Last Supper

Doner is the lamb
polystyrene is golgotha
about the darkened sky
articulated thunders freight
their cargo culte.
The son is minced
the carver comes down
the word is spun
on a metal skewer.
This daddy's boy, the
every-other-lover
dances in circles
as all his disciples
digest and redigest
the ground-up moggies
fat knuckles of pigs
the dogs bollocks.
But Bo Peep's sheep
sure has no worries.
Though spun, not done,
his fumes are sucked
into the aluminium vent
where Abraham, Isaac
and David probably went
on that last trick
that last meal ticket.

The big spinning stick
is the new dogma,
a chip pan fire
roaring to the roof
caught with holy water.
In this town
we shish our saints
and tenderise madonnas.
Prophets in the stocks
are brought down, fried,
and served up in a box.
On the shining hill
it still stands, the vehicle
miraculous, all-skewer,
blood shadow, superhero
of the world-belly,
a new cross.