They crucified him on a hospital wall,
with Velcro straps and a bathroom stall.
A rosary made of rubber gloves,
and a choir of screams from the ceiling above.
He preaches truth from a tilted bed,
where angels piss and prophets bled.
The ward bows low when he speaks in rhymes,
and the IVs drip in holy time.
Velcro Jesus, take my mind,
baptize me in bleach and bind.
Sing with the bedframe choir, divine,
where madness howls in sacred lines.
The nurses chant with gauze-wrapped grace,
while he draws stigmata on his face.
Every blink is a hallelujah twitch,
and his crown’s made from a biohazard switch.
The floors quake when he starts to preach,
sermons stitched with crackled speech.
He turns water into pharmaceutical wine,
and offers pills as communion signs.
He speaks in Morse code through electroshocks,
quoting scripture with tongue in locks.
“Forgive them, Father,” he sneers with grace,
“They know not the pills they chase.”
Now I’m a disciple with stitched-shut eyes,
humming hymns between my cries.
Waiting for the final refrain,
when Velcro Jesus comes again.