christ's wandering vagina

christ's wandering vagina
is now on his right lower under-rib,
it breathes waterish blood, bloody water,
christ is ashamed of his vagina
and his head hangs down, why me? why me?
the thorns have sprung the seizures of his skull
and gaps let in uncontrollable light,
depends on the artist, but, as you know, full well,
every ancient god was both she and he
and neither he or she, was a she or a he,
this was the bivalent nature of divinities;
and they moved, like friendly smoke, everywhere;
christ's wandering vagina,
travels around his belly area,
depending on grunewald, or breughel, or bosch,
to place it (and they often painted after dinner)
in fact, you can tell how many goatskins of wine
they emptied by the uncertainty of the vaginal
target. Christ's knees are those of an old sherpa,
who must kneel-walk the packs of the explorers,
christ's eyes, you can't see; he's so ashamed
of his vagina, wandering here and there,
all over his tummy. Somewhere there,
in this crash of god streams, smashed symbols,
you will find why we are not religious;
next time you demand crucifixes on school walls,
and shout, "The cross reminds us of our shame"
think of poor christ's shame, and his agony
at watching a vagina wander round his tummy.
... Denis Kevans