Creeping Jesus
You sense the presence but cannot see it yet,
not hear footfalls squeak on the hardwood floor;
the flesh-crawling aura of an unclean spirit
squeals the rusted hinges of the creaking door.
A tinpot Hitler, mincing and vile,
inner ugliness thrust outward on a pockmarked face;
how black and dead the eyes, how corpse-like the smile,
how far the endless fall from human grace.
An agenda to wrong-foot, keep you on your toes,
to spit on and destroy your heartfelt toil;
to tread your fragile dreams where nothing ever grows,
to rape all good intentions, belittle and despoil.
"Manager, I am!" it drools when it appears,
"Bow down and kiss the slime from off my shoes!"
it creeps upon your reverie, insidious, insincere,
how it hungers to humiliate, yearns to abuse.
"Manager I am! Manager I say!"
black neutered breath flows from the curling lips;
your insides swim in nausea, the floorboards peel away,
in anger, hate and fury you start to lose your grip.
All that you can think is how so very much
you desire this abortion to be carved, boiled and fried;
here is one Creeping Jesus the world would surely approve
of it's systematically getting nailed and ritually crucified.
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