a white christ beneath a darkling sky
sleepwalking into the room with you
through the window like it’s not there
to fix you with its soul eating stare

its washed out eyes, its smile so wry
its footprints grey through the heart of you
a gnarled meat bag of your worst nightmare
now occupies your favourite armchair

now ask yourself which frightens you more
burning in hell or the christ’s black embrace
your shelves now stuffed with its godly wastepaper
from your wholly worthless follower caper

how’d it happen, becoming its whore
to the saviour’s vile angelic face
seizing liberty’s hips so’s to plough her
to make more puppets for its messiah japer