First I was fellating an African despot
for his diamonds, next I was paying
a hooker to give me back
my teeth. You think I’m kidding
about the diamonds; I was looking
also for some gold. I almost
right, like a steamed wiener
shoved in a top-slit Wonder bun.
I unload a mouthful
of warm root beer
down the back of your neck
and tell you it’s Jesus weeping
sweet brown tears of shame. Aim
this way and give some back to me.
Well it turns out I’m totally activated
by donations. All you have
to say is the magic word,
ISRAEL! and everyone goes crazy.
If we didn’t abuse the Bible
it would cease to exist. O heavenly
flogger you should be watching me
on cable right now.
are looking like trouble, in these clouds
I’m looking for trouble.
See there, in the clouds, boiling
like a syphilitic
oatmeal snowman, that’s my face.
We will serve you if you will get us free
from the French. Then I’ll rest
a moment and thank
myself for all
the shit I’ve chewed
off my own shoe.
I asked: you gave: I snatched
candy from the collection plate and replaced
it with a baby.
My shtick’s like a turkey
stuffed full of Kleenex, my feelings
fuzzy as the mold
on the host my licks turn green.
Oh how the lord’s light is good
as a fondle
when I catch it for you
in my gums.
Sometimes the little lady and I prefer
to call my pecker The Wishbone.
I don’t know who’s luckier
but all my wishes
work for me.
Jimmy in jail and I don’t care,
Tammy crack up
and I don’t care. Wait a sec, is it
the desert in here
or is my greased-up heart
all a-sputter like a skillet
at a Friday fish fry. Jesus sure
how I redeem things
using like or as,
even if my cue
cards are crooked. Half the fun
of end times
is always feeling full.
I don’t have to be nice
to the spirit of the antichrist
but the sweet caul fat of Falwell
melting on my tongue’s
like a heavenly lozenge
in a blizzard of ash.
Jerry, that’s my feeling. It tastes like loot
in a wallet he sat on all day,
as a tobacco field in heaven.
Jerry, that’s my feeling. We’ll pray
for some miners and their parent
companies, which is where the real
action is, if you know
what I mean. Jerry,
that’s my feeling. Jesus was all for share-
holder value, maximum
returns, and when he comes back
I’ll chain him to a machine that turns
water into oil.
Mac and cheese for Christmas
dinner: Is that a black thing? Gosh,
the planet’s weirder
every day I’m on it.
To me I would
One day Jesus will hit us
like a ton of marijuana biscuits
but some of you won’t be around
to see it because why did you
build houses where
tornadoes were apt to happen?
Sometimes I feel like
a stopped clock, except
one of us
is right twice a day.
I think we’ve just seen
Mmmmm. Open wide.
# # #
Mark Bibbins is the author of Sky Lounge, The Dance of No Hard Feelings, and the forthcoming They Don’t Kill You Because They’re Hungry, They Kill You Because They’re Full. He lives in New York City, and teaches writing at The New School, where he also co-founded LIT Magazine.
“Pat Robertson Transubstantiation Engines” appeared in our Late Fall 2013 issue, Artificial Intelligence.
It was also featured as a Read More on May 22, 2014