Pseudo-Christ

In my world there are many street vendors
reciting bushmeat in hamburger stalls;
the least amongst them owns a restaurant
where bible stories are recycled. One

day I idly hook onto a parable
in a whirl of twittering paper,
cutting it into little pieces
or fisting it into a meatball;
my insides will burrow it into
a quasi fictitious pulp
which congeals the Pseudo-Christ.

When I am penpushing a spade across fiction,
I hear the Pseudo-Christ speak; only to me
does he whisper the ongoing parable

of a maimed soldier who has no limbs bar an
arm, no legs, no left arm, just the right to crawl
home with. No time to penpush letters; he is
busy teetering on five fingers. At home,
the soldier's fame is being venerated
into eloquence but the soldier has not
arrived yet. For eternity he keeps on
trying to come home but every prayer for
his safe-coming is a cheat and blasts him back
to starting point. The soldier beats back at those
prayers of prey taking him back to base camp,
begs in vain those who remember him not to.
"Don't they have enough living to contend with?"
he snarls at his remaining hand who in faith
drags him on.

Within the dreams
of an idle
humanity
the paradoxed
Pseudo-Christ speaks:
I catch the lance
you thrust at me
in a gauntlet
then reverse the
haft into your
naked fable.