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How well he knew the wives of publicans,
come-hither smiles beneath the crumbling arches,
the lingering scent of unattended cunts.
He too was half mad, fond of garum, March’s
somber unforgiving leaden sky.
Yes, he paid taxes, cursing Midas most.
Like all false prophets he was wont to lie,
the wine upon his tongue his holy ghost.
So when they nailed him to a wooden cross,
two centuries before Lord Jesus Christ,
he did not shout in anger at his father.
He sailed amid the midnight sky, across
the Milky Way—foot, finger, hand and wrist
prostrate—till he himself could go no farther.
18 May 2012