Introduction

A poem to wake Jesus

God Fell out My Cornflakes Box

I was bleary eyed and yawning
when my eyes broke Tuesday morning
and I pushed myself from slumber with a groan
then off shuffling to the kitchen
scratching foul my groinal itchin'
hatching brooded thoughts of widows I had known.

I merged into the kitchen
(after signalling intention)
from the curdling bench took milk (that's all, for godsakes)
Then reached fore into the pantry
like some Midwest Elmer Gantry
with indecent rude desire grabbing cornflakes.

I proceeded to the table
sitting down (for I was able)
and prepared to eat my every-morning ration.
yet I hadn't quite foresawn
what would astound me soon that morn
a sight so rare, my heart it palpitated passion.

For I shook the box like christmas
stirring cornies wake from listless
the tilted pack sent flecks of corn cascading
And lo! There! Jesus falling!
'mongst those golden flakes of morning,
I would never have believed it, were I told.

Yes, look, behold, here's Jesus
landing feet first, as he pleases
nailed up tight against his cruciform of oak
bristled thorns whacked round his head,
feet soaked in milk on which he'd bled,
he just hung there, this soggy punctured bloke.

I asked nicely if he'd freely
like to climb down now (discretely)
as polite as any member of the butlery.
I looked around for small utensils
with "un-crucify" potentials,
When I eyed this Sheffield common service cutlery!

So with the claw end of a fork
and a little briny talk
I dissuade him off the cross and get him brackish
then I nudge him t'ward my ladle
as a babe lulled to her cradle,
half unconscious, as if stupefied by hashish.

Scooping deftly with my spoon,
I raise him properly and soon
toward my lips he rises, where is there to flee?
Rock of ages was he humming
as he toward my gob was coming,
Come on Jesus, why not hide thyself in me?

So that's how Jesus entered
how inside my mouth he ventured
and for moments sat dissolving on my tongue
He tasted quite the strangest flavour
this old roughshod riding saviour
Oh my uvula, such praise could ne'er be sung.

Last, I signed the cross and blessed him
and I prayed that I'd digest him
to my stomach plunged this messianic wealth.
Thus my saviour came inside me
And I insist you not deride me
For at least, I've served communion to myself.

Copyright; Eddie McMillan
Email: jesus@pickworth.net