president of Ireland isn’t it’ Jesus sighed, the thorns whined and I went on scrubbing the manky yellow shite from between your toes.
One evening near Easter after Jesus and I had sat through the box set of Songs of Praise season one he jumped from the chair announcing he was going home. My body splintered with disappointment, Jesus swept the parts of me up off the floor and took me to the bedroom. Carefully he assembled me, when I was put back together, he opened his robe, his fingers crucified me before his departure.
You were a brazen comet blazing across my ken in those days. I stuck my head out of the bedroom window, your naked body was on our roof. Moody clouds gathered overhead, you looked like an illustration in a children’s book. A seer in communion with the trees, sensing the future – I went back to bed and covered my nakedness.
I woke, twisted up in his robe, my body sticky with his sweat, grateful that at times like these, sometimes Jesus did save…
Before sleep sunk me I heard the bombs begin to fall from the sky . . .
Alan Kelly.
Alan Kelly is the contributing editor to Dogmatika. He has worked for a number of specialist magazines, Film Ireland, Pretty Scary, Penny Blood, Bookslut et al. His fiction and poetry have appeared in Beat the Dust, Lit Up, Sein und Werden, 3:AM, Gold Dust and others.
Your eyes where the murkiest greeny colour, like the sea on an ill-tempered day, my fingertips took small strolls across the wiry channels the thorns made on your forehead, all the time you had a serene look sitting there, like my hands on your face mattered. I read from The First Testament, you laughed with a donkey’s bray, slapping my ass red raw. I’d have a bruise later and would ponder, while eating Mammy’s soggy fish sticks, over your caress, your flimsy, whimsical ways. Long spindly fingers seeking divination in my shitty asshole, and I was led to believe you where the masochist.
On Sunday we became part of a film on telly, a group of fairground performers dancing around a circle in a tent and we where invited to join in holding hands with them, we all began to sing an old-fashioned song, ‘ola, it’s time to talk of Anderton…’ After this Mammy sat on the toilet with the door open and hollered down the hall ‘that song is a call for nuclear disarment’ you watched her piss sayin’ nothin’.
Jesus and I sat in Bingo with Mammy, we watched her with her eyes on the card, her tongue sticking out of her gob like an utterly demented puppy. Jesus put my hand under his robe; his pubes tickled the palm of my hand, my face burned with shame. His wounds sang when he was aroused, heads done a 180 in the bingo hall.
In the bedroom I said to Jesus:
‘Let Jesus FUCK ME” Let Jesus fuck me! LET YOU FUCK ME!’ he only smiled, got very vocal about a concern for Linda Blair. When I asked if the rumours where true that Roman soldiers raped virgins in Bethlehem with live chickens he shook his head from side to side smiling and opened his robes, His cock stood as confidently as a charming man, his cum was the brightest white of fresh oysters and when I swallowed I had long strange trips where I would roam across the ceiling while he wore my Pet Shop Boys CD out, playing the same song It’s a Sin on loop.
You never wore the sandals mammy picked up in Penny’s, you walked around the yard barefoot and afterwards sank back in the chair and I would have to wash off the dirt and dogshit with a nailbrush.
I remarked once ‘I feel like Mary Magdalene.’
My mammy’s head sprang up from her crossword and exclaimed:
‘You look like her to!’ she chuckled.
Jesus looked at mammy asking ‘Do you know who Mary Magdalene is?’
Mammy’s veiny face dragged on her Silk Cut and thought of how best to answer Jesus ‘course I do, president of Ireland isn’t it’ Jesus sighed, the thorns whined and I went on scrubbing the manky yellow shite from between your toes.
One evening near Easter after Jesus and I had sat through the box set of Songs of Praise season one he jumped from the chair announcing he was going home. My body splintered with disappointment, Jesus swept the parts of me up off the floor and took me to the bedroom. Carefully he assembled me, when I was put back together, he opened his robe, his fingers crucified me before his departure.
You were a brazen comet blazing across my ken in those days. I stuck my head out of the bedroom window, your naked body was on our roof. Moody clouds gathered overhead, you looked like an illustration in a children’s book. A seer in communion with the trees, sensing the future – I went back to bed and covered my nakedness.
I woke, twisted up in his robe, my body sticky with his sweat, grateful that at times like these, sometimes Jesus did save…
Before sleep sunk me I heard the bombs begin to fall from the sky . . .
Alan Kelly.
Alan Kelly is the contributing editor to Dogmatika. He has worked for a number of specialist magazines, Film Ireland, Pretty Scary, Penny Blood, Bookslut et al. His fiction and poetry have appeared in Beat the Dust, Lit Up, Sein und Werden, 3:AM, Gold Dust and others.
posted by scarecrow # 9:53 am 
