Pantomime Of A Madman: Crucifixion Poem by Artchil Daug

The circumstances of our position nail you
to that cross, crucified in Golgotha
impugned for tax evasion and prophetic visions,
you now suffer for much simpler mishaps
without that thing that hangs over there,
given yet used in more metaphysical ways than it should;
we turned out more arrogant than he,
with our illusions of human rights
and static virtues from a mob gone wild
in unrestrained freedom, as if there is free will;
the nails I hammered on your palms and feet
are more real than the abstractions
you created out of disrespect for your
earthly body—that stink of the unreal—
you twisted words as though they are lollies
made for the perusal and arousal
of your mouth that now feel the sting
of fresh stitches that used to hide
your devilish tongue, which found its way
glued to the tip of your former manhood;
we did have our science grasping the universe
and the essences of everything in the light
of our subjective technology that built highways
from mind to mind, from matter to space,
yet despite the cloud of smoke left by
the nuclear collisions of our powers, you stay
uncertain of yourself, a product of a being
incessantly interpreted and translated in
the inner linings of your pride commanding
the sphincter of your delusions that is attacked
by that barbed-wired-stick up your decadent
machine spilling blood with that crown of thorns
you carry as a goddess among men.