In which we are writing a poem about writing a poem…
Hell is hard
A morning recording cantos in which Hell looks lot like Ireland. I wonder if
some people would be offended, think that yes, they probably would, but then
some people live to be offended, and anyway, I do not have an ornamental
faith to display, like some disabled parking permit. I can only believe
in my own way. And what do I believe? Not exactly Catholic, more
this hybrid ostentation of saints, muddled customs, gestures against
dying. Not God, as such, but certainly a place where the dead might consent
to be put. And if Hell, why not Heaven? Michael, hormonally ornate, rolling
in a hay loft for all eternity, the stars in twinkling tapdance up above. Yes,
it would have to be that way: rough pastoral clasping on a farm, in a field
in summer, his robe rucked up at the back. Oh, star-fucker, you and Lucia
and Agatha and Theresa, such inseparable decorum. Nothing grubby in it, just
tender looseness. He wouldn’t want it any other way. I see him against the window
now, lean as a lucky rabbit’s foot, his arms have a surplus of freckles, I close my eyes.
I know this isn’t good. But collapse can be so harmonious, and I hate the stricken
explicable world where I am obliged to be trudgingly sad. Jim is in my poem,
he does an adequate Virgil, somewhere between William Hartnell as Doctor Who
and Groucho Marx. I think it’s important to have a sense of humour, don’t you?
If you’ve got to live in the shadow of things, pack out your mouth, your words,
your guts with a raw quarter pound of acerbic sass.