Jesus and Peter in the Boat

This is the story of Peter and Jesus in the boat as I remember it being told to me as a child in Sunday School. Recently, after all these years, I actually opened a Bible, found the passage and realised either the person who told it to me got it completely "wrong" or my memory is playing tricks on me. Either way, I prefer the "wrong" version:

Jesus and Peter are in a boat. Jesus is passing his spare time by walking on the water by the boat. Peter says to him, "That's so wicked, man, I wish I could walk on water like you."

Jesus says, "You can."

Peter says, "Fuck off. You can do it because you're the Son of God."

Jesus says, "Naw, man, anyone can do it. You just have to believe in yourself."

Peter is a little wary, but since it's the Son of God telling him so, he has no choice but to believe. So he stands up and says, "All right man, since it's you saying so, I will at least give it a try."

He steps out on to the water. Shazam! He's walking on water. In disbelief he looks back at Jesus to say, "I did it, I fucking did it man!" but the instant he pronounces the word "I", bang, he splashes down into the water.

Jesus tells him: "Peter, there's no 'I' doing it. Only God, man. Only God."

You Can Kill Me, Babe

You can kill me, babe

But you'd better do it with some conviction.

Let out the fiercest roar you can roar

As you let the knife plunge deep into my twisted heart

Watch carefully my eyes as they take one last look at your ailing face

Savour the brightness of my blood as it meanders aimlessly down my breast

Take one last suck at my milkless nipples

But don't go turning back on yourself

Don't think that everything isn't perfect just as you've made it

Even as my eyes roll over on themselves like rotten logs

As I drift off into sleepy death

Even as my spirit frolics along to places far away

Soaking up some last rays in Maui

A midnight stroll by the Seine

One last candlelit game of chess

Even as I make the rounds to bid farewell to my friends

(Gayly I will find a unique way to say good-bye to each of them, some in lucid dreams, perhaps a nearly transparent flash in a mirror, a poster on the wall, a whisper in a silent corner of the train station)

As for your farewell, babe, my last words will be just that

I will struggle to take one last tug at my frozen diaphragm

Reach down for my so-called last breath

Say to you without a trickle of dreaminess

"Go, dear, be free of guilt and shame!

May my blood make you stronger!

Be free like we humans are meant to be.

Fly like we were born to!

Go now, share my love with all those who will hear you!"

Then in conclusion I will smile at you, and there will be no confusion

As to my meaning or whereabouts.

Goo

My inner whateverthefuck is melting into a blob of foam, and the only thing I can do to prevent such middleofthenight mushmash is to abandon it, whilst shifting my perspective at ever increasing frequencies, at least fast enough so that the supernothing has not enough time to realise what is happening to it before the oncoming tsunamic shifting of gears. Hear ye: shupershite plays mind games, can fathom abstractions incomprehensible to the stelthiest of mathematicians and has a processing speed similar to that of God. Meaning: futile all efforts, unless you can somehow think faster than your eyes can move, 'cause God gets not sidetracked by furtive tunnelvision eyes. Know ye thus, that should God melt into gooey foam, then the only non-liver-wrenching yet full-body action one can take is to look Goo in the face, love Goo for what she be and not for what she ain't, and to share, full-heartedly, one's entire identity of self with her, if even just for a few nanoseconds.

Highway 17

Cruising down Highway 17, the authorities now heavily influenced by my existence, tailing us, onto our smell, they are aware of my every move five seconds before I make it, leaves me no choice but to do the obvious, drive faster, trouble is their pedal is heavier than my metal, means they'll have brought me down to their station before nightfall, no reason to flee, still I, restless, decisionless, pride anyway, keep the foot floored, as if praying with my feet, hoping for some angel of speed to somehow prefer me to them, maybe because I've got some funk they haven't got, some jive, some cool rhythm, or maybe simply because I'm thinking this, or maybe not: yes, probably it will just end the way it does, with a skake of repentance.

Where exactly is the soul of the thing, if not on its arms and feet? Does he rise energetically to meet his guests, or does he remain dejected, refusing to be ejected from his perky perch? Do I have to please the one lad, or is there some heavenly body that overrides? Somehow I must charge my senses with that Godly nature, so that they might grope beyond mere flattery, so that the deed might be heartfelt after all.