“Lines from under a Jesus Mural”


I’ve found myself
under a horrendous mural
of Jesus
holding a shotgun
bright, Aztec colors
sharp edges
radiance blowing all over
the dust

This Jesus is a giant
atomic bomb revelator
in full-fledged-flight
perfect to park your car under
sheer naked life admirer

A naked, blazing woman
behind him, a halo of bright
crimson light surrounding her
cunt and her head
pouring out of her cunt
tracing the birth
of the entire human race

Moving back to the African
wastelands, moving back
beyond those wastelands
moving back to mother night’s
deepest, traceless twilights
going beyond these twilights
tracing all wild children’s footsteps
moving back to unspeakable monsters
creatures that even Giger wouldn’t think of
in his boldest visions

Blurred starlit sky as the background
quite primitive, but effective
can trace human faces
among the stars
can trace all history’s
outcasts and rebels
can touch them
believe in their wounds
and begin the cult
the night-symbol
the phallic concession

Revolutionary, angry Jesus
spitting out bullets
drinking quicksilver
eating napalm
pure primal artistic beauty
well-crafted hands
nameless hero genius
no sign of the bleeding heart
no water
no blood
no apostles
no open arms
no Easter bunnies

One hand clenched into a fist
pointing west – towards the direction
from which all the death ever came
promising repentance
the other hand holding the shotgun
holding it like a curse
like a sickness
no sign of the torture cross
no sign of resurrection
no sign of the promise of dawn

Archetypical rebel
dead young one
eyes like tornado whiplash – piercing
the barrios below, showing directions
to those without a place
living today
not there tomorrow, not here yesterday…
showing directions to those without a face
to those without a power
to slaves treated worse
than homeless dogs, who will die
completely in vain
who will have no graves
whose names will never be mentioned
who will never achieve
anything more
but this dull, blank vegetation
to us
to all of us

“Beware…”, this Jesus whispers:
“the dome of heaven is a delusive one
the barrios are unbearable
manifestations of the Devil
the barrios are perfect suicide machines
these machines are flawless
ruthless and mindless
they operate as they will…”

How to cope with the barrio horror
how to survive the unsurvivable?
how to breathe this fungus air… how to
do anything constructive… how to do
anything at all? how to BE
when all the signs say “no”
and they say it in capital letters
how to escape…

A belief in some higher force
ruling this planet is possible
here only if this higher
force is imagined
as a fat chaotic bastard
sitting on top of some god-forsaken
nebulae mess
some sort of a cosmic de Sade, only sicker
perverted to the very limits of perversity
Pasolini’s sickest bastard. Scumundo.

The primal destructive chaos
the one with which only our
giant Jesus
can deal with
the one we need a million
bullets to fight with
the one that eventually wins
we can only say we tried
but, in the end, ain’t it a lot to say?

Left the barrio immediately
left it crushed
had coke and peanuts
my body has entirely melted
into sweat and leaves and
so I’ve become the invisible
jungle spirit

God, what kind of white trash I am…
what a sick little arrogant man…
a scoundrel tourist in the wake
of the 9th ring of hell… but I
can return unharmed
rich…. the ghosts
must stay where they bleed
the ghosts must stay where they die…
these roads haven’t witnessed a car in years
they’ll never witness a car again

Copyright © 2008 by A.J. Kaufmann. All rights reserved.