The Camino’s final stage:
the pilgrim’s mass.
And I just can’t stand it here.
But the exit smashes into a gift shop.
Of course it fucking does.
Christ, dear Christ,
they can’t control themselves.
You managed to save the world
but couldn’t save yourself
from resurrecting to symbols of that
which you fought against.
So be it.
But here we are:
the crowd, the altar, the theatre, the shop, the pretty
pews, the pomp
(and more in the kneeling
than anywhere else).
They kill you daily, Christ.
Each day, you return as promised,
only to be crucified again.
But therein lies some humour:
God don’t deal in meaning, after all;
God don’t take it all so serious, thank God.
So keep it up: that pomp and search for meaning,
you pilgrims of this day.
Hell, I even walked the road with you.
I’m just another sweet and sad demented
little tard in Pilate’s court.
And here God ain’t.
I know this much.
God is somewhere else,
laughing as I rise in a huff
and lead my angry little legs
away from pretty pews,
through souvenirs
and out
to the rest of the freak show.
